Soon

Our pastor calls it "I spy a lie." It's the ability to spot what is false in this culture of ours.

It makes me think of detectives who study legitimate money so that they can quickly recognize counterfeit bills. The ability to spot deception comes from intimacy with the truth. That is a fact.

So we sit in a dark movie theater watching the previews before the cartoon cast of Frozen begin to let it go. In one of the previews, a girl looks at a boy and says, "You can do it because I believe in you." Rose spies that lie.

"That's not the truth!" she whispers loudly. "It doesn't matter who believes in you, it only matters who you believe in!"

Yes. It matters who you believe in.

Last week we got the call that Dave's Grandma was going downhill rapidly. She's 96 so this shouldn't have been a shock, but when are we not surprised by death?

We went to see her on Sunday. She was sleeping and wouldn't wake up when we talked to her. Avonlea played the harp and Dave stood next to Grandma and held her hand for a long time. And Rose's words in the theater came back to me, they coursed down my cheeks with salty truth.

"....it only matters who you believe in."

When it comes to this, death, Who you believe in is the only thing that matters.
But it mattered very much in life, also.
Grandma has 4 children who all love Jesus. Grandchildren that love Jesus. Great-grandchildren that love Jesus. It's this Godly heritage, this legacy of God-loving, man-serving people that came about because of Who Grandma and Grandpa believed in.

When it was time for us to go, we said our good-byes. Truly good-bye on this earth, for Grandma went home to Heaven two days later. We all told her we loved her. But Rose's strong sweet voice broke through the tears and said, "I love you Great Ma and I'll see you SOON!"

Yes, truly, soon. And until then, we will live out Grandma's legacy of believing and living our whole lives in light of that belief. And God willing, the Truth will continue to pervade the generations.

Default

I learned my default early on. Default, the position my heart fell into when not consciously being deliberate in my faith.

Sixteen years ago, Dave and I spent our first Valentines Day up in a cabin in the woods. A group of friends came over and we went cross country skiing. After dinner they left to drive the hour or so back home. Not five minutes after they had gone, Dave realized one of them left their cross country ski rentals at our cabin. Dave is a man of action. He grabbed the skis in one hand and the car keys in the other and bolted.

I dimpled up at the thought of surprising him when he came home. I lit a myriad of candles in the living room, got a full fire going, and slipped into something less, well, less. I settled into a flattering position on a chair next to the fire, arranged my hair, and waited. And waited. And then I heard the sirens.

Unbeknownest to me, Dave was unable to catch his friend, so he just decided to go into town and find the ski shop his friend had rented them from, and return them for him. The town was half an hour away. Then were several ski shops that had to be located and inquired into. It took him a long time. This was pre-cell phone era.

Meanwhile, the fire's dying (literally and figuratively). At the sound of the sirens, tears started sliding down my face. My thoughts ran like this, "I am a 23 year old widow. Dave is dead. I don't have any nice black clothes to wear to the funeral. I am all alone. Forever. I'm too sad to go shopping but I don't have any nice black clothes. Dave is never coming back to see how cute I am sitting here. Poor Dave." etc.

Two hours later Dave came home to his bride. He had a blizzard from Dairy Queen in each hand.
He found me in fetal position, sobbing, swollen faced, and muttering something about black dresses.

Eventually I recovered enough to eat the blizzard.

I learned several things from that brutal Valentines Day. But the most important thing I learned was this, my default is fear.

If you recall, I said earlier that my husband is a man of action. With that statement comes the assurance that I've had many, many chances to reaffirm that, yes, my default is fear. Add children who largely take after their father, and yes, my default is fear.

But I've learned something else over the last 16 years of marriage, God can reset your default.

So I've made my homepage my Bible and the face book I peer into is the Book that shows me the face I want, the face of Jesus. I slowly trade in my fear for the peace and joy and faith that He offers. My default changes. My husband doesn't change, my children don't change, but my default changes.

We celebrated New Years this year up at the cottage. The children were asleep and Dave and I were playing cards when a storm came up. It was sudden and violent. Dave and I looked at each other in alarm. We knew that there were 3 very dead, very big trees directly behind the cottage. We weren't expecting a storm before we had time to cut them down.

"Let's get the boys. Stay away from the windows."

My husband is a man of action. Within minutes, we had the boys moved downstairs on cots, out of the vulnerable position of the room nearest the trees.

Rowan awoke in the process and wanted me to stay with him downstairs. I curled up on the couch while Dave went upstairs where the girls were.

The wind was possessed. Debris flew past the windows. The rain appeared to be horizontal. With every gust my default spoke like this, "God thank you for your protection. I know you will never leave us nor forsake us. Thank you for a roof over our heads. Thank you that you love these children even more than I do. Thank you for your grace that is always sufficient. Thank you for your peace that passes all understanding."

When we listen to God's Words more than our own words, more than our friend's words, more then this world's words, our default changes. The storms rage, but we don't.

The default the Lord offers is praise.
I open the Word and reset.
Daily.

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.

Generations

My brother Mike, his wife Caroline, and their two children Christopher (4) and Emily (2) flew in for an extended visit.
The first morning they were here Mike gave me a gift.
He gave me a ring. It's white gold with a one carat diamond. It belonged to our great-grandmother on my mother's paternal side.

Before I can utter a thank-you, he says, "Grandpa gave it to me a long time ago. He told me that it was a big diamond but it had a crack in the heart of it. It's flawed, so it's pretty much worthless."
I flinch.
A priceless, worthless ring passed down through the generations.
I put it on.

The days go by quickly with company, and there are messes and mayhem, and I struggle and strive to love like Christ. In the midst of all this there's mourning. My mom's dear friend passed away. Her friend's name was Mary, and she was a blithe, joyful spirit, full of the love of God. So on Saturday, Mom and I left the children, siblings, and grandchildren, and slipped away to Mary's funeral. The video clips of her family talking were extremely touching, but one thing stood out to me. Her kids talked about loving her, but they also talked about arguing with her, being angry with her, and butting heads with her on different occasions. She wasn't perfect. She was wonderful, she was a godly woman, but she was real.

So Sunday morning at breakfast, I told the kids about the funeral. I happened to glance down at the ring my brother gave me. The analogy hit me, "You know, Uncle Mike, told me that this ring is worthless because it's cracked, but he's wrong. This diamond is just like us, flawed in the heart. Mary wasn't perfect but her cracks gave Jesus a place to shine through. Jesus can shine through our imperfections, too." The kids nodded slowly, as they processed this information. Grant broke the silence, "Then you can always wear that ring mommy and remember that everyone is cracked open and it's good."

An hour later we sat in church. A whole row of my family worshipped together. Grant snuggled up next to me and during the service ran his finger along the surface of the ring, feeling the edges of the crevice. My immediate thought was to pull away, I didn't want him to get cut on the flaw. But no, the ring is to remind me that I am cracked open as well ,and that my children may very well be victims of my jagged edges. I don't recoil from them in order to save them from wounds, I pray for God to bind up any gashes that I, in my sinfulness, may make. But I let them know me, flaws and all. We stand to sing and instinctively one of my hands rests on my son's shoulder and the other, the diamond ring hand, the flawed, cracked, priceless hand raises high to the Lord.

Several of Mary's family members spoke of having visions of her going to Heaven and they said she was beautiful, shining, perfect.
Yes.
Someday the diamond will have no flaws.
Someday....
But until then, I wear the ring and remember,
"We're all cracked open, and it's good."

The flawed ring and the flawed soul will pass down through the generations, but so will the grace and the blessings. Thank you Lord.

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."

Miracles

We've lived in this house for eight years and I've never been in the attic. I suppose if I had to give a reason for this, I'd say because it's where dead things are buried. Things that we no longer use. The plastic coffin of baby Avonlea's stuffed lambies. Bins labeled "nostalgic" that no one will ever look in till I'm dead and their only comments will be, "why in the world was this nostalgic?" They won't know the story that consecrated it. But mostly, I think of the tombs of yearbooks, newspaper clippings, and journals of a girl that's long been laid to rest.

But Wednesday night it happened. Dave and all the kids were up there organizing Christmas stuff and I stifled my morbidness and climbed the ladder. I saw the relics of other houses; stools, pictures, and tables. I saw all the bins of clothes, some to my horror, mislabeled. And there, appropriately in the corner, were.....the remains. With much fear and trembling I took two boxes down with me. Avonlea and Grant were interested and I was curious myself, was I really as bad as I remembered?

I showed them my few childhood treasures, things that evoked all kinds of memories. Trophies, medals, banners, things that had stories dripping off them. I told what I could. Then it was bedtime and Dave put them down so I could finish the raiding. I read some journals, letters, poetry, and even college papers. I winced, I choked back tears for this wayward sinful child. I made the decision to cremate the remains.

The next day I was on the treadmill, walking briskly towards a new year's resolution. I was reading C.S. Lewis' Miracles. This book works out my brain while the treadmill works my body. Lewis was trying to differentiate between what our imagination conjures up and what our mind knows. For instance, if you were to say "attic" to me, I'd see my stack of journals and waylaid trophies. However, mentally, I'd know this wasn't the definition of "attic". An attic is a storage area under the eaves that is usually unfinished and primitive. We do this all the time. If we're not thinking critically we can mistake the image in our head for the actual definition.

People do this with miracles. They hear the word and get a mental image of Jesus raising Lazarus or feeding the 5,000 or something similar during his earthly ministry. Or perhaps Noah's ark or Jonah's aquatic adventures come into our minds. These were absolutely miracles....but those aren't the definition of miracle, just examples. Lewis defines a miracle as, "an interference with nature by a supernatural power."

It hit me last night as I walked by the boxes, stacked, ready to be taken back up to the crypt.

I am a miracle!

God interfered with the natural way my life was headed by supernatural power. I am miraculously saved by His grace! That corpse of my old life lay there because of His supernatural interference in my life. When I think critically, guided by the definition of miracles, I can see them all around me. The changed lives of my friends, my husband, my children. The altered outcomes of anxious situations. Things that in all rights should have ended tragically, but ended joyfully. Miracles!

I see many more trips to the attic in my future. There is much that needs to be sorted and weeded out and I am not afraid to do it. I am a new creation cleaning out the old cocoon and thanking God for resurrection!

"In the same way, count yourselves dead to sin but alive to God in Christ Jesus." Romans 6:11

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.