Unseen God

"Unseen is not unknown."

For years now, I have been asking, praying, about why our church was not birthing original music. Over the decades I have been involved in music at this church, I've sung under four different music pastors. Two years ago, I finally sensed God asking me to put down the microphone and step away from the platform as a musician. But I continued praying and asking God for the dream of our congregational voice rising up in new and creative ways, even when I didn't see how it would be fulfilled.

In the past year, I have begun to see this prayer answered. One of the women whom God brought to our church wrote many original songs which were produced by a multi-congregational collective in two different genres. These are beautiful and transcendent.

Today marks another milestone in God's answer to my long-lived heart cry, as our church's music team have released their first collaborative song, which I've embedded below.

God knew. God worked. God brought all the people together to make this happen "in the fullness of time." His time. Not mine. His way. Not mine. His way may be unseen, but he is not unknown.  As God's word promises, when we ask, believing... God will answer.

Take a listen, then share if you like what you hear. (Lyrics follow)




Unseen God (Lyrics)

Waiting, waiting is the hard part
Learning, learning to find where You are
You find me torn
As one less door gives way for me

I am willing, Spirit take me 
Deeper into Your wind 
This is mystery, this unveiling 
Faith in the unseen God 

Hoping, hoping it all goes alright
Living, living the stories you write
Come what may
I pray you make them beautiful

I am willing, Spirit take me 
Deeper into Your wind 
This is mystery, this unveiling 
Faith in the unseen God 

I tread anointed ground
Found in Your purpose now
Your Presence calms my fear
Unseen is not unknown

I am willing, Spirit take me 
Deeper into Your wind 
This is mystery, this unveiling 
Faith in the unseen God 

Unseen is not unknown

Songwriters: Odum Abekah, David Klob, Jayne Luy, Grace Young-Travis
© 2019 (Shared with permission)

Purchase on any platform: Link here

Set An Example

Don’t let anyone look down on you because you are young, but set an example for the believers in speech, in conduct, in love, in faith and in purity. 1 Timothy 4:12

“Don’t let?” You can’t stop others from thinking whatever it is they choose to think. None of us can. Age (youth or maturity) has very little to do with controlling the viewpoints of others about us. Paul also isn’t giving Timothy license to rebuke others for looking down on him.

But let’s not focus so much on the first sentence that we overlook the primary point the Apostle Paul is trying to make with the “dear son” he is mentoring. He speaks in a way that is based on their relationship: deeply loving, mentor to student, a caring father instructing his prodigy.

Indulge your sanctified imagination for a moment to consider how Paul is helping this young man, the son he loves, understand how to be most effective in his life and ministry. Paul says there’s a proven way to avoid others looking down on you: Don’t act your age, like your peers are doing. Don’t be immature and inconsiderate, but rather, in the way you live, be your best self. In the larger context around verse 12, Paul says, “Train yourself to be godly (v. 7), put your hope in the living God (v. 10), devote yourself to the public reading of Scripture, to preaching and to teaching (v. 13). Exercise your gift (v. 14), be diligent so others can see your progress (v. 15).”

I can picture Paul with his arm around his young student, urging him: “Be the example others can point to and say, look how well he speaks, look at how he conducts himself with such integrity! So loving, so full of faith and true doctrine!” (v. 16)

So I offer this paraphrase, Paul’s instruction as a loving mentor, for us to receive and apply in our own lives:

Don’t live in a way that gives others reasons to look down on you. Be mature. Set the example. Ignore the distraction of how others live, what others think, what they may say about you. Keep your eyes on Jesus and live in integrity. Keep reading and studying God’s word. Trust Him with your reputation. Release the urge to defend yourself. Give up your need to explain yourself. Haters gonna hate. You live right anyway.

I want to remember these moments

Rebecca asked if I could be in Langley by Monday before their Friday wedding. Less than a year before, she had stood by Andrew’s side at my wedding. Strange and wonderful, knowing we were all going to be family. Beside her stood her parents, my son’s soon to be in-laws, who really have been filling the gaps left by the distance between Calgary and Langley since Andrew first met them five years ago.

I love Bill and Karin. I love them for how they’ve loved on Andrew from the very beginning but I also really like them as individuals and as a couple. How they helped me out before we’d even met, getting Andrew’s vehicle from Salmon Arm back to Langley in August of 2011 (long story). Further, I respect them as business people and craftspeople and artists. Karin is a baker, working both for the restaurant they own and another early morning job elsewhere. Bill has been a restaurateur for many years, having spent a large part of his career setting up the restaurants in new Ikea stores. They now own Porter’s Bistro, a coffee and tea house, café, housed in a historic turn of the century building at Five Corners in historic Murrayville (on the east side of Langley). Bill is also an accomplished jazz musician, playing drums in a professional jazz trio and hosting live music every Friday and Saturday night at Porter’s.

Their hospitality comforts me and their faithful work ethic inspires me. This became even more evident in the months and days leading up to the wedding, on the day itself and the days afterward. Yes, it was their daughter’s wedding, and the bulk of the planning and coordinating had to be left to them because I was too far away to be of any practical help, other than holding a wedding shower in Calgary and helping with errands the week of the wedding - which I will get to in a future blog post - but first, the prep and pre-events.

In addition to the immediate family, including Julia, Rebecca’s sister, their aunt Ricky had volunteered to help coordinate many items related to the wedding and another extended family member on Bill’s side, Aunt Beverly, offered her assistance as a floral designer. Side note here: Beverly was using succulents as the primary “flower” in the décor and bouquets. Many of these were grown in her own garden and the gardens of other family members and four of them spent several days the week of the wedding gathering these from various gardens and putting together the floral décor. A labour of love, a beautiful result!

When I attended the family wedding shower for Rebecca and Andrew a few weeks prior, I got my first glimpse “behind the curtain” of the legacy of family and faith that have brought me to understand, even more, how and why Bill (from his Dutch ancestry) and Karin (from Danish parents) have become the amazing people they are. The entire experience has developed into a panorama of experiences that bolsters my belief in the legacy and constancy of loving family who set aside their personal preferences to come together to help and contribute to landmark events.

It started with an invitation in the mail, a hand made card. The shower was held in the home of Ricky, one of Bill’s sisters. The floral designer pinned a corsage on the bride to be, and we had a buffet of sweets, fruit, veggies and sandwiches to enjoy. One by one we shared one word we felt described Rebecca, each of these a blessing, a mirror back to her of what her life has meant to ours: as our lives have gathered these blessings like wildflowers, walking along life’s path with her. Aunt Elsje, Bill’s other sister, will incorporate these words into a wall hanging to remind Rebecca of the love shared around this intimate circle.

Gifts were precious. The ones that struck me were the more sentimental keepsakes: an elaborate and beautiful scrapbook from Elsje, filled with traditional family recipes. The first version of this gift had been destroyed in a tragic fire only a few weeks before. Her aunt was able to save the computer that held many of the photos and documents used in the making of the book and she worked long hours to recreate this heirloom gift in time for the shower. The same fire destroyed the work done on centerpieces for the wedding reception and these, too, were recreated in time for the wedding.

Another gift was a box of family heirlooms both old and new. It included hand-embroidered and edged linen napkins made by an ancestor, hand-tatted doilies, sachets, candles, heirloom candle holder and a “bouquet” of collector spoons from every country Rebecca and Andrew have each visited so far in their lives, collected and donated by family and friends from across the world. The gift box included many more items of poignant significance in Rebecca’s family history. A treasure box, indeed.

A special surprise came from Karin’s mother, Else Jensen, Rebecca’s grandmother. She crocheted a beautiful white wrap/shawl for Rebecca to wear on her wedding day if it got too cool. None of the family knew she was doing this and the needlework was so intricate and beautiful, the yarn so delicate and soft, it was an immediate heirloom – a treasure to keep for the ages.

As I recount these moments I want to remember, there are many more details, many more gifts, many more significant people, some details and names of which I may not have gotten straight or remembered accurately. If I have made any errors, let me know so I can correct them.

In recording these moments, I echo again what I did in an earlier post surrounding the events of the wedding: “Here I raise my Ebenezer, this far by God’s help I’ve come.”

So grateful,

Joyce

…to be continued

Journey of Faith

A friend asked this question and I thought it deserved a thoughtful answer.

Everyone has a 'journey of faith'. What is yours and my narrative? 
Describe it, with intellectual honesty.

My journey of faith is like a very long hike, following my guide, Jesus. The path sometimes feels like a scramble up a very steep, unstable slope. Rocks are falling from those who are ahead of me, and other times, these same folks reach back to lend a hand up and guide me to the best path around dangerous obstacles. I regularly consult the trail map (the Bible), travel with or simply confer with other followers of Jesus for the best routes and look for cairns left to mark the way. The path sometimes requires me to look down at my feet so I don't trip up and sometimes I look up to see my final destination.

There are many beautiful things I explore along the way, places and ideas I discover, I sometimes walk alongside others or stop for refreshment with a large group, and other times, I travel alone. The backpack of resources, memories, and burdens which I carry sometimes gets heavy. I have discarded some things along the way which I've outgrown, were mislabeled or weren't helpful any longer and I also picked up other resources along the path.

At times, I've relaxed beside quiet water, kicked off my boots, reflected on my journey so far, or even taken a nap. While the quiet moments of non-movement restore my soul, staying too long in one place on the faith journey is not healthy.

It's dangerous to travel alone. This mistake has cost me some painful tumbles in steep places where traversing alone was fool-hardy. There have been times my Guide, Jesus, has cautioned me not to go a particular route, but he won't stop me if I'm determined to go there. I've lost my sense of direction more than once when I didn't follow the One with the compass.

Ultimately, the majority of this interactive, dynamic, ever challenging journey involves steady, plodding, step-by-step movement toward eternity. Eugene Peterson calls this "a long obedience in the same direction."

Just like an aircraft has a flight path to which the pilot constantly must make course corrections to stay the course, my faith journey requires me to  keep in step with the Spirit, my eyes on Jesus and my heart fixed on the goal: the presence of God.

Sometimes this is obscured by cloud or darkness or my own blind determination to be self-sufficient. Sometimes I lose the path and need time to find it again. In those times, the voice I most long to hear is my Guide whispering "This is the way, walk in it." Sometimes I don't hear anything and then, I have to choose to continue walking, not doubting in the dark what I was shown in the light.

For we walk by faith and not by sight.

Photo credits: personal collection

In the beginning...

Sometimes I think I would like to go back to the beginning, to tell my story because I keep seeing posters and blogs and quotes that tell me how important my story is and how much it needs to be shared so that others can benefit. (Yours too!) Yet I’d rather curl up in the fetal position under the duvet and sleep it off. My story includes stupidity, joy, success and failure, shame and forgiven sin, brokenness and healing, struggle and dis-ease, sickness and health, riches and revoked credit cards, conflict, reconciliation, addiction, freedom, rage, serenity, horrific loss and a heart overflowing with gratitude. Yes, my story covers the gamut, as does yours. But I should start at the beginning.

Trouble is, how do I know? Where is the beginning?

Is it where I was born the youngest and only girl to a family already full with seven rowdy rollicking boys? To a preacher dad and a would-have-been-a-missionary-to-Africa mom?

To that house on 3056 W. Madison that now has been renovated and belongs to another family that somehow decided six bedrooms and a two-room annex would suit them? 

circa 1965

circa 2000

circa November 2013

Was the beginning of my life that 19-year family road-trip every weekend and every summer to sing in 200 churches a year and stay in as many different homes of total strangers and come out of it aware of how completely normal dysfunction can be?

Or is the beginning when I went to school at Westport in grade one because kindergarten was optional? Where I fell in love with reading in Miss Snyder’s grade three class, learned to sing “Supercalifragilisticexpealidocious” in the hallway, discover that sweeping compound can clean up vomit, learned to dislike corn from a can, forgot to collect the milk money from the machine to put in the safe and it was stolen, prayed every day that I could learn how to “just be nice”, discovered how much those soft red dodgeballs hurt when they hit your face, how good the honeysuckle and gooseberries tasted on the other side of the playground fence, where I was one of the best female softball players, often the fastest girl runner and had my first poem published on the grade six bulletin board?

Westport School

Or was Junior High at Study the beginning, since it was mercifully close to Dairy Queen and the donut factory which we only stopped at occasionally after Wednesday night prayer meeting, but school ended up being a place where I made a complete and total fool of myself in front of the entire student body trying to be a clown? Or where I played piano accompaniment for the national anthem at an assembly, shaking and terrified and didn’t make a fool of myself but only mom came to watch, not dad, and where I won a spelling bee and played guitar at our grad while singing a duet with my best friend?

Harry P. Study Jr. High School

Or was high school the beginning? A freshman while my brother was a senior, learning to drive his ’71 3-speed Camaro, where I took three years of Home Ec as a practical science instead of natural sciences because my first year biology and mutilating that poor frog didn’t help me understand anatomy at all? Where I was told about erections in cooking class from the senior girl with whom I later double dated? Where Mrs. Bilyeu let me sing solos and trios and madrigals and how the trio with Diana, Lori and I got #1 ratings at State Music Festival but my solos never made it past City Festival? Where I fell in love every year with a different boyfriend and I worked part time and kept a 4.0 GPA and then got robbed at gunpoint in my driveway after grad while on my only date with the valedictorian? Where my friend told me I was part of the popular crowd but I didn’t know that? (Isn’t perspective an odd thing?)

Central High School

Or was it the church I attended, recommitted my life to Jesus, got baptised and was eventually married in? Where I learned to play percussion in the band and sing alto in the choir and where a Junior High Sunday School teacher gave me The Way (a Living Bible paraphrase) which kept me company every single night for the next seven years and moved me to want to be a missionary and taught me that I am complete in Christ? Where some in the youth group were using drugs but I never knew until one of them got convicted during revival meetings and decided to give his joint away.

Or was the beginning going to college, thinking I was finally out from under my parent’s strict rules and discover that the college rules were worse? Where I became a rebel while studying why I believe what I believe, learned which liquor I did and didn’t like, and also against the rules - watched my first movie, Camelot, on a 70mm screen? Can I just say Lancelot (Franco Nero) was magnificent? (Apparently Vanessa Redgrave thought so, too.)

Or was the beginning when I began to live in community with others at college, in the pseudo-sorority house with my brother’s ex-girlfriend, and four years in the dormitory both with and without roommates and living across the hall from two Canadian girls who are still my friends? Or was it singing in oratorios, concerts and tours with the Chorale, where I first did an air for alto (He was despised) which brought some to tears, being the first one to solo in radio chapel with a recorded accompaniment track, or was it being in the quartet that traveled to recruit new students and counsel at camps? Or was it becoming a youth leader in my brother’s church clear across town, singing in their choir and introducing one of my young people to my boyfriend’s best friend and they get married five years later and are my friends to this day? Was it having a new job every semester, cleaning houses, toilets and soiled laundry for demanding rich women to pay tuition, or selling office supplies or making photo copies or monitoring alarm systems or serving in a bridal salon? (Completely out of my depth but did I ever get a good deal on my wedding dress!) Or was the beginning realizing that at college, I learned to believe for myself what I found to be true about God?

Or could “going back to the beginning” be the day I said yes to Brent’s proposal, finished my degree in music and then married him and moved to Canada? Yes, this seems more like the beginning of “my” story. For there and then, I was without family, without friends, and began – for the first time – to live life as an individual and as an adult.

Now that we’ve determined the beginning (thank you for sticking with me this far, it’s helped!), I think about where the story ends. As any writer knows, for good story you need a beginning, middle and end, with significant conflict and crisis to add interest and tension, with a satisfactory resolution or surprise twist. Well, I have all of that. Some you know, much you don’t. What to include and what to keep silent – this is the dilemma of the memoir. Readers tend to shy away from those who indiscriminately open their emotional trench coat to reveal every shocking, naked detail of their story. Can we say “TMI”?

So the story ends, we assume, with my death. So I can only write about my life up till now and how the life verse I chose from the epistle to the Philippians when I was in college seems quite appropriate to interject at this point:

“God, who began a good work in you will be faithful to complete it.”

(my paraphrase of Phil. 1:6)

God continues to shape, delight, love, teach, guide, relax with and comfort me. I trust in that, and am grateful for the place in which I find myself at this moment, despite trauma, despite being orphaned and widowed, despite gaining and losing jobs, buying and selling homes, and figuring out how to be an adult in varying degrees of success and failure. 

I am healthier now physically, emotionally and spiritually than I have ever been. Primarily because of God's grace and love, and partly because of an intentional practice of acceptance and gratitude (which isn't constant, but getting better). That brings me to the best attitude of my life so far, despite still struggling with ghosts from my past. I have a wonderful future ahead, my son getting married to a lovely young woman, my new husband and love sharing life with me for, oh, 50 years or so and then we'll re-negotiate...

I will begin at the beginning – at some point – and tell my story, but God says there’s still some “tweaking” that needs to be done before that day.

Thanks for being my friend. You’re part of my story and I am part of yours. Let’s write better stories together, yes?

To be continued…

The Shack - a book review of sorts

Originally released in 2007, this book created quite a stir in certain circles. I wasn’t ready to read it then, for the simple stated reason that I refused to read fiction (but that’s another blog post for another time). Not even when one of my closest friends begged me to read it because she was desperate to discuss it with me, I held firm in my resolve. The deeper, underlying reason was that I was in a dark period of doubt regarding God’s love and goodness. I didn’t need some off-the-wall view of a different sort of divine presentation to mess with my carefully constructed fort of self-protection. I avoided mystery. I wanted “Just the facts, ma’am!”

The protagonist in the book, Mack, was a black and white kind of guy. A pretty average husband and father with average nice kids. He’d had some pretty painful experiences though, like many of us, as he was growing up and they colored his view of God. This was only compounded when his youngest daughter was kidnapped and murdered. The character development and this part of the story takes about the first eighty pages. His heart snapped shut to grace. He considers suicide. At this point in the book, the story turns to how he encounters God in a completely different form than his perceptions had previously allowed.

So how did I come to finally pick up this book? I started in a cohort to become a Spiritual Director. I began to engage in Listening Prayer. What startles me most is the very clear experience of hearing, sensing, seeing, feeling and encountering God in ways far different than anything I had previously known. 

My most significant encounter with God to date (which turned me on my ear) was immediately following Brent’s suicide. It was trauma, similar to Mack losing his daughter. But God’s presence was immediate: an aura of light, consuming love and promised provision were clear and physically tangible, coming and going over the next few days and weeks. I was held. My doubt was gone. God is good and God is love. I don’t understand it, but I’m willing to embrace the mystery. I am carried and cared for.

Since then, I have come to hunger for a more intimate knowledge of and relationship with this God who has made known to me the reality of Presence.

So, I thought, why not read the book? Why not stretch my imagination to include a God that might possibly show up in all sorts of unusual ways? After all, God's “ways are high about our ways" and God's "thoughts are not our thoughts.” And as it says in the book of Hebrews, “God spoke in diverse ways at diverse times”.

If you have trouble grasping the idea of a God that could show up as an older, pleasant, loving, black woman, or you read the book and hate it, Mack says “Sorry…but it wasn’t primarily written for you.” Then again, maybe it was.

I wasn’t ready for it in 2007. I was ready for it this week.

There’s a little bit of story and a lot of dialogue. As far as writing goes, there’s a lot more “telling” than “showing” but there is very descriptive language. There are some terrifying scenes involving a serial killer, kidnapping and the resulting devastation on a family. There are impossible to believe encounters with the Trinity in bodily form (remember, it’s fiction), and yet those encounters seem not only plausible but they articulate complicated truths and make them accessible in a way that goes far beyond any theologian I’ve ever heard wax eloquent in a pulpit or on a blog. It’s written respectfully and lovingly and I closed the book in awe-struck wonder, fresh with child-like faith at the possibilities of how God can reach into our world, come as a baby, grow up as a human, setting aside the right to exercise the power of deity and become our redeemer and life-giver.

Some of the questions about God’s appearance are the first subject to be addressed when Mack encounters the Trinity: “…I am neither male nor female, even though both genders are derived from my nature. If I choose to appear…as a man or a woman, it’s because I love you… To reveal myself as a large, white grandfather with a flowing beard, like Gandalf, would simply reinforce religious stereotypes.” (p. 94). Mack admits all his stereotypes of God were very white and very male, but because of his negative experience with his own father, he would have been resistant to God appearing as Father. That God appeared as a black female showed compassion and skirted Mack’s resistance to God’s love.

I’ll leave it to you to read the book to discover how God the Son and God the Holy Spirit take tangible form. Remember, this is the writer’s imagination and yet I found it intriguing and delightful to imagine along with him.

As I continue to read, I appreciate the dialogue and interactions between Mack and the members of the Trinity. Mack, of course, can’t believe what is happening. Yet, the author creates a warm and welcoming series of scenarios in which I found it quite easy to imagine myself in Mack’s place.

There are well-articulated explanations on all sorts of subjects. I began making notes, because I want to be able to go back and reference some of the quotes on these various subjects: the humanity of Jesus,  the concept of “being” vs. external appearance; how God’s sovereignty and human free will intertwine and happily co-exist; punishment vs. discipline; the problem of evil, pain and suffering; man’s independence from God exercised in creating power-based institutions like religion, politics and economics; true freedom, the appropriate place for judgment; the nature of heaven; and so much more.

I have learned long ago that God, the creator of the universe, the one who knows my name and numbers the hairs of my head is far beyond my understanding. I cannot create God in my image and no one on earth can conceive the expanse of God’s character, form and being.

What I do know is that God is a verb. Active, living, dynamic. And God is a noun. Three persons, distinct yet One. The trinity has invited me into fellowship. Christ has given me his life. The Holy Spirit is present in me, with me, around me, working through me to live the perfect life of Christ out of my humanity. God speaks and I want to tune in to hear; to surrender to this Love, this Goodness.

This gives me great confidence and I often sing and speak out of these truths. I am learning to rest and wait on the Lord, depending on the leading of the Spirit in both large and small ways. Do I have it figured out? Ha. No way! I still have bouts of fear, on occasion, in short bursts. Anxiety triggered by a current event that causes fixation on what should be a simple, uncomplicated issue which I cannot comprehend. I make choices or speak words that may hurt others, unintentionally, when I act out of my core issues of abandonment, insignificance, unworthiness. But I’m learning to tell myself the truth: that God is with always with me, God is especially fond of me (and of you), and considered me (and you) worthy of redemption. Most importantly, I am surrendering to God’s love, opening my heart and mind to God’s truth through the scriptures, through my pastors and counselors, through my spouse and friends, through nature, through circumstances (both satisfying and difficult) and through stories like The Shack.

But most intimate of all, in addition to all of these, God speaks to me in personal relationship, through listening prayer, through meditation, through impressions, through imagination, through reason, through feelings, and sometimes through dreams.

“I am come that you might have life, and have it to the full,” Jesus said.

So, while I have breath, my prayer was, is and always will be, “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth (in me, right now, here, today) as it is in heaven.”

The best way – the only way – to know God is to be in relationship.

If you are curious, read the book. Visit the website. Read what others think. Read what the author has to say.

As for me, I’m just a girl, standing here in front of you, asking you to believe God loves you and that God is not at all what or who you think. This book might just help you understand why.

But if you don't like it or don't get it, that's okay. God will go to any length down any road to find you. And when that happens, I kind of suspect you may just find everything you've been looking for.

Blessings,

Joyce

So This is Christmas

I rise early, the scent of balsam strong draws me to turn on the Christmas tree lights in the still silent house. My first real Christmas tree will have a shorter display time than the artificial ones of my past 56 Christmases and I want to absorb it all while I can. I sit down where I can see the reflection of lights on my window out to a just-waking city.

We’ll take a cup of kindness, yet, and look back on the past few sparkling days.

We have been simply having a wonderful Christmastime. My love and I enjoy Christmas Eve services, along with my son, from the front row of a packed sanctuary at our home church where we met and fell in love. Next, his sons and other extended family join us at home for a pre-ordered take-home meal of Ginger Beef, Almond Gai Ding, Lemon Chicken and nine other dishes. A wonderful selection to grace our Table for Ten. We make history in our home with a new family union: his, mine and ours. After, we all gather round O Tannenbaum and exchange kindness and laughter, giving and receiving, blessing and absorbing. We laugh through memories of favorite Christmas movie moments from Home Alone 1 & 2, Elf, Christmas Vacation, A Christmas Story, The Grinch (animated and Jim Carey version), It’s a Wonderful Life, and more. We debate which seasonal games to play but there is not a jigsaw puzzle in sight.

A Pirate gift exchange could get out of hand but everyone laughs at the gifts and very little actual stealing happens. The air-inflatable Homer Simpson Santa is informally voted best gift for future practical jokes on certain roommates who will remain unnamed to protect the perpetrators. Some wild rounds of Crokinole ensue, insuring that re-matches will be necessary for years to come. Gluten-free white chocolate cheesecake and Christmas baking (from Tina, my sister-in-love) plus a little homemade chocolate (from me) tops off the night.

Christmas morning we all rise slow, and brother Brad presides over the making of Norwegian pancakes in our third almost annual Christmas brunch. Toppings include Summerland Sweets fruit syrups or good old Aunt Jemima; selections of peaches, raspberries, strawberries with whipped cream, or brown sugar and cinnamon. Some lazy day visiting, Crokinole and learning new card games (Five Crowns, Wizard, Quiddler, Things) and lovely music from the recently-tuned piano. A little reading, a couple video games, some NFL highlights and an afternoon catnap in the sun for the patriarch and everyone is prepped for turkey dinner.

The evening meal is crowned by a perfectly browned Butterball turkey with cranberry sauce and stuffing, candied sweet potatoes, green bean casserole and fabulous mashed potatoes with turkey gravy. Chocolates, candies, pecan tarts and mints top off the feast.

We laugh ourselves hysterical Christmas night watching Home Alone 2, a standing tradition in Henry’s Christmases past. We go to sleep giggling and chortling over the various reactions to movie silliness even more than the ridiculous theatrical antics.

As we put on our nightcap and crawl into bed with visions of happiness all in our head, I find my Christmas card from my love on the pillow – words of affirmation, the best gift of all.

We sleep in heavenly peace.

An Anniversary of Sorts

It is six months to the day, on a Friday, since Brent died. Generally, I am doing better than I would have expected, thanks to the grace of God and the prayers and help from my dear family, friends, neighbors and those from the two churches where I attend and work. I have my moments, and in the midst of one today, I was so grateful to find my heart cry (which I know is not unlike others grieving loss) in the depths of a series of poems on the Stations of the Cross by Malcolm Guite. A copy follows here. Be blessed, and remember the Lord is near.

IX Jesus falls the third time 

He weeps with you and with you he will stay
When all your staying power has run out
You can't go on, you go on anyway.
He stumbles just beside you when the doubt
That always haunts you, cuts you down at last
And takes away the hope that drove you on.
This is the third fall and it hurts the worst,
This long descent through darkness to depression
From which there seems no rising and no will
To rise, or breathe or bear your own heart beat.
Twice you survived; this third will surely kill,
And you could almost wish for that defeat
Except that in the cold hell where you freeze
You find your God beside you on his knees.

The Lonesome Valley

This is a tough day.  A kick-you-in-the-teeth kind of day. Could you sit down with me over a cup of coffee, and just listen with compassion for a couple minutes?

Things I needed from others weren’t forthcoming. (Everybody’s busy. I get that.) My request regarding working hours has virtually been denied. (They don’t really know what I do but they’re sure I’m the only one who can do it. I should feel complimented.) I’m dealing with unpredictable performance from my computer. (That’s no one's fault.) The backlog of work is piling up. (It is the busy season.)

Everybody has bad days. I know that. Every organization has its operating requirements they have to meet. I understand that. But today, I came so close to firing off a resignation letter, putting the house up for sale and taking off into the wild with the fast little red car.

I didn’t.

I’m being responsible. Patient. Holding on. Digging deep. Finding true grit. Hitting the bottom and finding it’s solid. My hope is built on the strong and sure foundation of the Lord Jesus Christ. 

I’m also holding tight to the very helpful and pragmatic instruction to not make any significant changes in the first year after my husband’s death. Most days this is a really good boundary and suitable criteria. But today? It's not easy. No one promised it would be. I feel like a big part of me is getting lost.

Then I come home and check out Facebook. Update after update reminds me of Brent. A song here, a blog post there, a status update, even a joke. They all remind me of how life breaks down the spirit. How a lack of appreciation wears down the perseverance. How hope deferred makes the heart sick (Prov. 13:12). How an absence of affirmation carves a deep crevice in your confidence like pounding water over time can carve a deep channel in stone.

Even when I know God works in all things for the good of those who love Him, it’s hard to keep moving under the heavy burden some days.

There is a traditional Spiritual that comes to mind:  

Jesus walked this lonesome valley. He had to walk it by Himself; O, nobody else could walk it for Him, He had to walk it by Himself.
We must walk this lonesome valley, We have to walk it by ourselves; O, nobody else can walk it for us, We have to walk it by ourselves.
You must go and stand your trial, You have to stand it by yourself, O, nobody else can stand it for you, You have to stand it by yourself.

So I can either sit here and milk all the melancholy out of the day, slip deeper into darkness, count all the things I lack or I can begin counting my blessings one by one and cling to the truth of God’s word that reminds me “this world is not my home, I’m just passing through.”

Though I walk through the valley of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me. Your rod and staff comfort me. (Psalm 23:4)

He who began a good work in you will be faithful to complete it. (Phil. 1:6)

Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love him.  (James 1:12)

Lord, to whom should we go? Only You have the words of eternal life. (John 6:68)

In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. (John 1:4-5)

Am I grieving? Yes. It's okay not to be okay. But I'm also normal. I have some good times. When I'm down like this, do I seek pity? Absolutely not. Do I want your prayer? Absolutely, yes. Am I down and in darkness? I know this too shall pass. I look to the Light. To the one who is Life. I tell myself the truth from the very words of the One who is the Way, the Truth and the Life:

But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me.

(2 Corinthians 12:9)

Thank you for being there, too. The path doesn't feel so lonely any more.

Perspective

The gray day is framed
like a circus awning
I am ever mindful
no matter the odd directions
the lines of our life may take 
one must look to the horizon
where earth meets heaven
and in so doing
is defined

A Child-like Faith

A Child-like Faith

by Frank P. Nickel

Oh, Lord, I want a child-like faith,

the kind you said to show

for entrance to that kingdom fair

and saving grace to know.

A faith that makes me small enough

to take with gratitude

just everything you’d like to send

to keep my hope renewed.

A faith, oh Lord, a childlike faith

which humbly will receive.

Yet, in the hour of greatest need,

is mighty to believe.

Oh, give me Lord, a childlike faith

which never minds the crowd

nor caters to this world of sin,

so arrogant and proud.

A faith that sees my blessed Lord

who died on Calvary

and as I find myself condemned

cries out, “Remember me.”