Wednesday, September 9, 2015

A Little While

The worst sandstorm in eighty years. And an oddity this time of year. Just when it seemed things could not possibly get any more difficult.

Living—no, surviving—in discomfort. Heat, humidity, grime. Bare fluorescent bulbs hang over our heads because electricity is little and fleeting. Nothing familiar. Missing all that was. Trying to find beauty but seeing ugliness.

No place to call mine and to make beautiful—to be an oasis in a hard land.

Calls to prayer blast into the bedroom and wake us before we want to face another day of hard things.

Questions. They come. And accusations threaten. They shake the bars that I erected against blasphemy. Their words echo and seep into my heart. They haunt.

Where is God?

Where is comfort?

Where is provision?

Where is mercy?

What about the kids who suffer for their parents’ calling?

Will you never give us a home? A sweet place?

What do I do when I don’t FEEL truth? I was full of faith in a mighty God who would provide. I KNEW He would provide. I still KNOW He will provide. But I don’t FEEL He will provide. There seems to be no end to the misery. The instability. The unknowns. The heat. The sand. The always-hungry kids.

In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ. I Peter 1:6-7

And I read wisdom from my ever-faithful counselor, CH Spurgeon:

If you would reach to something higher than ordinary groveling experience, look the Rock that is higher than you, and gaze with the eye of faith through the window of consistent prayer. When you open the window on your side, it will not be bolted on the other. (Morning, September 9)

And so that is all. I know truth. I know this is a “little while” and “necessary” and will result in the glorification of the Servant King. I must remain faithful and slam the door against scandalous thoughts. I run to my Rock and spill out my hurts to a loving Father and wait. Feel Him hold me and tell me, “a little while, darling.”

Saturday, August 22, 2015

He Knew What He Would Do

“Lifting up His eyes, then, and seeing that a large crowd was coming towards Him, Jesus said to Philip, ‘Where are we to buy bread, so that these people may eat?’ He said that to test him, for He Himself knew what He would do.” (John 6:5b-6)

Lifting up His eyes, then, and seeing a large family going forth to the place He has told them, Jesus said to Scotty and Emily, “Where will you live, so that you and your little ones will have a place to sleep?” He said that to test them, for He Himself knew what He would do.

Philip knew there was no possible way to feed the enormous crowd. The resources simply were not there.

Trekking across the world and trying to find a home that meets all of the varied needs of our family seems nearly as impossible. Add to it all the inconveniences of the third world. And the heat and the air that’s heavy with humidity.

Oh, and we need an affordable car that seats six…

And don’t forget the kids’ education. That’s rather important.

And like Philip, we have question marks in our minds. No answers. No heaps of bread and fish. No twelve baskets of excess.

Oh, but “Do not tolerate small thoughts of the Lord Jesus”! (C. Spurgeon).

He Himself knew what He would do.

“Jesus said, ‘make the people sit down.’ Now there was much grass in the place.” (John 6:10)

"Loaves and Fishes" by John August Swanson
Mercy. Much grass. Soft, sweet, green grass. Rest.

And then abundance. Jesus fed them.

Philip! How you must have worshipped!

Jesus, help us to replace question marks with worship, resting on mercy's grass, and wait to be fed.  Help us to lean on the truth that You know what You will do!

Sunday, May 10, 2015

Mother's Day 2015

There is a bittersweetness to Mother's Day for me, and each year seems to bring new facets.

Tonight I sit alone in a hotel room in California, waiting for a work week to start. My family is home celebrating our son's birthday. He turns 16 today. Neither of his mothers are with him on this milestone birthday.

That same sweet family of mine is remembering their Mama today too--who is not here to celebrate. So they bring flowers to her grave.

Last night we had Zack's family birthday meal, but I received the gift. (His came today.) They gave me a new mother's necklace. No longer one charm, but six. It's very lovely and means the world to me.

So this year a birthday, Mother's Day, a memorial, and my absence collide. And it leaves me feeling emotional and maybe even a little fragile.

But the time alone has given opportunity for reflection. And I find that I'm also filled up with overwhelming joy for the story God has written. I never would have planned things this way, yet I will never ask for them to be changed. I have a husband I adore, SIX amazing kids, and a future that surely is blessed beyond what I can imagine--no matter what it holds.

Oh, I've had other thoughts too.

I've remembered my sweet friends, who--like some of my own kids--have a mother-hole in their hearts and their lives. Their moms were gone before they were ready to give them up. And now they are trying to navigate life without their confidante and closest friend.

And I weep for the women who always saw themselves as "Mom," but their bodies didn't get the memo. And God seems far away. They sit in church again, blinking tears away and watching mamas tend to their little ones--while their arms are heavy with emptiness.

I consider my own mom. I cannot find words. With each exposure to new tasks of life and motherhood, I find in my mom a wise counselor and friend. She has done it all before me. She has sacrificed and served. She has made the hard choices. She has loved when it was hard. But I never knew the depth of the "pouring out" it took for her to be that kind of mother--until I tried to be one.

My mind returns to the night of November 17th, 2009, when my youngest one became my first child. She made me a mother. I held her and released my heart to her. For so long, I held babies without feeling--I kept my heart all locked up. Because feeling would be too painful. But I FELT on that night. I felt, and I loved. I gave myself fully to her. And she was mine.

But before she was mine, she was hers. And my heart aches for the loss she feels every day. I love you Autumn. That is all. Love. I cannot repay. Not ever.

I had Chris there with me. We were finally parents together. What a good and kind man he was. What a friend, lover, partner, father!

And the woman who raised him--who shaped him and wept for him and cheered him on... She is not here to celebrate either. And Erika is forgetting the grandma who utterly adored her. My heart aches.

Another woman--one who raised my new husband (and did a darn good job)--she is my cheer-leader. I lean on her and ask the smallest or the biggest thing, and she gives to me. Again and again. And I know she loves me and is pulling for me. She secures hauls of blueberries for my freezer, food for our chickens, homemade pancake mix for our boys. But most of all, love for our brood. 

This life does not last. But it is good. And it is painful too. 

May God comfort you and bring you joy on this day--wherever you find yourself. Happy Mother's Day and much love.

Sunday, March 1, 2015

Three Years

Three years. That sounds like a very long time. It feels it too. But I’m not entirely sure what I should feel.

There is this sort of ache—a little numb, a little guilt. Numb because oddly, I still can’t believe the horror of those last days. The agony of the awful suffering—death’s devouring of life. And guilt because I can often talk about “Chris dying” without a tear. It’s a fact. Somehow, it is not my heart’s ache any longer.

Have I become so busy that I’ve forgotten? Or have I played and replayed the grief that it has become old and tired and worn-out? Maybe the joy of a new marriage trumps the sorrow of a lost one? If so, what does this mean about how I loved him?

And then I allow myself to study his face in a picture. And I’m overcome.

In an instant, I am back. I am at his bedside, staring in disbelief at his skin-wrapped skeleton. Waiting—praying for him to die. Helplessly “helping” as he vomits one more time and his body quivers from the pain of it all. I am giving pain meds and knitting the torment away. And then I am looking at my aunt’s gold watch at the time of death.

That is the thing about these anniversaries. You recall the heartbreak of the day. There is no space in my thoughts today for the comfort of joyful memories. I am all-consumed with the pain it was to watch my life partner, my beloved, cross the river of death—and knowing he would go without me.

Natural death is so unnatural. It feels so very wrong. The separation is nearly too much to bear. To watch the breath and soul go out of my husband pierced my heart in a way that I cannot describe.

This day brings some of the pain back. And it wants to swirl around me and come up over my head and drown me—but it cannot. Because this is not the end.

I have HOPE that transcends this broken-down world. My God is the Lover of my soul. My salvation and my future.

So I run! Run this race with endurance. I look expectantly for God to order and provide. And He so faithfully does.

Chris finished his race—seemingly too early (but not). And I was allowed the privilege of watching a godly man die. I pray I will finish well, as he did.

Thank you, my dear man. Your legacy lives. Thank you for living and dying well. I can’t wait to see you again.