Caring awhile for my seventy-something, physically challenged mother nearly a decade ago came to a delightfully unexpected end.
I had been one of those people who wrote constantly in my head but couldn't seem to finish anything on paper. One day I briefly shared with Mom my need for some kind of writer's kick-in-the-pants; we didn't talk about this again, but after her visit she sent me a copy of "Chicken Soup for the Writer's Soul". It did the trick, motivating and inspiring me like nothing had before. This surprise effort on her part helped form a new and very real connection between us.
Mom had told me she once longed to be a journalist but I was a little girl then, too young to ask the right questions. I grew up seeing old snapshots of Mom posing for her young GI husband; they showed dreamy eyes bravely masking her sadness. Now I think they also reveal acceptance of another absence in her life. She felt the unstoppable need to write, yet words burning on the inside of her had not yet fanned into flame.
My mother bore four kids in seven years after Dad's return from the war. Going against all her early declarations, she found herself living the life of a farmer's wife. Along with my uncle and aunt, my folks eventually bought 1400 demanding acres. The farm was ten miles from the nearest town and worlds away from the city Mom had once called home. She worked hard raising kids, chickens and a garden, and she put in lots of hours alongside Dad in fields of corn, wheat and soybeans. Needless to say, she had no time in those days to pursue personal dreams.
In and of itself, the aging farmhouse in which I grew up was certainly not a retreat for thoughtful creativity. Standing high on a hill and in need of a serious makeover, its only claim to beauty at that time was the grand view in every direction. The one to the northwest seemed to be my mother's favorite, framed by the window above her sink in the cramped old kitchen. Constantly confronted with dishes to be washed or potatoes to be peeled, she could look out and see a hill higher than the one where the house sat. Its peak was a gently rounded clearing with trees balancing both sides, creating a perfect scene. Sometimes our cattle were peacefully grazing there. Heavy snowfalls viewed through the window ushered in much-needed stillness. Mom always got excited over sunsets; with obvious wonder she would call our attention to vivid displays of purple and red put there by the Master Designer Himself. Countless hours passed as she faced that kitchen window, working with her hands. And, I am sure - inspired by the majesty of the view and the calling within - her mind was working too, taking creative and passionate thoughts and turning them into sentences waiting to be recorded.
Did she ache to write to other young mothers, encouraging them to rely on the One who never lets his children down? As she watched a flock of geese overhead or saw a timid deer come into view, did poetry rise up on the inside? Always the romantic, did Mom compose tender, pure love stories (with happy endings of course)?
Just imagine if that window could have somehow read her mind and talked!
At some point as we little chicks started thinning out of the nest, Mom had more time to herself and began pounding out sentences on her beloved manual typewriter. She gave me some of her pieces recently. Like too many of mine, most were unfinished and never shared with anyone. But she was faithfully putting thoughts on paper that turned into treasures I'm proud to have, evidence of a common bond between us.
When Mom sent "Chicken Soup for the Writer's Soul" to me those years ago, she once again met a need in this child of hers. It was as if she took me to her kitchen window and said, "Look out there. See the beautiful handiwork of God and quiet yourself. His gifts are not to be selfishly absorbed; they're a resource for giving, so get busy doing what you're supposed to do."
Thanks, Mom, for sharing the view.
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Our Dave
If you met him for the first time at his worksite, you'd notice his friendly smile, the carpenter's apron, and maybe a pencil tucked behind his ear, but you wouldn't immediately see the layers of delightful talent and skills that are his.
You wouldn't know he can do impersonations so well that for a minute you stop seeing Dave and start seeing Jimmy Stewart, or Sean Connery, or some easy-going guy with a deep Southern drawl from the hills of Tennesee.
You couldn't picture him entertaining and getting endless laughs from a bunch of giggly girls at his daughter's birthday party. Or taking a sledge hammer to a watermelon inside a classroom so his group would get the point of the lesson that day. (Yes, there were tarps all around...no, the tarps didn't completely do their job, as I remember it!)
You sure wouldn't think of him as a rapper delivering a silly announcement in our church auditorium filled with hundreds of people. The rap was co-written and performed with his wife of 11 years, Leigh Ann - my daughter.
When we first met Dave in our church nearly 13 years ago, we learned his work with fiber-optics brought him to this area, but before long it became very clear the Lord was behind it all. Dave's heart, his character and his personality meshed with Leigh Ann's and they began to see a future together. After some months he ended the fiber-optics work that kept him on the road and began using again the carpentry skills learned on-the-job with his dad years before. I was amazed then at his abilities at such a relatively young age, and after this many years, he still amazes me, far beyond the structures he's designed and built.
When he and Darien, then age 11, went with a group to Mexico to build houses for homeless families, it was a life-altering experience. Of course they saw disturbing sights that were totally new to them, but how awesome to be able to make such a difference! In a very short time, they bonded with folks they never would have known otherwise, people they won't ever forget. It fanned that fire already inside Dave to reach people who are hurting and in desperate need. The dreams and desires of his heart, planted there by God, are also being fulfilled by Him as Dave takes one willing step after another.
Tomorrow is his birthday, and I wish I could write him a goofy song or just make him laugh like he does me. I wish I could thank him without getting all sappy for being such a great husband or dad to four people we both love very much. I'd love to find better words to say how deeply blessed I am to know him, to love him and to be family with him.
There is one special place in my heart that nobody else can fill,and that place is for Dave...Our Dave.
You wouldn't know he can do impersonations so well that for a minute you stop seeing Dave and start seeing Jimmy Stewart, or Sean Connery, or some easy-going guy with a deep Southern drawl from the hills of Tennesee.
You couldn't picture him entertaining and getting endless laughs from a bunch of giggly girls at his daughter's birthday party. Or taking a sledge hammer to a watermelon inside a classroom so his group would get the point of the lesson that day. (Yes, there were tarps all around...no, the tarps didn't completely do their job, as I remember it!)
You sure wouldn't think of him as a rapper delivering a silly announcement in our church auditorium filled with hundreds of people. The rap was co-written and performed with his wife of 11 years, Leigh Ann - my daughter.
When we first met Dave in our church nearly 13 years ago, we learned his work with fiber-optics brought him to this area, but before long it became very clear the Lord was behind it all. Dave's heart, his character and his personality meshed with Leigh Ann's and they began to see a future together. After some months he ended the fiber-optics work that kept him on the road and began using again the carpentry skills learned on-the-job with his dad years before. I was amazed then at his abilities at such a relatively young age, and after this many years, he still amazes me, far beyond the structures he's designed and built.
Tomorrow is his birthday, and I wish I could write him a goofy song or just make him laugh like he does me. I wish I could thank him without getting all sappy for being such a great husband or dad to four people we both love very much. I'd love to find better words to say how deeply blessed I am to know him, to love him and to be family with him.
There is one special place in my heart that nobody else can fill,and that place is for Dave...Our Dave.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Brooke
She's 14 today. Taller than this grandma by a good number of inches, she's 14 today. Performing dance with great poise for 5 or 6 years already, even producing some choreography...she's 14 today.
How is that possible? On one hand, Brooke is 14-going-on-20 in all the right ways. And on the other, I can still picture her at age three, with the most disarming grin, sprinkling a napping grandpa with confetti from head to toe. That day he was definitely a "decorated" Army veteran, and she was quite proud of her work of art!
For several years, puzzles were a much loved pasttime of hers, and every time we would visit there would be yet another one in progress. These were not small puzzles! We adults would take turns pulling up to the table to find a few pieces. I always wondered if she noticed I was (am) the world's most reluctant, worst puzzler, but she never pointed it out, never teased me, just immensely enjoyed sharing the fun.
Brooke wasn't very old - maybe 8? - when we watched with tears in our eyes as she and her mom put sign language to music before their large church. The way the crowd responded to her beautiful expressions that day told us we were not the only ones blessed, and no doubt the Lord was pleased more than anyone.
The dance she and her friend put together and gracefully executed for her dad's Air Force retirement ceremony was unbelievably touching. I've long since forgotten what song was being played in the background, but I will always remember the effect the performance had on all of us fortunate enough to be there that day. Every movement of Brooke's tender young frame was saying, "I love you, daddy, and this is just for you."
It's such a pleasure seeing this granddaughter grow in grace, inside and out, stretching her soul as well as her limbs. She's always been a delight and has been ahead of her years in displaying that thoughtful attitude that says "it's not about me". She truly is a Sweetheart with a sweet heart, and I couldn't be more grateful to God for placing her in my life. I look forward to many more "ah-h-h" moments as a blessed grandma watching Brooke progress. And I know I won't be disappointed.
She's Brooke...and she's 14 today!
How is that possible? On one hand, Brooke is 14-going-on-20 in all the right ways. And on the other, I can still picture her at age three, with the most disarming grin, sprinkling a napping grandpa with confetti from head to toe. That day he was definitely a "decorated" Army veteran, and she was quite proud of her work of art!
For several years, puzzles were a much loved pasttime of hers, and every time we would visit there would be yet another one in progress. These were not small puzzles! We adults would take turns pulling up to the table to find a few pieces. I always wondered if she noticed I was (am) the world's most reluctant, worst puzzler, but she never pointed it out, never teased me, just immensely enjoyed sharing the fun.
Brooke wasn't very old - maybe 8? - when we watched with tears in our eyes as she and her mom put sign language to music before their large church. The way the crowd responded to her beautiful expressions that day told us we were not the only ones blessed, and no doubt the Lord was pleased more than anyone.
The dance she and her friend put together and gracefully executed for her dad's Air Force retirement ceremony was unbelievably touching. I've long since forgotten what song was being played in the background, but I will always remember the effect the performance had on all of us fortunate enough to be there that day. Every movement of Brooke's tender young frame was saying, "I love you, daddy, and this is just for you."
It's such a pleasure seeing this granddaughter grow in grace, inside and out, stretching her soul as well as her limbs. She's always been a delight and has been ahead of her years in displaying that thoughtful attitude that says "it's not about me". She truly is a Sweetheart with a sweet heart, and I couldn't be more grateful to God for placing her in my life. I look forward to many more "ah-h-h" moments as a blessed grandma watching Brooke progress. And I know I won't be disappointed.
She's Brooke...and she's 14 today!
Friday, April 22, 2011
Grandma's Legacy
Gentle and quiet by nature, my Grandma Beard spoke very little. She wasn't the kind of person who handed out words of advice; in fact I recall very little in the way of conversation with her. What I do remember about Grandma influences me greatly even after all these years.
The stories Dad shared of his childhood made me aware they lived a hard life in those days of the Great Depression. Typical in so many ways, it was made worse by Grandpa's tendency to uproot his family and move on when situations on the job didn't go just right. It happened so often Grandma couldn't have had time to really settle in or to form friendships. The houses they lived in were small and cramped, dark and dingy. It was up to Grandma to somehow make homes out of them, always with the thought that it wouldn't be long before they would load up and take off for the next house in the next town for the next offer of work.
Grandma never commented on the "old days", good or bad, as far as I remember. It wasn't until she was gone and I was a grandmother myself that I found out she was especially fond of one particular farmhouse they rented. The snapshot my uncle showed us was of a rambling, three-story house, stately and surprisingly pretty for those times. Apparently Grandma would have stayed there a long time if it had been up to her, but after one year she had to say goodbye to the big old house. True to her usual style, she left without complaining, and my guess is she probably never thought it necessary to even speak of the house afterward.
There's an old saying that actions speak louder than words. I think in Grandma's case, actions were her words. They told me she believed in hard work, whether she was on a ladder picking cherries, churning butter from the day's milk, or hanging laundry on the clothesline, all with hardly a comment from her lips. Her actions said she believed in God; she could be seen reading the Bible every day without a word, and on Sundays church attendance was not debated, it was simply done.
One of her actions spoke so loudly it's what I always remember first about her: no matter what was going on around her, no matter what she was busy doing, Grandma Beard was never without a song. Sometimes she quietly sang the words, but most of the time the hymns rising up from her heart came out in humming. This was definitely not for show; in fact, it was barely audible. There was such a peaceful intimacy about it, as if she was in her own little world alone with God. It touched me when I was younger and it moves me now just thinking about it.
It has been said that when we act and keep on acting on a thought, it becomes routine. Routines eventually become habits, habits establish character, and character brings us to our destiny. By the time I witnessed this lovely habit of Grandma's, it seemed to be as natural to her as breathing. I suspect that one day right in the middle of some disappointment, the thought came to her mind to praise God no matter what. She acted on that thought...
Part of Grandma Beard's destiny was to show the world around her the effects of constantly praising God. There couldn't be anyone more at peace than she was. Guarding her words and yielding to praise one hymn at a time, she welcomed His character in her life. His loving nature became her nature, reaching out to all of us who knew her.
I am grateful to be one recipient of a legacy with no material value, grateful for the life-long influence of a grandma who continually praised our Lord.
The stories Dad shared of his childhood made me aware they lived a hard life in those days of the Great Depression. Typical in so many ways, it was made worse by Grandpa's tendency to uproot his family and move on when situations on the job didn't go just right. It happened so often Grandma couldn't have had time to really settle in or to form friendships. The houses they lived in were small and cramped, dark and dingy. It was up to Grandma to somehow make homes out of them, always with the thought that it wouldn't be long before they would load up and take off for the next house in the next town for the next offer of work.
Grandma never commented on the "old days", good or bad, as far as I remember. It wasn't until she was gone and I was a grandmother myself that I found out she was especially fond of one particular farmhouse they rented. The snapshot my uncle showed us was of a rambling, three-story house, stately and surprisingly pretty for those times. Apparently Grandma would have stayed there a long time if it had been up to her, but after one year she had to say goodbye to the big old house. True to her usual style, she left without complaining, and my guess is she probably never thought it necessary to even speak of the house afterward.
There's an old saying that actions speak louder than words. I think in Grandma's case, actions were her words. They told me she believed in hard work, whether she was on a ladder picking cherries, churning butter from the day's milk, or hanging laundry on the clothesline, all with hardly a comment from her lips. Her actions said she believed in God; she could be seen reading the Bible every day without a word, and on Sundays church attendance was not debated, it was simply done.
One of her actions spoke so loudly it's what I always remember first about her: no matter what was going on around her, no matter what she was busy doing, Grandma Beard was never without a song. Sometimes she quietly sang the words, but most of the time the hymns rising up from her heart came out in humming. This was definitely not for show; in fact, it was barely audible. There was such a peaceful intimacy about it, as if she was in her own little world alone with God. It touched me when I was younger and it moves me now just thinking about it.
It has been said that when we act and keep on acting on a thought, it becomes routine. Routines eventually become habits, habits establish character, and character brings us to our destiny. By the time I witnessed this lovely habit of Grandma's, it seemed to be as natural to her as breathing. I suspect that one day right in the middle of some disappointment, the thought came to her mind to praise God no matter what. She acted on that thought...
Part of Grandma Beard's destiny was to show the world around her the effects of constantly praising God. There couldn't be anyone more at peace than she was. Guarding her words and yielding to praise one hymn at a time, she welcomed His character in her life. His loving nature became her nature, reaching out to all of us who knew her.
I am grateful to be one recipient of a legacy with no material value, grateful for the life-long influence of a grandma who continually praised our Lord.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Her Name is Rachel
Leaving the lodge after a three-day conference for women, I tried to process what I had gained and just how great the weekend had been. As I maneuvered the lake roads, I praised God and settled in for the hour-long drive home. Soon the thought came that I needed to make no stops on the way; I sensed the thought was from God and I said out loud, "Ok, Father...I'll just keep on driving." And I was happy to do just that.
Then I saw...The Store. It was one I'd been hearing about, newly opened, and there was the parking lot entry just up ahead. With hardly any reaction time, I made the turn and pulled up in front of the shopping paradise I had been dreaming of! Fantastic!
But you said you'd go straight home. (Conscience calling.) It's all right, I'll just run in, take a quick look around, and run right back out again. It won't take long at all.
But YOU SAID you'd go straight home. It's o-kay! I may not have this chance again for a long time, and all I need is a few minutes!
My flesh won that round with hardly a struggle. I got myself organized, opened the car door, reached for the keys in the ignition...they weren't there. Wait a minute...I looked in my purse...no keys. I looked on the seat beside me. I felt around on the floor. Then I jumped out of the car and thoroughly searched everywhere I could think to look. NO KEYS. Back in the driver's seat. They have to be in my purse...I started emptying it out for better results. When that didn't work, I got a little frantic. Those keys could not just disappear! I got outside again, groped under the seat, behind the seat and looked once more under the car. "THIS IS TOTALLY CRAZY!" I said with exasperation...and then...I just stopped.
Sliding back into my car, I couldn't help but chuckle as the whole thing hit me. What was I thinking, Father? I'm sorry. I need to do what I said I would do, and whatever's in that store is obviously not worth it, so if You'll show me my keys now, I'll get back on the road.
As unbelievable as it sounds, within about one second my eyes fell on the keys I absolutely could not see a moment before! Thank You, Father. I threw my head back and laughed. Once I was blind, but now I can see! Let's go home!
As I pulled back into traffic, a talk show was just getting started on my favorite Christian radio station. The program was about ministering to people mourning the loss of their stillborn babies. I found myself relating to much of what was said, even though 25 years had passed since I lost a baby, and the situation for me had been miscarriage. The counselor spoke of the importance of naming these babies, saying it gives a necessary closure, helping the healing process. He talked about how using the child's name in future conversations would add to the whole family's wellbeing.
It wasn't long before I figured out parts of my soul still needed healing. The laughter of a few minutes ago was replaced by tears slipping down my cheeks - and I was so sure I was beyond all this! "I'm so very glad I heard this," I told the Lord when it was over, "and You knew I would be. You knew if I got sidetracked by that store, the program on the airwaves would never have hit my ears, and I would have missed something BIG!"
"I don't know if this child of mine is a boy or a girl, but You do, Father, and I'm asking You in Jesus' name to let me know his or her name. Thank You, Lord, for providing everything I need, even when I don't know I need it!"
A few days after my return home, the answer came. There was no audible voice, but from somewhere right in the middle of my spirit came this: "Her name is Rachel." Her name is Rachel! I have another daughter and my daughters have another sister! Praise God...Thank You, God...You are so incomparably good to Your children!!
Passing that particular obedience test, even a little bit late, blessed me in ways I still find hard to understand or to describe. Knowing Rachel's name has taken the hard edges off the loss of her. It has made her real. She has gone from being "the baby I lost in 1975" to being a beautiful, sweet daughter who travels around Heaven visiting with her dad and a host of grandparents and other relatives. I imagine her cheering on her sisters and me and the rest of the family as we gain spiritual ground, eagerly anticipating our own gathering together time...and it's a lovely, comforting picture.
You know, every time I remember "losing" my keys for a few minutes one day, I smile. Giving up on a quick shopping trip I didn't need placed me in position to receive such a truly valuable gift from God, the gift of knowing her name is Rachel.
Then I saw...The Store. It was one I'd been hearing about, newly opened, and there was the parking lot entry just up ahead. With hardly any reaction time, I made the turn and pulled up in front of the shopping paradise I had been dreaming of! Fantastic!
But you said you'd go straight home. (Conscience calling.) It's all right, I'll just run in, take a quick look around, and run right back out again. It won't take long at all.
But YOU SAID you'd go straight home. It's o-kay! I may not have this chance again for a long time, and all I need is a few minutes!
My flesh won that round with hardly a struggle. I got myself organized, opened the car door, reached for the keys in the ignition...they weren't there. Wait a minute...I looked in my purse...no keys. I looked on the seat beside me. I felt around on the floor. Then I jumped out of the car and thoroughly searched everywhere I could think to look. NO KEYS. Back in the driver's seat. They have to be in my purse...I started emptying it out for better results. When that didn't work, I got a little frantic. Those keys could not just disappear! I got outside again, groped under the seat, behind the seat and looked once more under the car. "THIS IS TOTALLY CRAZY!" I said with exasperation...and then...I just stopped.
Sliding back into my car, I couldn't help but chuckle as the whole thing hit me. What was I thinking, Father? I'm sorry. I need to do what I said I would do, and whatever's in that store is obviously not worth it, so if You'll show me my keys now, I'll get back on the road.
As unbelievable as it sounds, within about one second my eyes fell on the keys I absolutely could not see a moment before! Thank You, Father. I threw my head back and laughed. Once I was blind, but now I can see! Let's go home!
As I pulled back into traffic, a talk show was just getting started on my favorite Christian radio station. The program was about ministering to people mourning the loss of their stillborn babies. I found myself relating to much of what was said, even though 25 years had passed since I lost a baby, and the situation for me had been miscarriage. The counselor spoke of the importance of naming these babies, saying it gives a necessary closure, helping the healing process. He talked about how using the child's name in future conversations would add to the whole family's wellbeing.
It wasn't long before I figured out parts of my soul still needed healing. The laughter of a few minutes ago was replaced by tears slipping down my cheeks - and I was so sure I was beyond all this! "I'm so very glad I heard this," I told the Lord when it was over, "and You knew I would be. You knew if I got sidetracked by that store, the program on the airwaves would never have hit my ears, and I would have missed something BIG!"
"I don't know if this child of mine is a boy or a girl, but You do, Father, and I'm asking You in Jesus' name to let me know his or her name. Thank You, Lord, for providing everything I need, even when I don't know I need it!"
A few days after my return home, the answer came. There was no audible voice, but from somewhere right in the middle of my spirit came this: "Her name is Rachel." Her name is Rachel! I have another daughter and my daughters have another sister! Praise God...Thank You, God...You are so incomparably good to Your children!!
Passing that particular obedience test, even a little bit late, blessed me in ways I still find hard to understand or to describe. Knowing Rachel's name has taken the hard edges off the loss of her. It has made her real. She has gone from being "the baby I lost in 1975" to being a beautiful, sweet daughter who travels around Heaven visiting with her dad and a host of grandparents and other relatives. I imagine her cheering on her sisters and me and the rest of the family as we gain spiritual ground, eagerly anticipating our own gathering together time...and it's a lovely, comforting picture.
You know, every time I remember "losing" my keys for a few minutes one day, I smile. Giving up on a quick shopping trip I didn't need placed me in position to receive such a truly valuable gift from God, the gift of knowing her name is Rachel.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Hiding in the Closet
While other kids were innocently playing hide and seek in their backyards, she learned how to become invisible in her bedroom. His drunken voice was all the motivation she needed; as soon as she heard it, she grabbed her younger sisters and quickly crouched with them behind the door of her closet. "Please God, don't let him see us," she whispered. "Hide us, God. Don't let him see us. Please." She heard him calling out again, felt the heaviness of his staggering footsteps getting closer and closer. Instinctively she tightened her arms around the little girls who clung to her, shushing them softly one last time before his hand turned the knob on the door.
"Where are you, you little...you better answer me!" he roared. "I know you're around here somewhere!" Then he flung open the door and cursed as he stood searching the darkness through half-shut eyes. Blinking, trying to focus and then stumbling, almost losing his balance completely, he finally shook his head. "You no good...make me hunt you down, will you?" He started to retreat. "Wait 'til I get my hands on you!" His angry threats turned into confused mutterings as he made his way back down the hall.
She heard him fall onto his bed, but didn't dare move until he was snoring. "Oh, thank you, God, thank you, thank you, thank you! He looked right at us and didn't see us! You did hide us, you did!" She tiptoed on the outside but danced and leaped high on the inside, praising her Father.
In her closet, this young girl found out Who she can trust.
Now the years have passed and she's caring for her own small children. She finds herself needing closet time again, not to avoid physical abuse, thank God, but facing enormous challenges that would wear most people completely down. Her once-successful-husband now struggles with huge, self-inflicted problems she never dreamed would enter their house; problems she doesn't want the kids to see. He calls again to say he won't be bringing over the promised rent money. Eight months pregnant, she walks to work, tired of asking favors of her friends; the car she'd leased for several years had to be surrendered. In her prayer closet she cries out, settles herself and listens with a thankful heart.
Time after time her rent money has come just in time from totally unexpected places. She gratefully says it was God who provided it.
A young couple in prayer were impressed to give her a vehicle that's good and safe and big enough for her and the kids. She gives God the glory for it.
This young woman stays close to the One she can trust.
The Word says we're each given a measure of faith. It's easy to think my friend has more faith than ordinary people, judging by the way her very real needs have been met supernaturally. I don't think God gave her more faith because He's no respecter of persons. I think she has learned what to do with the measure of faith she's been given. And surely she learned that while sitting at His feet.
Those who live in the shelter of the Most High will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty. This I declare about the Lord: "He alone is my refuge, my place of safety; he is my God, and I trust in him." Psalm 91:1 & 2 NLT
"Where are you, you little...you better answer me!" he roared. "I know you're around here somewhere!" Then he flung open the door and cursed as he stood searching the darkness through half-shut eyes. Blinking, trying to focus and then stumbling, almost losing his balance completely, he finally shook his head. "You no good...make me hunt you down, will you?" He started to retreat. "Wait 'til I get my hands on you!" His angry threats turned into confused mutterings as he made his way back down the hall.
She heard him fall onto his bed, but didn't dare move until he was snoring. "Oh, thank you, God, thank you, thank you, thank you! He looked right at us and didn't see us! You did hide us, you did!" She tiptoed on the outside but danced and leaped high on the inside, praising her Father.
In her closet, this young girl found out Who she can trust.
Now the years have passed and she's caring for her own small children. She finds herself needing closet time again, not to avoid physical abuse, thank God, but facing enormous challenges that would wear most people completely down. Her once-successful-husband now struggles with huge, self-inflicted problems she never dreamed would enter their house; problems she doesn't want the kids to see. He calls again to say he won't be bringing over the promised rent money. Eight months pregnant, she walks to work, tired of asking favors of her friends; the car she'd leased for several years had to be surrendered. In her prayer closet she cries out, settles herself and listens with a thankful heart.
Time after time her rent money has come just in time from totally unexpected places. She gratefully says it was God who provided it.
A young couple in prayer were impressed to give her a vehicle that's good and safe and big enough for her and the kids. She gives God the glory for it.
This young woman stays close to the One she can trust.
The Word says we're each given a measure of faith. It's easy to think my friend has more faith than ordinary people, judging by the way her very real needs have been met supernaturally. I don't think God gave her more faith because He's no respecter of persons. I think she has learned what to do with the measure of faith she's been given. And surely she learned that while sitting at His feet.
Those who live in the shelter of the Most High will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty. This I declare about the Lord: "He alone is my refuge, my place of safety; he is my God, and I trust in him." Psalm 91:1 & 2 NLT
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
85 Years Young
She's aging the way I'd like to. Healthy and small, she's sharp, laughs a lot, and is so active it's hard work keeping up with her.
When she called on my birthday, she asked if I tell my age, and without hesitation I did. "Oh, you're so lucky!" she said, "I would love to be 59 again!" There was such a wistfulness in the way she said it. But before she could say more, I told her wait a minute, did she realize that she's somebody I want to be like when I "grow up"? We talked on like we always do, giggling and excited by each other's news.
I met her when I was the newcomer of the family and we had gathered to say goodbye to her husband of more than 50 years. She doesn't remember me being there then, no wonder. But I was drawn to her instantly, liked how gracious she was to all of us crowding around her home. I couldn't help being haunted by the passion in her voice when she said she didn't want any of us to leave. When she hugged me later, she seemed so tiny and vulnerable, and I knew these were the hardest days of her life. My heart broke for my new friend, and that's when I started praying for her.
Now our get togethers are happier times, a couple of nights now and then spent in one cousin's home or the other. The days are filled with some kind of mild adventure, a show in Branson, a museum in Kansas City; and after an enjoyable supper we pull out game sets and play for hours. Always during our visits there are stories told of how things were for them growing up in the Depression, some we laugh over, and some that simply make us shake our heads. But even with all the desperation behind those old family tales, the saddest story came from her mouth one day unexpectedly. My heart broke for her again, and that's when I started praying a new prayer.
She had grown quiet one day when our conversation turned to the afterlife, then suddenly she blurted out, "I just don't believe there's anything after we die. I want to, but I just can't. You all probably won't like me anymore, but I can't sit here and pretend to believe like you do." "We love you...what makes you think we won't like you anymore just because you believe differently?" Then she told us how all her adult life, as soon as she had admitted these thoughts to Christian friends, they snubbed her and she was no longer a part of their circle. It happened to her over and over, she said. Eventually she stopped expecting any "Christian love" to come her way, stopped putting herself out there to be rejected by church-goers.
Since my friend told us this ugly truth, I have prayed as the Word says I should: "Father, I pray You will send out laborers to surround this dear one with Your truth, Your unconditional love and mercy. May she be "good ground" having ears to hear and receive Your Word into her heart. I thank You that Your Word does not return to You empty, but it accomplishes the very thing for which You sent it. Her times truly are in Your hands...I call her saved, born again from above, in Jesus' Name."
Until the day comes when she tells me the most exciting, most radical news of her life, I will simply love her. I won't judge her. I will love her with the love of Jesus. I will not expect her to behave a certain way. I will love her unconditionally. I won't make fretful demands that she repent before it's too late. I will love her patiently, kindly, the way He loved me - right into His arms.
That day is coming. A new babe in Christ, she'll tell me all about it, and we'll laugh and cry and laugh some more. And she will say her husband's deathbed conversion all makes sense to her now and that she is so very happy knowing they will see each other again.
Thank You, Father, for loving her all the years of her life, never giving up on her. Because of You, I will love her, too.
When she called on my birthday, she asked if I tell my age, and without hesitation I did. "Oh, you're so lucky!" she said, "I would love to be 59 again!" There was such a wistfulness in the way she said it. But before she could say more, I told her wait a minute, did she realize that she's somebody I want to be like when I "grow up"? We talked on like we always do, giggling and excited by each other's news.
I met her when I was the newcomer of the family and we had gathered to say goodbye to her husband of more than 50 years. She doesn't remember me being there then, no wonder. But I was drawn to her instantly, liked how gracious she was to all of us crowding around her home. I couldn't help being haunted by the passion in her voice when she said she didn't want any of us to leave. When she hugged me later, she seemed so tiny and vulnerable, and I knew these were the hardest days of her life. My heart broke for my new friend, and that's when I started praying for her.
Now our get togethers are happier times, a couple of nights now and then spent in one cousin's home or the other. The days are filled with some kind of mild adventure, a show in Branson, a museum in Kansas City; and after an enjoyable supper we pull out game sets and play for hours. Always during our visits there are stories told of how things were for them growing up in the Depression, some we laugh over, and some that simply make us shake our heads. But even with all the desperation behind those old family tales, the saddest story came from her mouth one day unexpectedly. My heart broke for her again, and that's when I started praying a new prayer.
She had grown quiet one day when our conversation turned to the afterlife, then suddenly she blurted out, "I just don't believe there's anything after we die. I want to, but I just can't. You all probably won't like me anymore, but I can't sit here and pretend to believe like you do." "We love you...what makes you think we won't like you anymore just because you believe differently?" Then she told us how all her adult life, as soon as she had admitted these thoughts to Christian friends, they snubbed her and she was no longer a part of their circle. It happened to her over and over, she said. Eventually she stopped expecting any "Christian love" to come her way, stopped putting herself out there to be rejected by church-goers.
Since my friend told us this ugly truth, I have prayed as the Word says I should: "Father, I pray You will send out laborers to surround this dear one with Your truth, Your unconditional love and mercy. May she be "good ground" having ears to hear and receive Your Word into her heart. I thank You that Your Word does not return to You empty, but it accomplishes the very thing for which You sent it. Her times truly are in Your hands...I call her saved, born again from above, in Jesus' Name."
Until the day comes when she tells me the most exciting, most radical news of her life, I will simply love her. I won't judge her. I will love her with the love of Jesus. I will not expect her to behave a certain way. I will love her unconditionally. I won't make fretful demands that she repent before it's too late. I will love her patiently, kindly, the way He loved me - right into His arms.
That day is coming. A new babe in Christ, she'll tell me all about it, and we'll laugh and cry and laugh some more. And she will say her husband's deathbed conversion all makes sense to her now and that she is so very happy knowing they will see each other again.
Thank You, Father, for loving her all the years of her life, never giving up on her. Because of You, I will love her, too.
Monday, February 14, 2011
My Valentine
Today is Valentine's Day and all I did for you was send a e-card. Normally I would've spent time wandering through the Hallmark store, looking for a card that says all the right things. Not this time.
This morning you brought me a luscious cup of coffee and breakfast in bed. You did that yesterday, too. And the day before that, and the one before that...The salad you made me for lunch contained all the things I like most. After we ate, I didn't lift a finger to clean up the kitchen. You did it alone, just like you have for weeks. Then you checked on the day's laundry. Do you think I even remember how to turn on the washer?
For 56 days you have done those things on your own, plus so much more: menu planning, grocery shopping, cleaning the house, picking up the mail. That was weaved in between countless trips to the hospital in cold, bad weather when you walked inside, got a wheelchair for me, took me inside, parked the car and came back...and a couple of those times we didn't know our appointment had been cancelled! For 56 days you have waited on me, fetched for me and helped me until I must be the most spoiled woman in town!
The best part...the amazing part...is that you've done all these things with the most incredibly loving attitude and with a smile on your handsome face! What a gift you are!
I didn't plan on breaking bones eight weeks ago. I certainly do intend to be more watchful, to trust more completely the One who guards and guides every step handed over to Him. I didn't plan to be so needy - this really jerked a knot in my independent tail! So very many details of our everyday life together changed in one split second. But you didn't change. The goodness of who you are, and the way you display your love for me is something I've learned I can count on. Thank you, Love.
Today is Valentine's Day. You are my Valentine.
This morning you brought me a luscious cup of coffee and breakfast in bed. You did that yesterday, too. And the day before that, and the one before that...The salad you made me for lunch contained all the things I like most. After we ate, I didn't lift a finger to clean up the kitchen. You did it alone, just like you have for weeks. Then you checked on the day's laundry. Do you think I even remember how to turn on the washer?
For 56 days you have done those things on your own, plus so much more: menu planning, grocery shopping, cleaning the house, picking up the mail. That was weaved in between countless trips to the hospital in cold, bad weather when you walked inside, got a wheelchair for me, took me inside, parked the car and came back...and a couple of those times we didn't know our appointment had been cancelled! For 56 days you have waited on me, fetched for me and helped me until I must be the most spoiled woman in town!
The best part...the amazing part...is that you've done all these things with the most incredibly loving attitude and with a smile on your handsome face! What a gift you are!
I didn't plan on breaking bones eight weeks ago. I certainly do intend to be more watchful, to trust more completely the One who guards and guides every step handed over to Him. I didn't plan to be so needy - this really jerked a knot in my independent tail! So very many details of our everyday life together changed in one split second. But you didn't change. The goodness of who you are, and the way you display your love for me is something I've learned I can count on. Thank you, Love.
Today is Valentine's Day. You are my Valentine.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Great-Grandpa's Memoirs
When I was little, my mother said very little about her childhood. Her own mother died of tuberculosis at age 31, leaving this 4-year-old and three older children. The pain of losing a mother she hardly knew stayed sharp and fresh, quickly bringing tears to Mom's eyes even long after she became a grandmother. One of the only pleasant memories I remember her sharing centered around what she and her siblings were told when entering their grandparents' home: "Your grandpa's writing his memoirs now, so you must be very quiet." Someone must have conveyed a sense of partnership to her, as if her silence helped him produce something wonderful and important. The whole thing seemed mysterious to my young mind. What in the world were memoirs, anyway, and why was this memory such a bright spot for my mother?
Two years ago, I saw and read for the first time the Memoirs of C.W. Stone, dated November 1, 1935. I found the history of this man whose blood I share fascinating, hard to put down. But it was the words of his introduction that struck a chord: "Dedicated to (my) descendants of all generations, even until the end of the world, with the hope it will be edited and preserved...In these writings I shall endeavor to give valuable advice, suggestions, and instructions so that all who read may be greatly benefited." This was his legacy, painstakingly written by hand. With purpose he shared not only dates and facts, but his belief in God and an invitation to readers to join him in the Christian walk.
My mother was eight years old when her grandfather finished writing his life story. A few years later she gave her heart to Jesus. In her teen years, she dreamed of being a journalist, and although it never became a career, the urge to write stayed with Mom. Just like C.W. Stone, her favorite subjects were family and the love of God; like his work, hers won't be found in libraries or on some blog, being instead, carefully tucked away with other cherished family momentos.
Ending his memoirs, my great-grandfather encouraged family members who would live after him to seek God, for this was "more important than anything else...We should commit ourselves with all that we are and all that we have to God, and become His willing and obedient servants." As I write in this season of my life, it is a point of obedience, a response to an undeniable longing placed in me by my Creator. He's using my "voice" to share His love with my children, grandchildren and others. On earth, I have no more encouraging and constant cheerleader than Mom! And I can't help wondering if Great-Grandpa Stone is in the front row of my cloud of witnesses in Heaven, shouting, "Don't quit! You can do it! Do what the Spirit tells you!"
C.W. Sir, you said you wanted us to edit and preserve your memoirs. Mom was inspired by you and did what she could. That goes for me, too; my edition is ongoing. I want to say thank you...thanks for everything.
Two years ago, I saw and read for the first time the Memoirs of C.W. Stone, dated November 1, 1935. I found the history of this man whose blood I share fascinating, hard to put down. But it was the words of his introduction that struck a chord: "Dedicated to (my) descendants of all generations, even until the end of the world, with the hope it will be edited and preserved...In these writings I shall endeavor to give valuable advice, suggestions, and instructions so that all who read may be greatly benefited." This was his legacy, painstakingly written by hand. With purpose he shared not only dates and facts, but his belief in God and an invitation to readers to join him in the Christian walk.
My mother was eight years old when her grandfather finished writing his life story. A few years later she gave her heart to Jesus. In her teen years, she dreamed of being a journalist, and although it never became a career, the urge to write stayed with Mom. Just like C.W. Stone, her favorite subjects were family and the love of God; like his work, hers won't be found in libraries or on some blog, being instead, carefully tucked away with other cherished family momentos.
Ending his memoirs, my great-grandfather encouraged family members who would live after him to seek God, for this was "more important than anything else...We should commit ourselves with all that we are and all that we have to God, and become His willing and obedient servants." As I write in this season of my life, it is a point of obedience, a response to an undeniable longing placed in me by my Creator. He's using my "voice" to share His love with my children, grandchildren and others. On earth, I have no more encouraging and constant cheerleader than Mom! And I can't help wondering if Great-Grandpa Stone is in the front row of my cloud of witnesses in Heaven, shouting, "Don't quit! You can do it! Do what the Spirit tells you!"
C.W. Sir, you said you wanted us to edit and preserve your memoirs. Mom was inspired by you and did what she could. That goes for me, too; my edition is ongoing. I want to say thank you...thanks for everything.
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