Thankful

 

Thanksgiving is simplicity at its finest. Give thanks. The question to consider is To Whom am I giving thanks?

I'm a simple girl, so my answer is simple too.

Thank You, Father God, for the list of people, things, events, and memories for which I am profoundly grateful. For my coffee this morning, the gentle snowfall, to my family who are all safe and ensconced in warmth and hope, to thoughts of my parents and their love, their smiles, the food they enjoyed, and their place in our personal history.

Most of all, I thank You for your companionship. You never groan when I repeat myself, tire of my mistakes, or forget what I've told You. You are my Always Enough, Straight Up Enough and More Than Enough. I am not always thankful, but You already know that. Thank You...

The Sound of Our Breathing

I am blown away by this post from an artist named Jason Gray eight years ago but was only brought to my attention this morning. I have not posted for a number of years, but this is entirely postworthy.

The Sound of Our Breathing
Take a breath and breathe it out.  Do it again, slowly, and try to mean it.

Breathing – of all things maybe we take it most for granted. Do we ever wonder why we are built this way, this soft machine of ours always pumping oxygen in and out?

In sadness, we breathe heavy sighs. In joy, our lungs feel almost like they will burst. In fear we hold our breath and have to be told to breathe slowly to help us calm down. When we’re about to do something hard, we take a deep breath to find our courage.  When I think about it, breathing looks almost like a kind of praying.

I heard a teaching not long ago about the moment when Moses had the nerve to ask God what his name is.  God was gracious enough to answer, and the name he gave is recorded in the original Hebrew as YHWH.

Over time we’ve arbitrarily added an “a” and an “e” in there to get YaHWeH, presumably because we have a preference for vowels. But scholars have noted that the letters YHWH represent breathing sounds, aspirated consonants that in the Hebrew alphabet would be transliterated like this:

Yod, rhymes with “rode”, which we transliterate “Y”

He, rhymes with “say”, which we transliterate “H”

Vav, like “lava”, which we transliterate “V” or “W”

He rhymes with “say”, which we transliterate “H”

A wonderful question rises to excite the imagination: what if the name of God is the sound of breathing?

This is a beautiful thought to me, especially considering that for centuries there have been those who have insisted that the name of God is so holy that we dare not speak it because of how unworthy we are. How generous of God to choose to give himself a name that we can’t help but speak every moment we’re alive. All of us, always, everywhere, waking, sleeping, with the name of God on our lips.

In his Nooma video, Breathe, Rob Bell (a pastor whose obvious gifts of curiosity and a knack for asking provocative questions can get him into trouble) wonders what this means in key moments like when a baby is born – newly arrived on planet earth, must they take their first breath, or rather speak the name of God if they are to be alive here?  On our deathbed, do we breathe our last breath? Or is it that we cease to be alive when the name of God is no longer on our lips?

The most ironic of his questions is also the most beautiful: he wonders about the moment when an atheist friend looks across the table at you and says, “there. is. no. God”.  And of course what you hear is “Yod. He. Vav. He.”

There are few better illustrations of both God’s largesse as well as his humility, his omnipresence as well as his singular intimate presence within each of us.

Breathe in. Breathe out. “He does our praying in and for us, making prayer out of our wordless sighs… the word that saves is right here, as near as the tongue in your mouth…” (Romans 8:28, 10:8 The Message)

The Sound of Our Breathing - Jason Gray, Doug McKelvey, Seth Mosely

Everybody draws their very first breath with Your name upon their lips

Every one of us is born of dust but come alive with heaven’s kiss

The name of God is the sound of our breathing

Hallelujahs rise on the wings of our hearts beating

Breathe in, breathe out, speak it aloud Oh oh, oh oh

The glory surrounds, this is the sound Oh oh, oh oh

Moses' bare foot at the burning bush, wants to know who spoke to him

The answer is unspeakable like the rush of a gentle wind

The name of God is the sound of our breathing

Hallelujahs rise on the wings of our hearts beating

Breathe in, breathe out, speak it aloud Oh oh, oh oh

The glory surrounds, this is the sound Oh oh, oh oh

In him we live and move and have our being

We speak the name as long as we are breathing

So breathe in

Breathe out…

Doubters and deceivers, skeptics and believers we speak it just the same

From birth to death, every single breath is whispering Your name

More Than Enough

This is a perfectly timed find. Especially the first half.

I have to amend the end to "He is enough" though. I am nothing apart from Him. Because He is my MoreThanEnough, it's all good. It is all very good.

Heart For God. Read your title again, author lady...

HEART FOR GOD
Study of 1 Samuel by Myrna Alexander

I missed the first week when I was with Mom at her house, but I made it to the second lesson last Thursday. So far, I think I may have succeeded in offending one or more ladies with my burst of opinion.

Split into our small groups to lay out our "discoveries", I said that I thought the fifth suggestion for leaders [page 13] was really dumb, because it says, “only those who have finished the week’s assignment may share in the discussion”. A lady I truly love then tapped me on the shoulder and said, “But that’s what we do here. If people participate who haven’t done the study, that wouldn’t be fair.”

I was dumbfounded. Fair? Are you kidding me? What are we, in second grade? When the time comes that I step in for the lady who now facilitates, I cannot punish an adult by telling her she can’t participate, because she didn’t answer the questions others did. For one thing, she may already be acquainted with the direction in which the topic is headed and have something pithy to contribute. Secondly, I have received from Him SO MANY times through people who may not have “finished the week’s assignment”, but sure as nails, know His heart a whole lot more intimately than I do, and THAT is priceless.

So I will be voted off the island of “fair”. I will take a comment any day from someone who’s spent time at His feet over someone who answered a few questions posed by an author who shows me her ignorance of Jesus’ Fatherheart-centered intentions by excluding anyone from a discussion. I can't imagine Him disqualifying someone from participation because she couldn't or didn't have the lesson done. I don't get the impression the disciples spent much time on homework they could have been doing. They simply spent time being with Him.

Shouldn't the bottom line of ANY Bible study be to delve more deeply into His heart? The author defies the very title of her book with this exclusive suggestion. Help me--I need compassion.

How sad are we, Your Church, when we care more about our rules than about what truly pleases You… Lord, help us.

The B-Man

It's hard to believe this tiny dreamboat has become such a central thought, focus, and heartthrob not just to the two of us, but to the whole Mulligan clan. He is the first grandson, great-grandson, nephew, and great-nephew on our side of the family, so he is the premiere cuddle/fun/interest factor to all of us.

For Kev and me, we no longer go to Rymy's house. We go to Bridger's house. When they're going to come up for a visit, the Bridgers are coming. He is only nine months old and can't even walk or talk yet, but already he has changed our world and our words!

His bents are already prophesied, at least in my mind, based on those of his parents and the things we have discerned thus far. He will have a quick wit, a penchant for the arts and the finer classes of food and material goods, own a gift for sizing people up (he is a natural observer), and ultimately and most importantly, he will love Jesus. May he excel at that far beyond all that we could ask or imagine.

My Kevin has always treated me with greater respect and consideration than anyone else. He declared that to be a goal before we got married. He said people do the opposite all the time, and not only do they have it backwards, but it's something he simply wants to do. And he does it like a boss. Well, that said, this little guy has a huge chunk o'land like that in this guy's heart. He will drive across town (no small feat), use up one of his extremely valuable days off, and magically turn into a little boy himself just to spend time with this incredibly wonderful baby boy. And I sure don't mind that I always get to come too!

Lord, You have blessed us with three, then five, fabulously fine children. Now You have gifted us with entry into the grandparents club. At each stage of life You gift us with new and wondrous experiences, all of them infused with the fragrance of Your unique brand of fun, love, marvel, creativity, imagination, and sparkle. This is a really, REALLY great kingdom, and we are loving every single minute of it. Bring it on, Lord, and keep showing us greater and deeper ways that You love!

Forgiveness

This knocks it out of the park.

Bumper Sticker

Occasionally, bumper sticker philosophy makes its way into my thoughts. I thought of a line while I was on a little hike today to spread old squash and croutons for the deer and turkeys:  “Jesus had a job.”

There was no welfare system in His day. The Old Testament made provision for grown children to take care of their parents and for the community to care for widows and orphans. That doesn't happen so much anymore, at least not in our country where nuclear families and individualism are the pride and the norm.

I don't wax political here. It was just a thought...

Superfluous Debris

The poor oceans… They are so full of planes, rockets, bombs, missiles, alien spacecrafts, and otherwise exploding or extraneous debris, plunged into her for decades in order to save mankind. Well, at least since the dawn of movies and television. Like sunken ships weren't enough to clutter her sea bottoms.

I’ve also never understood how, in any movie, someone could justify the believability of annihilating millions of dollars worth of property and possibly—or probably—killing scores of people in an attempt to secure or face one bad guy. In “Man of Steel”, Superman races 100 mph with Zod in tow, and when he finally comes to a stop, he yells, “You think… you can threaten… my mother?!!” In his path are pillars he tore through, stores left in smithereens, cars exploding in freak gasoline fires, and although they don’t show broken or dead bodies, somebody got hurt, people.  All so he could scream at the alien antagonist.

Well, his name is Superman, not Perfectman. I guess.

A Civil Offense

Okay, this one's gonna be short 'n sweet. Both my parents owned handicap placards, even though only my mom used hers.

I love that handicapped parking is provided for people who need it. However, SO many drivers park as if their handicap is something other than or in addition to a physical one... Would they not get docked if they were taking a driver's exam?!  If someone was having a baby or bleeding out, and this was an emergency room, no problem!  I can't think of a single excuse for lazy, sloppy, or this kind of otherwise haphazard parking at grocery stores, vitamin shops, hardware stores, Papa Murphy's, or the library.

I could have taken a whole lot more pictures, but a dozen is quite enough to prove my point. It is an offense to common sense for this privilege to be taken advantage of in such a cavalier manner.  Come ON...

Jesus in Disguise

God loved His way around the world and across time,
enjoying shared secrets, simple disguises, and latent surprises.
He is finishing His work in us, through us, as us.

Speaking in Chinese.

Paying in lira.

Running in moccasins.

Swimming in the Amazon.

Eating plantains.

Forgiving trespassers.

Calming.

Dissolving stereotypes.

Healing.

Befriending the smelly.

Telling a joke.

Solving an equation.

Grinding maize.

Making sandwiches.

Riding a donkey.

Laughing.

Collecting seeds.

Touching a shoulder.

Fixing cars.

Catching planes.

Learning to cook.

Changing a tire.

Savoring creation.

Brushing hair. 

Baking bread.

Writing an essay.

Paying taxes.

Crying.

Ladling soup.

Planting rice.

Performing surgery.

Driving a cab.

Providing for a debt.

Believing.

Reminding.

Staying.

Enjoying just being...

"He completes Me."

"She completes Me."

We are complete in Jesus, and as His Holy Spirit headquarters Himself in us, we go out to be about the Father's business, wherever we are, whoever we are. We go and do and say and be as His Spirit leads, and we are Jesus with all kinds of different skin on in this world.  Jesus is present to someone as a 55 year-old half-Asian woman.  A thirteen year-old Kenyan brother.  A Korean businessman in New York.  A Hewa mother in Papua, New Guinea.  Jesus is all over the place!

Sometimes my own world feels pretty small, but as a thread in His design, it is the absolute right world. Every act and word done in and by Him will remain and have some measure of eternal notice and significance.

The Normal Extraordinary

I turned down the handle on the hydrant, satisfied enough with the water level for now.

The soft click made me know it was shut off all the way.

I walked partway to the house on grass. What do you call the sound my footfalls make?

Partway on gravel. It was kind of a muffled crunch. Like trying to eat potato chips in the library.

I looked to the last orange cotton ball cloud in the western sky and smiled at the Artist.

I tugged off one glove and stuffed it into my pocket.

I fed the cats, emptying what was left in the five-gallon bucket.

I fed Guido and made a mental note to put dog food on my grocery list.

I turned off the garage light and stepped into the wash room.

I firmly pulled the door shut behind me and peeled off my jacket.

I hung it on the nail that was like all the other nails all down the row, each hidden by a coat.

I laid Guido’s dinner bowl on the towel that covers his part-time bed.

I took in the quiet. Not even the furnace was on.

I was alone.

I was not alone.

All these things are so extremely banal.

They are each extraordinary when examining one single element at a time.

They are my normal vanilla day.

They are five hundred gifts that bundle to make a Present.

Everyday is like a birthday.

Or a rebirthday.

The Period.

There was a memorial service on Saturday, the leading up to which took over the life of a dear friend for a week. It was for her father-in-law, an enigma of a man and one who remains two-dimensional to me for all his unfamiliarity. I'll call him Jack.

His body was completely saturated with MRSA, a recurring condition for him, and finally, obese and fatally ill, he apparently died of heart failure. I was told that his wife is now experiencing what appears to be a celebration as she finds herself free of him and her years-long obligation to caregiving and to all his health issues. I'm left to wonder about his personality. No one wanted his ashes, not his wife or one of his three children. Brother, sister, cousin, friend...? My friend's husband eventually had to pick them up at the insistence of the providing facility. Their eventual resting place is as yet undecided.

A life lived on this earth is one sentence long. I imagine some kind of punctuation at the end of that sentence. Most of us get a period, others an exclamation point. The unborn may get parentheses. Some whose influence affects history for eons may have an ellipsis. I’m not sure what kind of life would end with a question mark, and certainly no one's ends with a comma.

For Jack though, I reckon the punctuation to be an image and a sound. It is the picture of a sad, frowny emoji. Granted, the only commentary I’ve ever received on his life was one-sided from my friend. It was never with bitterness or anger, just a straightforward account of some past occurrence. I cannot recall even one positive statement about him though in the almost-20 years I have known her.

Jack and his wife were part of a church that was constructing its building at one point. Because of his love of food, he ensured it would contain a large kitchen by financing that particular portion of production and furnishing. That's something. I would venture that most of us haven't done that.

I've never heard my friend's husband talk about his relationship with his parents. The few times the subject of them came up, it was a simple declaration of facts, eg., that they were moving to Arizona or moving back here or wanted someone's address. I never got the sense in any way that they were warm-fuzzy relations. In fact, it was exactly the opposite. I was always left with a kind of vacant feeling against the backdrop of the pleasant relationship I enjoyed with my own parents. Like opening a box you think contains a donut, only to see there's nothing in it but the filmy paper used to fish one out of the bakery case. A dab of frosting on it and the after-aroma of a donut, but that's all.

A life focused on self, resulting in the disdain and thorough disregard from those in his life who most woulda coulda shoulda loved and honored him…? If sadness is a sound, then I hear utter silence, the opposite of love being apathy. The absence of laughter at the retelling of favorite stories, quotable lines, the best holidays, fatherly moments, sentimental recollections. No nods of agreement at sharing the list of values, traits, and encounters that mark a man’s character. No missing his countenance or the sound of his voice, no wishing for just five more minutes, no savoring of his last words.

There is no grand sustaining of the last note as the credits fade.  No sniffling, smiles, or wet sleeves, no anticipation of the sequel or lingering hope because of the film's essential message. The final, sad comment on Jack's life is a shrug. When the dim lights come back up, the theatre is simply empty. The soundtrack of a life lived here to the exclusion of what God embodies and embraces can only close with a soft click of the power button.

The End

Dark Night of the Soul

The time may come when you must undergo your own dark night of the soul, when you must shadowbox your own demons and pray for the sweet relief of silence. If that time must come—and for all who would know Him for your own selves as He truly is and can manifest Himself in your life in all His fullness, it must come—I pray for you the tsunami of grace and Presence that are His heart gifts to His own floundering, suffering, bleeding lamb-child.

May you feel His tender care over you, the evidence of His fantastic Love overcome you in the darkness and life-save you in the slime pit. May you experience the same fantastic degree of kindness and forgiveness that were my own silken-wrapped presents. And may the full knowledge of your unworthiness cement the fact of your capacity for unspeakable evil apart from His glorious salvation. Then He can take those wretched pieces of you and restructure the foundation of your belief system, so you can truly believe and begin to live the Abundant Life you always knew was possible for others but not for you, as you victoriously limp now as His very own Beloved, the entirely new species He created in His Son, the only One in whom He is well-pleased, and in whom we abide and have our being and so are safe and Home.

This may sound like so much cotton candy, poetic license, and twaddle while you bear the bruises and sores from tethers of your own construction, but do this:  Stay in the battle. Be still and know that He is God. This is so not about you. Jesus is the hero. He is the protagonist, the main character in what you always thought was your story. Marinate in that. Let its truth flow into your deepest, lowest cracks. As it flows, as it pools, its holy acid strips the corrosion of lies and unbelief and replaces them with a coating of His own holy armor, cast and forged for you by His own precious blood, utter holiness, and furious Love.

This dark night will not be for nothing. It will be for your everything-from-now-on. Tozer said, “It is doubtful whether God can bless a man greatly until He has hurt him deeply". Let this painful experience have its way in His faithful, tender, good hands. The most influential people in my life have been those who have encountered suffering as a constant companion, an unwelcome guest in what seemed an otherwise a decent existence. The light shines brightest in the darkness and all that. It's true. I pray you own this for your own self and the exquisite, priceless bounty that will be its legacy to you.

Godspeed, beloved...

This Ministry of Reconciliation

Ours is the ministry of reconciliation (2 Cor. 5:18, a frequent mention in yesterday’s sermon).  It doesn’t seem like the church believes that though. Too many of us are as full of grudges, resentment, and hostility as nonbelievers. There’s something seriously wrong with that. There's a leak in the dam, and it's leaving us lonely and separated, tearing us apart. Church, we're better than this.

We are one Body, but we walk around like islands (some bigger, more deserted, or harder to find than others). We ignore that vital truth of our oneness. What’s wrong with me is what’s wrong with you.  What’s wrong with you is what’s wrong with me—because we are one Body. Christ is the only Head of the only one Body. It is the work of the enemy to make us exclusive from one another. As much as God desires reconciliation and healthy relationship, the enemy desires utter devastation.  "The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly" (John 10:10).  Let that make us hate our defeated foe enough to yank any success from him.

• Don't judge me because my sin is different from yours.
• Our past mistakes are meant to guide us, not define us. 
• How many of you have deeply offended someone? How many of you meant to?
• Don't desire that I grovel. Desire my restoration and healing.
• If you're feeling animosity toward someone, redirect it at God, because He's the one who allowed it to touch your life. Nothing of any eternal good comes from making it a horizontal thing. If you have a beef with anyone, ask Him what He wants to do with it in your life. Make it vertical.  There's the eternal good.
• Deny your "self", that natural man of our flesh. True discipleship requires it. We cannot understand spiritual things apart from our spiritual selves, the self God indwells and communes with.

Acknowledge the log in your own eye before you stone me.  Take up His heart, join hands with me, and dive into the wondrous grace of this ministry of reconciliation that is ours. He gave it to us, and He only gives good and perfect gifts. Embrace it. Own it. Model it. Promote it. Withhold from the enemy yet another victory.

From Corrie ten Boom:

‘You mentioned Ravensbruck in your talk,’ he was saying, ‘I was a guard there.’ No, he did not remember me.

'But since that time,’ he went on, ‘I have become a Christian. I know that God has forgiven me for the cruel things I did there, but I would like to hear it from your lips as well. Fräulein,’ again the hand came out—‘will you forgive me?’

And I stood there—I whose sins had again and again to be forgiven—and could not forgive. Betsie had died in that place—could he erase her slow, terrible death simply for the asking?

It could not have been many seconds that he stood there—hand held out—but to me it seemed hours as I wrestled with the most difficult thing I had ever had to do.

For I had to do it—I knew that. The message that God forgives has a prior condition: that we forgive those who have injured us. ‘If you do not forgive men their trespasses,’ Jesus says, ‘neither will your Father in heaven forgive your trespasses.’

I knew it not only as a commandment of God, but as a daily experience. Since the end of the war I had had a home in Holland for victims of Nazi brutality. Those who were able to forgive their former enemies were able also to return to the outside world and rebuild their lives, no matter what the physical scars. Those who nursed their bitterness remained invalids. It was as simple and as horrible as that.

And still I stood there with the coldness clutching my heart. But forgiveness is not an emotion—I knew that too. Forgiveness is an act of the will, and the will can function regardless of the temperature of the heart. ‘… Help!’ I prayed silently. ‘I can lift my hand. I can do that much. You supply the feeling.’

And so woodenly, mechanically, I thrust my hand into the one stretched out to me. And as I did, an incredible thing took place. The current started in my shoulder, raced down my arm, sprang into our joined hands. And then this healing warmth seemed to flood my whole being, bringing tears to my eyes.

‘I forgive you, brother!’ I cried. ‘With all my heart!’

For a long moment we grasped each other’s hands, the former guard and the former prisoner. I had never known God’s love so intensely, as I did then.

This glorious story of forgiveness and reconciliation from the life of Corrie ten Boom gripped me from the moment I heard it, and I knew I wanted it emblazed in the marble of my character (not saying that's a finished project, mind you).  I have experienced both sides of the miracle of extending a wooden hand and having it become an arm of forgiveness in full and genuine measure. She was an incredible, imperfect human who believed God at His word, and the fragrance of her faith still perfumes this needy world.

100 Things I Learned From My Dad

I don't or can't necessarily DO all these, but they are things I learned from the first greatest man in my life.

1. Work hard.
2. Rest when your knees hurt.
3. Say Thank You.
4. Take care of your family.
5. Love God.
6. Ask for help.
7. Pray.
8. Animals deserve our compassion.
9. Serve your wife.
10. Make gifts for your loved ones with your own hands.
11. Be on time.
12. Say “I love you” often.
13. Pay your bills.
14. Don’t eat too much.
15. Discipline your children.
16. Use the same old, used up line because it makes you laugh.
17. Watch “Mash.”
18. Study the map before you get there.
19. Eat ice cream and cookies.
20. Encourage others to eat ice cream and cookies.
21. Tithe.
22. Respect your elders.
23. Plan for the future, but don’t let it worry you.
24. Help your kids with the daunting task of moving.
25. Listen to one another at the dinner table.
26. Go camping.
27. Go fishing, even if you can’t eat the stuff.
28. Give generously and with no strings.
29. Pepperoni pizza is the best.
30. Watch the news, but don’t believe everything you hear.
31. Make up nicknames for children.
32. Eat the green beans, even if you don’t like them.
33. A lot of pain right now is better than a little pain over a long time.
34. No one is above the law.
35. Don’t be so self-conscious. No one’s thinking about you as much as you are.
36. Buy your wife the car she loves, except if it’s literally a Sherman tank.
37. Drink coffee every morning.
38. Pancakes for dinner is fun.
39. Bacon and eggs every morning for a week is fun too.
40. Mow the lawn.
41. Clear snow from the driveway.
42. Get the mail.
43. Don’t waste unused stamps.
44. Vote.
45. You can’t have too many hammers, magnets, flashlights, or ice cream buckets.
46. See your doctor if your wife insists.
47. Get up early.
48. You only need two sets of sheets.
49. If the soles of your slippers blow out, use duct tape.
50. Make letter openers and marshmallow sticks out of car antennas.
51. Pass out gobs of pens with your name on them.
52. Clean under your nails with a pocket knife.
53. Stay sweet when you’re old.
54. Use super glue as a liquid bandage.
55. Appreciate Christmas carolers.
56. Keep emergency cash in your glove box.
57. Honor this country.
58. Silence can be golden.
59. Actions speak louder than words.
60. Buy your daughter a horse when she cries herself to sleep for want of one.
61. Err on the side of compliance when you’re not sure you’re right.
62. Have picnics with your pardnur and his mom in the back of your pickup at work.
63. Keep several pairs of gloves in at least two places.
64. Get around stupid city laws as often as you can.
65. A toothpick can be used as a tiny shim.
66. Do the upright thing, even if it costs you.
67. Record your children's voices when they're little.
68. Bag balm cures skin cancer.
69. Passing the phone to your wife when your daughter is crying is a good idea.
70. Coffee and root beer are the only liquids you need to drink.
71. When you retire, be prepared to be busier than ever.
72. Stick to your guns, even if he’s wearing a badge.
73. Tell your daughter often how beautiful she is.
74. Brag on your sons in front of them.
75. Have your mother-in-law live with you if that’s what your wife desperately wants.
76. Send your female loved ones home with a freshly cut rose.
77. Press cider with your family.
78. When you make a mistake, don’t make excuses.
79. Send care packages.
80. Laugh at yourself.
81. Know your strengths.
82. Work on  your weaknesses.
83. Cheese is a food group.
84. Fly the American flag.
85. Forgive, and don’t bring it up again.
86. Carry a hanky and an extra one for someone else.
87. Save your coins, then give them away.
88. Manners are about respect.
89. If you make a mess, clean it up.
90. Tend a garden.
91. Send Christmas and birthday cards.
92. Make a list of all the most important phone numbers.
93. Stay up on technology.
94. Keep up the maintenance on your cars.
95. Make your words mean something.
96. Don't go on about yourself.
97. Allow your wife her piles and just keep your own space orderly.
98. Be a good steward.
99. Most things can be fixed before they have to be thrown out, including people.
100. Listen to a good preacher on the radio if you can’t make it to church. 

Some of these are cliches, but cliches stick around because of their truth. Many are specific to him, and the blend of both make this a personal and meaningful tribute to him in my heart and life.

There is only one thing on this list I learned to do because Dad did not, and that's to ask for help. His generation is one of privacy and independence. It was Mom who would call us to explain the problem or project Dad was working on all by himself, which usually ended up taking two or more of us to help him complete. He was always so thankful.

My dad was a good man. I will miss him everyday for the rest of my life. My gratitude for him being my father goes magma deep. I will always treasure that the last conversation I ever had with him was our regular greeting and benediction:

Dad:  I love you much.

Me:  I love you mucher.

Some Stuff I've Learned

My mom passed away in one sudden moment. My dad's passing was a more gradual, lingering journey. It may sound odd, but I have the privilege of having experienced both ways to lose a parent. Fortunately, my dad's lingering was really short compared to some--only a month. Through their deaths, I have experienced a few new things.

1.  There is a beauty in fragility. Pain brought out the sweetest trust in Jesus in my mom. She wrote this on a tablet by her chair, "Please Lord heal me. But if that is not Your will, then please Lord grant me the strength to accept it. Amen." With my dad, not eating caused him to lose a lot of weight. He was never a large man to begin with, and he'd already started to thin way down when he was still at home. His malnourished body and loss of teeth caused his cheeks to shrink. His vulnerability was exactly like that of an infant. Unable to speak or to even make minor body adjustments as he lay there, everything had to be done for him. That helplessness evokes compassion and the desire to comfort--both beautiful Christlike traits.

2.  There is no uniform way to grieve. The news of my mom's condition as my dad informed me by phone landed on numb ears. Even after I hung up and said the words out loud to Kev, I felt nothing. Can tragedy have an anesthetic effect? We all left her room when attendants came to disconnect the respirator. Afterward, I asked Dad if he wanted to keep waiting in that room or go back to Mom's room. I'll never forget the depth of despair on his face when he answered, "It doesn't matter. Nothing does anymore." I walked in and saw her still body and Wayneen's tears. I ran to her side and kept repeating, "My mom! Oh, my mom!" as I ran my hands over her arms and face, tears raining down. We were all crying silently as we left the hospital en masse. Grief would ambush me after that. I never knew when it would overpower me like a flash flood--no warning, no mercy. I still don't know how I completed her obituary or arranged for her memorial service. A picture, a note, a memory, or a fragrance could pull the trigger. It was the hijacking of grief. It was the hammer of loss. It was my way to mourn.

Grief over the loss of my dad came like a tsunami--crushing, devastating, and pounding. My cries were primal, and I was unable to do anything but cling to the kind, comforting soul holding me as I grasped for something solid to land on. My body tensed with the force of a seizure, and all I could do was ride it out and hope for dry ground soon. I spent the month after my dad's death exhausted, nauseous, and asleep. It was the sleep of sorrow. It was the fog of grief. It was how I mourned the last four years of investing in my dad's well-being and living with no regrets. It was my way to grieve.

3.  God's Presence is never nearer to me than when I am helpless. There was never one moment during these two experiences that I did not feel His Presence, save those blinding, deafening minutes I just described. Even then though, I never felt alone. I know I was cocooned by Love, enveloped in Tenderness, and cared for by Mercy, safe in the Rock.

4.  God's timing is flawless. I was able to ride into town with Kev or one of the kids the first week Dad was at Regency. It worked out that well. We had such a mild winter with fog instead of snow, so the roads were always good, not the norm for our January. Friends visited or wrote something encouraging just when I needed it. A song would play on the radio with lyrics written specifically for me. Kev received some really uplifting remarks from students who wanted him to come back. That was a 2-for-1 blessing for us both. Brett and Lydia were living with us at the time of my dad's stroke and decline. They took care of everything and everyone when we couldn't. Lydia had breakfast and dinner for us nearly everyday. They made three offers on three different homes, and they all fell through. That was the limit they set before deciding to rent, but Kev encouraged them to keep looking. As my fog began to lift and I began to feel human again, the fourth house became their new home. Lydia had been praying that I would be functional by the time they left, and indeed I was.

5.  There is a chance to encounter Jesus in every moment. When Dad started going downhill, I asked Him to "please help me eat and drink at this table He set before me, just as He has helped me with every other table in my life. There is food and drink and His heart to take up in this, no matter what my eyes and ears tell me." I saw Him caring for my dad in the hands of the nurses and aides. I heard Him in the warm words people offered. I felt Him in the many reassurances of love from friends and family. I smelled Him in our fresh country air, in the dryer vent with its clean clothes, in the sweetness of the hugs from my friends who all bear His fragrance. I even tasted Him--in the scores of meals Lydia made with such love, the ginger ale from Tina, and the coffees, gifts, treats, and sandwiches from loving souls. I wish I was always aware of encountering Him, but I forget. Thankfully, He never does, and the opportunities are always there.

6.  When people offer their help, they really mean it. We're so used to either going without or cramming it into our schedules, so most of the offers of help go unused. I decided to start saying Yes. The first things I asked for were lip balm and mints. (Thank you, Cheryl!) The second thing I hinted at was another necklace with beads and doodads. (Thank you again, Cheryl!) The next thing was ginger ale. (Thank you for both those times, Tina!) The next thing was offered to me so I didn't have to ask, but I did have to accept, and it was my first Jimmy John's sammie. (Thank you, Betty!) The next thing was also offered--a Ya-Ya visit at Regency complete with British fascinators (although I forgot mine... Thank you, Glenice!). They indeed fascinated wherever they went! Rosie visited my father twice, and both times I missed her. She read to him and left me the sweetest note. I couldn't have asked for a more thoughtful gift. Lydia and Barb both brought me coffee.

These weren't humongous things, but I wanted to start somewhere, and I will treasure every remembrance of them. (What I actually need is help cleaning my house! A month of sleep and five dogs have left it in desperate shape.) We truly do want to help someone going through difficulty, but most of the time we don't know what to do. Experiencing the other side of the fence opened my eyes to the opportunity that asking or saying Yes gives to people. We both win.

I'll learn more stuff as time goes on, but I wanted to list these while they're still fresh on my mind. I'm grateful for the insights and the garden of truth they are in this potential time of drought. How kind He is. Always.

To Strangle

Worry:  Old English wyrgan ‘strangle.’ In Middle English the original sense of the verb gave rise to the meaning ‘seize by the throat and tear,’ later figuratively ‘harass,’ whence ‘cause anxiety to’.

I did something foolish, something I know better than to do. A dear friend unburdened herself and shocked me with a terrible secret. I promised not to tell anyone, not even my Kevin. Instead of leaving it at lifting her up in prayer, however, I slung her on my back and started carrying her around. By the next night, I was a basket case. I couldn't stop crying. I was so bone weary that when I stood to get out of bed, I fell.  I have a bruise the size of a grapefruit on my hip with every color in it. I bruise easily anyway, so this is a doozy.

Kev reminded me of something I learned and practiced years ago--not to take on other people's burdens, no matter how dear they are to me. We were never designed to play God.  Only He can help her.  I can take up up His heart for her and commit to pray, and that's enough.   I did no one any good by worrying myself sick. I didn't make her feel better. I didn't solve her problem. I caused my husband stress. In fact, it ruined our evening and what could have been a really sweet time.

Okay, lesson learned.  Again.  I have an owie now to remind me.  Help it stick.

They're Just Things

We were cleaning out some stuff from my dad's garage the other day when my sister-in-law said, "This is exactly what you don't want to do to your kids."  My dad was the most resourceful person I've ever known, but part of that superpower came from never throwing anything away. Pieces of pipe, drawer handles, string, rug scraps, dowels of every shape and length, buckets, jugs, cartons, plastic edging, eroding lawn chairs, and don't get me started on nails and screws. They're all there in living color. We took three truckloads to the incinerator, but there's still a whole lot more to go. At least we cleared out most of the stuff in the camper over the last few years. At one point, Mom had it filled literally full of blankets, gallon milk jugs, stuffed animals, toys, and coolers. It's only one little corner, but at this point, even small dents count.

There have been fun moments though, like when Alan handed me a wee oil can to go with my rusty tinman.

Finding our baby books was especially sweet, although I've since misplaced them, so I hope to find them a second sweet time. Going through vinyl LP's with Terry was a hoot. Trudy volunteered to go through the pictures and organize them by family. I don't think she expected that we'd keep finding album after album.

The business of disbursing Dad's belongings has gone really well so far. If there's been something both Alan and Kev wanted, Kev always defers to Alan. As far as I know, everyone has gotten whatever was requested and there have been no hurt feelings. The kids haven't asked for much. Ryan wanted a tool, Jylle some kitchenware, and Brett has a brief list. Only two of Alan's girls wanted things, and everyone was in agreement. I know it's not always as great as this, so I am thrilled. Both Brett and Jylle said they were able to have a relationship with my folks like Alan's girls couldn't, and they count that as absolutely priceless. If my kids got nothing, they wouldn't bat an eye. In the end, they're just things.

In processing the loss of my parents, I can rejoice in the fact that nothing went unsaid. Saying "I love you" with hugs and smiles galore happened every time we were together. It was a running joke that we had to start leaving at least 30 minutes before we actually needed to in order to leave on time because of all the last minute gifts and affection. We encountered it every single time. The hospice pastor told us what an extraordinary treasure we have in having heard those three little words from both our mother and father. It can leave such a raw, gaping hole in someone's heart when that was never experienced. A miracle in itself, given that neither of my folks ever heard them from their own parents. It was my dad who taught me to say "I love you." I would say it to my mom, but not to him. I was about nine when he said those words to me one time. He hugged me, and he said, "Now you say it to me." I have no idea what my problem was, but I felt so uncomfortable. He urged me again, so I finally said it. He hugged me again and said, "I love you too." I still remember thinking That wasn't so bad!  Odd child.

We do have a lot of stuff to sort through, but how blessed to know it's the unimportant, tangible stuff. The "things". The gold and precious gems stored up in my heart would make a dragon jealous. They are the legacy my parents left me. Two hearts that were totally for me, who knew in their untaught deeps what the true treasures of life really are. The "realest" things.

Wooden Steps

My dad passed away on February 2. Now I'm an orphan.  No matter how old you are, that's a really weird feeling. I'm simply living one hour at a time, astounded... Like What the heck is this...  Just like my Jesus to be so very present in this though. There are gifts He brings me even as I turn my head aside, trying not to notice, trying to pretend this isn't happening... I can't stop singing about Your love. Your gifts are present, obvious, and extravagant. I just don't want this to be happening.

I was honored and privileged to be there for a neighbor friend last night. We had imposed on her earlier in the day to see their little calves, but she stayed on my heart. Lydia and I baked some scones for her and took them to her. She dissolved and told us about the great sadness she's been going through. My heart broke for her all night long. I can't stop thinking about her. My heart broke with blessing when Kev said this morning, "Let's get her in there! Let's just pay for her PT treatment!"  How profound is MY blessing in this...! How healing and satisfying for me to be able to show love to someone else in need right in the middle of my own! We were made for this. This moment is not about me--it's about Jesus, as is every other moment in all of forever.

I am learning of Heart as I step through this. Sometimes the steps are wooden, but sometimes they're light and free. I strive to see Beauty in all of it.  I know it's there, even in the fog of grief.  My dear, sweet, wise friend Susie told me to keep writing as I process this. There is healing in it for me, I know, even if it's twaddle to some... I beg indulgence as I write my heart and mind without edit.

When I was in college, I found a poem by May Sarton about her father. It touched me even then when my dad was all strength, clear mind, and hard work. I'd forgotten about it until I came across it as I perused my past posts. Except for the parts about him being unhurried, liking donkeys, children, awkward ducks, and then him being undiminished, it's a pretty good call.

Most of the time I'm okay. The times when I curl up and howl are what take so much out of me. But I know it has to be this way. This is the way I process. This is the way I'm made up. Anything less would be suffocating what I'm feeling, and I so don't want to do that. I learned this from my Jewelee when she lost her husband in a tragic accident--I want to do this right the first time because I don't want to go through it again.

I'm having a hard time losing my dad. He was really a wonderful person, even if only a handful of people ever got to experience that. My mom saw it. My brothers and I experienced it. And Jesus knows it. That's all I run with right now.

A Stroke of Bad News

We were out of town for New Year's, visiting Amy's family. I called Dad to wish him a happy new year on the 1st, and he just did not sound right. I called Alan, and he went over there. He found Dad with a skinned, bloodied nose and a bad gash on the inside of his left arm below the elbow. He cleaned him up and had him sit on the edge of the bed to have him change shirts. After he did, he laid back on the bed, exhausted, and said he just had to lie down for a bit.

We were all four there the next day, and Dad sat in his chair and slept the whole time. He opened his eyes and smiled, but said nothing. I'm not sure he ever went to the bathroom. The guys swapped out his recliner for the one my fake grandma gave us that lifts a person get up and out.  Alan took this picture. My dad never goes unshaven. It's not event the terrible scab that gets me about this photo. It's the measure of bewilderment in his eyes. My dad was always quick-witted, clear-headed, and certain, so this physically hurts me.

By late afternoon, we all realized he had to go to the ER. They helped him to Alan's car, and I rode in back to keep an eye on him. I remembered to grab the handicap placard out of Dad's truck first.

Because of the stroke symptoms, he was seen immediately. A CT scan revealed older strokes and some plaquing. He would have to stay the night for observation and more tests. We left about 10:30, and Alan stayed until 11, letting us know the room number before he went home.

The MRI showed evidence of a recent stroke, which made sense of the exhaustion and terribly slurred speech. He was cranky about having to be there and wasn't afraid to let us know.

He ended up at Sacred Heart until today. It was the most heart-wrenching conversation, but after many tears and prayers, Ryan and the PT were able to get Dad to the place where he was compliant. Dad's actually the one who opened the door when he said, "I don't want to burden anyone." They told him it would be a burden on Wayneen and me because we'd have to stay with him 24/7 if he went home. There was a look of resignation on his face when he said to that, "I'll do whatever they say." The PT emphasized that it'd only be for 7-14 days of rehab to get him strong enough to go home and get around safely.

The timing of losing his hearing right at this time is rotten. It makes communicating so much more difficult, and I think it leaves him feeling a greater sense of confusion and helplessness.  When we got to the nursing facility, he was still on the gurney when he looked at me and said, "Sure wish I knew where we are."  That's when I started using the speech to text feature on my smart phone. I held it up so he could read it. I wrote, "This is the rehab place where you'll get stronger so you can go home."  He wanly smiled like "Whatever."

As I said goodbye tonight, I told him I was going home to get some rest and to love on Ladybug. I would be right back in the morning.

Help me, Lord. This is completely new ground for me. I trust You to hold us tenderly and to lead us through this haze. Protect my sweet dad. Comfort him with Your felt presence.