Sacrifice

I teach her to braid. Three colored strings tied to a desk leg.
Red. Yellow. Green. Red. Yellow. Green.
She murmurs the pattern, her full concentration on the twisting rhythm of the strings.

The table downstairs is covered in brightly colored eggs. A messy tradition that dates back to my little girl days in Alaska. My dad loved to celebrate. He pushed Halloween and Christmas and Birthdays and made them fun and exciting. Easter was no exception. He boiled eggs and mixed dyes and we stained our fingers making artistic eggs. And afterwards, we'd throw the dye colors off the deck into the snow. And the snow would be stained bright.

Children need to know how to make good choices when they leave the house. Preferably before they leave the house. So we teach them, methodically, how to make good choices. But the tricky thing about making good choices is the knowledge that God trumps all human reasoning. So good choices are really God choices. The best yes, is the yes to His leading.

I read Mark 8:18 earlier this week, "Therefore consider carefully how you listen." Listening is a verb. It's important. There have been many times in my life when I made good, moral choices and God said, "No." There have been times God has asked something of me that.made.no.sense. The times I chose wisely in those situations were the times I yielded to God's voice. The times I listened. So listening is the key factor to making good choices. I am learning.

Grandma's funeral is Saturday. On Sunday Dave's parents and his Aunt and Uncle will lead the Easter service at the nursing home where she died. They've been faithfully bringing God's Word there for years. They asked us to come and bring the kids to minister with their music. I said no. Every year, for 12 years, we've gone to the egg hunt at our park. It's tradition. Avonlea is too old for it now and this will be Grant's last year. I love it. I love the laughter and excitement and a park filled with beautiful children in beautiful clothes. It's what we do every year. Red. Yellow. Green. The pattern of our life.

But I start to get that twinge in my conscience. God wants us to go to the nursing home. I see it clearly, bright colors on white snow.

So I sit the kids down and I tell them. Let's go to the nursing home on Sunday and minister and afterwards I will give you an egg hunt. I'll give you better candy than they do at the park. They agree. They know how to make good choices.

That night I sit long in front of the computer processing checks for the business. And suddenly, impressed upon my heart like bright colors on white snow, You didn't let them sacrifice. I wasn't praying. I was working, I was braiding the pattern of my day. But I recognized God's voice in my heart and so I listened. You padded their sacrifice. When I ask for sacrifice I don't pad it.

And I realized afresh, what Easter is. It's blatant sacrifice.
The cross was never candy-coated for Jesus.

When approached, the kids joyfully sacrificed any kind of egg hunt.
"That's really not what Easter's about anyway, Mom."
"I'd much rather play my violin at the home than have an egg hunt."

It's a small sacrifice.
Just a little step toward Jesus.
But it's the little that prepares us for the big.

I forget sometimes, that it's not just a family God has asked me to braid together.
It's a kingdom.
The pattern is His.
So is the Glory.
Amen.

Good Gifts

My Dad's birthday was on Friday. He would have been 74.
I thought about him on his birthday, because he loved his birthday.
More pointedly, he loved presents.
He loved getting presents, but he also loved giving presents.

I had a box in a the attic for a long time filled with presents from my dad. A porcelain cat filled with bath salts. Assorted soaps. Stuffed animals. Figurines. The reason these presents were packed in the attic and not gracing the household adornment is because they were unpleasant to me. You see, my dad bought presents because he liked them. He didn't want to know what I wanted. If I put in a suggestion he got irritated.

Now, I have a sense of humor and could usually get a good laugh out of what he picked out for me, but that was all it was really worth.

I woke in the night last night, thinking of this, lamenting what was. And I started to realize that I think of God as a giver in the same vein I think of my dad. Meaning, I think of God giving me what He wants to give me, and not caring at all how I feel about it.
Not giving me what I really want because He doesn't really care what I want.
I picture Him, getting irritated at my prayers, as if He doesn't want my suggestions.
And sometimes, I want to take the whole lot of what He's given me and stick it in the attic!

Laying in my bed last night, the silence and the dark and the past all pressing down on me, I knew.
I.was.so.wrong.
"For I know the plans I have for you declares the Lord..."
God's gift is the sacrificial love of Jesus, the Lamb of God.
"Plans to prosper you and not to harm you..."
God's gift is the joy of eternal life.
"Plans to give you hope and a future..."
God's gift is the yearning in my heart to know Him intimately.
"Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you..."
God's gift is sight to my blind eyes.
"You will seek me and find me..."
God's gift is adoption.
"When you seek me with all your heart."

It was as if in a moment I realized that what I had always wanted was a porcelain cat filled with bath salts! I had one! It was in the attic!

In my heart I embraced the gifts that God, in His mercy, has given me.
And maybe,
just maybe,
I should stop making inventory of my own gifts,
and ask Him what He'd like from me.

Because now that I think about it,
I never saw some of those gifts that I gave my dad,
around the house....

Growing into Grief

This week my dad would have been 73.
I would have made him a cake. Carrot cake with cream cheese frosting.
He would have opened his presents with zeal because he loved presents.
And at some point during the party, he would have said something that made me laugh until I cried. He always did.
On Friday, I saw a friend who's dad has cancer. I asked her how she is handling it.
Her eyes filled with tears and she shook her head and said, "You know."
My eyes filled in response and I nodded and walked away.
Yes, I know.
I know how it feels to watch someone you love slip away from you. I know how it feels to know that there are unresolved issues that will never be resolved on this earth. I know how it feels to desperately want to turn back time and circumstances and be unable to.
Yes, I know.
Somewhere in these six years I've come to terms with what was.
Grief works it's way into your very marrow. Into the core of who you are. It becomes part of your choices and voice and personality. I grow into my grief and my grief grows into me.
Yes, I know.
I know that I'm grieving but he's not. That he's with Jesus, happy and whole. I miss a shadow of what really is. My dad is so much more now than he ever was on earth. All the insecurities that undermined his parenting are annihilated. He is a perfect dad.
Yes, I know.

And someday, I will know even more fully than I do now.
And someday, I won't know at all, because I'll be grieving no longer.
I won't be grieving because I'll be there.
I'll be eating carrot cake with my dad, laughing so hard,
I'll be crying.

Roses in Green Pastures

As we drove away from the church on Sunday, I asked Rose a simple question. "How was Sunday School Posy?" She replied with an answer that gave me an instant headache. "Okay. I didn't hit anyone." Pause. "I shoulda hit someone." So she reigned herself in, and this is progress. A few weeks ago, on her way to a friend's house, I told her to behave herself and be polite. She replied, "I know mama. I won't bite or hit or slap or pinch or scream or call her fat." Sigh.

And this is my Rose. You lean close anticipating a sweet fragrance, and you get it, just not before a thorn or two are lodged in your epidermis.

(birthday morning hugs)

When Dave and I were dating he asked me what my favorite age of child was. I answered without hesitation, "three." I love the age three. I love the big eyed wonder and whimsy, the creativity, the hilarious misuse of words. Today my last three year old turns four. (Emphasis mine, all mine). I know that the days of her beating up her peers are limited. I know that her lisp will probably fade ("Yeth mom." "Thure!"). I know that she won't be panting in my face after every single jelly bean so that I can guess the flavor, for much longer. And I will miss it dearly.

She awoke this morning to sibling joy and singing which produced punches in the air by little fists with blue fingernails.

This morning at her birthday breakfast I randomly opened to Psalm 23. It struck a chord and for a moment I could only stare at the page. My dad died on June 23 and I had read that Psalm the morning he left and didn't come home. "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death..." Somehow in the grief of the month following his death, I got pregnant with Rose. "You anoint my head with oil, my cup overflows..."

Today I thank God for the precious beautiful daughter He gave me amidst my heartache. I thank Him for the fragrance of Christ she has brought to our lives. I thank Him that His promises to me have been Yes and Amen in Christ and that beauty has come from ashes.

I thank God for Rose....

After all, what's a thorn or two in the epidermis?

"Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever."

Boys

After the last post, I went upstairs exhausted by my transparency. I turned off the lights and jumped into bed. I did not however meet the soft flannel sheet I had anticipated. I landed on a magna-doodle (this may not be the technical name). Light back on. The magna-doodle had a sketch of a little boy and a mama, both with abnormally large bellybuttons, holding hands. Underneath was written, "I love you Mom. You are such a good mother." Accompanying this was a chocolate coin and a piece of paper echoing the magna-doodle sentiments.

I grinned and went to get a piece of paper out of my desk to return the compliment. I opened an unused drawer and found paper and a little book. The book was a 365 day booklet of questions. I had given it to my dad ten years ago. I asked him, to answer a question a day, so that Grant could have a keepsake of the grandpa he was named after. I put this book away after my dad's funeral 4 1/2 years ago.

I couldn't help but open it. I couldn't help but laugh. For example, I opened to....

June 23, Did you ever go skinny-dipping?
"I can not remember doing that. I did walk across the creek in my bare feet."

June 1, Tell about a strange person that lived in your town.
"Bad eye Salutsky -all I know- he was bad."

April 26, Did you ever take anything that wasn't yours?

"Get behind me Satan."

November 7, Did you ever see a President or a Vice-President in person?
"Today is Gloria's birthday. Happy Birthday Gloria."

You can see the quirkiness we loved and tolerated in turn. Grant has many of his grandpa's quirks but he also inherited something else....a love for his mommy. My dad loved his mother so much so that my mother felt moving to Alaska soon after they were married would be in the best interests of everyone. So I have come to cherish this in Grant and accept it as hereditary. He asked me at five, repeatedly, to marry him. I replied by rote, that I was already married to daddy. Once after a pause, he ventured, "Who do you think is going to die first?" That's just the way he is.
But it's surprised me these last few months to find that Rowan is also developing this trait. It may possibly come from watching Grant. His little heart is turning to me with new depths of devotion. Last night while we sat in front of the fire, Avonlea read out loud to us, and Rowan snuggled close. His hand found the back of my neck and he pulled my ear to his mouth and whispered, "Mommy, if you die on the road, I'm going to lie down next to you and die too. I never want to be apart from you."

I have a premonition that both of my sons will live far away with their wives and that it will be in the best interests for all involved. Honestly, I wouldn't trade this son-love for anything in the world. If they learn to transfer it to a woman, some gal is going to be very cherished. If they learn to transfer it to God, watch out.

So even now, I think ahead, but I also savor. Who wouldn't? There won't always be magna-doodles in my bed and a boy's love is a precious thing.

Disguised

There is no birth without the death of something. I realized this for the first time on my wedding day. A new life of marriage and maturity and independence was given birth to as I crossed the threshold. But there stood my family, who had loved and laughed with me for 22 years, I was no longer theirs, and the pain of it took my breath away. But only for a moment. At that moment I understood, to gain anything, we must lose something.

Fast forward 8 years.

Rowan was born 3 months before my Dad was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. The first time, of many, that I walked down the long, sterile hospital corridor, Rowan was with me. I held him tightly in front of me, shield-like, as I walked past the moans, the sobs, the breathing and beeping and voices. When we got to the room I offered him to Mom. He was the only thing I had to offer. Hope personified.

Dad was sent home to Mom's care and we visited and tried to encourage. Through months of exhaustion and emotions and monitoring, I would come and share and be. And I would bring this babe who would inevitably reach fat arms for my Mother. He seemed to know that he could somehow, somewhat, alleviate the suffering. And he did.

So there is this love between them, this child that thrived in her arms as her husband weakened.

And this is life, the joy and the sorrow and the death and the birth, all jumbled into one Holy mess. The pain of it takes my breath away on a daily basis. But only for a moment because..."the lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd; he will lead them to springs of living water. And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes." (Rev. 7:17) forever is on the way, and death, after all, is really only birth in disguise.

Driving

When I was 15 Dad took me in to get my driver's permit. I passed, and as I walked out to the car I jokingly said, "Hey can I drive home?"
Dad threw me the keys and climbed into the passenger side. Please note: I had never driven a car before. Also: we had a stick shift. But adventure is my middle name so I gamely jumped in, started it up, put it in reverse, and stalled. Let's just say that it was a long drive home. I made quite a few drivers very unhappy. I ended up in a ditch and Dad took over and drove me home.
I mentioned in a previous post that I've been reading 'Practicing His Presence' by Brother Lawrence (a rewrite of the original). It is a beautiful soul-seeking book of encouragement written by a French "Lay Brother" among barefooted devotees. He claims you can be interactively in the presence of God at all times. Another man, Frank Laubach a missionary, has a chunk of his writings compiled here as well and he claims the same thing. "See how many minutes of the hour you can remember...Christ at least once each minute; that is to say bring Him to mind at least one second out of every sixty."
This is harder than it sounds. I've struggled with lots of thoughts like, "Why couldn't I have been a monk and gotten this down before I had four children!" "I could think about God all the time if I lived by myself," etc.
Then I read, "Faith alone, not a method, and certainly not fear, was able to satisfy me in coming to Him. That was my beginning. The next ten years were very hard, and I suffered a great deal."
Excuse me, did he say ten years...and he didn't have any children!
A couple weeks ago in school I told the kids that they needed to write a thank you letter for grammar. I told them to write to anyone they wanted to thank. A while later I found the following letter on my desk.

Dear God,
Thank you for being with me all the time. I really like that. Thanks again. Love, Grant

So I'm on this road, and I don't know how to drive, but my heart is still up for adventure and Father is in the front seat with me, all the time.

Note: I'm still thinking a parking lot would have been wise.

Memorial Day

Today I remember.
Gray-blue eyes like my sisters, like my son's.
Laughter that gave and filled and joined.
A man wearing an imaginary coonskin cap and heading west.
A boy trapped inside a large man's body.
The eager pursuit of Indians and animals.
A man cutting the lawn with the scissors.
My dad, as I first knew him, sitting at a campsite in Alaska, white t-shirt, blue jeans, crew cut.

We walked to the cemetery and left an odd assortment. The kids decorated the stone with flowers, weeds, gravel, roses tied with a blue ribbon. We walked out of the cemetery singing, "Blessed be the Name of the Lord." Hands held, Grant's fingers entwined with mine. Rowan and Posy skipped ahead, hands clasped and swinging, joy personified.
The day grew dusky and ripe.
Dave joined me and asked the four-year old question: "Are you sad?"
I replied, "I'm trying to be."
But really, there's no mourning, only remembering.
Remembering and Laughing and Praising.
Thank you God for my dad!