Leaning Hard

Dad scanned Mom's obit on Sunday and made a few copies. I never thought I'd be the one to have to write it. I think I thought that kind of thing "just gets done." Like growing up, my clothes just reappeared all clean and folded in my dresser without me ever having to do anything but wear them. Someone you love leaves this earth, and a little ditty magically appears in the paper. But I got it done with His great grace and very little pain.

I'm experiencing that right now--a total immersion in His felt presence. He's closer than my breath, and He is literally my strength and endurance. I am NOT an organizer. The thought of what has to be accomplished by Saturday is daunting, and I burst into tears when I realized how much needs to be done. He reminded me that 1) I do best with small raised beds, so don't future trip and take in the whole week as one titanic chunk; and 2) I asked Him to do the driving, and He is doing just that. I only start to sink when I take my eyes off Him. I keep asking Okay, what do we do next? This is leaning hard and resting well.

Prayers are going up for us all, and I know that's why we're doing so well. Even Jylle said she's doing better than she thought she would, and that makes her happy. My mom always told her not to cry when she goes, so she's tried really hard to honor that. Doesn't mean she's still not feeling the intensity of her loss, but at a time like this, any little thing that helps is perfectly okay.

Death certificates arrived. The PowerPoint is coming along. The flowers are ordered. Dad's delivering Mom's Bible to Pastor Dale today. The check marks are encouraging. "My God is humongous." Yes, My Mom, He is.

Sprint Week

There's so much to do. I've never planned a memorial service before. I still have to pick out music, select flower arrangements, help with the PowerPoint, meet my dad at the bank to sign financial papers, cancel some credit cards, and notify family friends. I want to balance this responsibility with being here for my own little family.

I know people are praying for us, and that makes me know why we're doing as well as we are. Dad is better today, but he still can't talk to people about her. At least his meltdown yesterday morning was helpful. I knew it would be, and I'm glad he's well enough to be on his own now.

You are providing deep grace for deep need, and we are so very, very thankful. Help me this week, Lord. I need You like crazy. And if You could heal my cell phone, I'd really appreciate it. Give Mom a hug for me, and tell her I'm sorry I couldn't do what she asked about her secret stash. I'm sure she won't mind now. XO

Readings and Ravings

The responsibility for writing and arranging for the obituary for Mom somehow fell to me. I looked at several examples and finally finished it on Saturday. I picked out the picture and cropped it, emailed it, and all that was left was to have the proof okayed for the newspaper, which Alan took care of for me since I was on my way back home.

Dad said he had the closest thing to a meltdown this morning when he opened the paper to find it. He found it, saw her beautiful face, and it was all over. This will be so good for him though. The healing that will come from it will be worth the tsunami. I love this quote from Doe: A crushing hurt comes to our heart and the sympathizing, scarred hand of Christ presses the wound; and just for a moment, the pain seems to intensify... but finally the bleeding stops. ~Beth Moore

My Mom

It's been a week and a day since I lost my precious mama. It all happened so fast... My poor dad...

So much has gone on this past week that I wish I'd have kept some kind of journal so I can remember it all. But like my dear friend reminds me, He will bring to my remembrance at least the important things.

Kev and Alan took this past week off, so I'm extremely grateful for their help and support. Somehow certain tasks get taken on by each of us, and everything important is getting done. Dad wasn't sure he could even make himself take a next breath, so we were glad that was automatic.

I guess I'm kind of in charge of the service. It's set for Saturday, February 5, 1:00 at their church. They're putting together a PowerPoint with the package of pictures I sorted through, both prints and digital. I'm still deciding on songs. "How Great Thou Art" for sure. I still here her walking around the house singing that.

It would be a sin to not mention somewhere here how terribly wonderful their church family has been not only through this, but throughout Mom's whole debilitation. Food, cards, visits, hugs, genuine sentiments. The word "wonderful" is a common adjective they use about Mom. It's endearing. I'm sure it makes my dad feel good. His usual response is, "She was one of a kind."

I ordered the urn yesterday. Dad said "something blue." Neptune has blue ones in stock, but they start at $200, so I looked online. It's weird to know that Costco sells that stuff online, but they didn't have anything that caught my eye, and neither did ten other sites until I found just the blue we were looking for--cobalt. I knew it as soon as I saw it, and so did Dad. Turns out the guy who runs this business is a retired mortician (40 years in the biz) and now runs this from his home. He has just the right touch, plenty nice without being too familiar, and he knows his stuff. It should arrive next week. We take it into Neptune, and they make the transfer there. I can say the words, but it makes my stomach flop.

Those first few days were agony. Seeing Dad just sit there in his chair, eyes open but not seeing anything, hardly able to speak was just agony. All Friday I kept remembering "My God will supply all your needs, my God will supply all your needs," (Phil 4:19).

It was a no-brainer that I'd stay overnight for a few days. When Alan volunteered to stay a couple of nights on Wednesday, I knew Kev and Jylle would be grateful. She keeps smiling and saying, "You're in my house!"

Dad's gotten to the point where he said he doesn't need anyone to stay the night. He even said as we were leaving for Jylle's game that we don't even need to come during the day. I still will for a while though because it makes me feel better to see him and be there while I'm taking care of business. What a swift and powerful answer to prayer though! "My God is humongous!" Mom was always saying that.

I hear her still.


I love you, My Mom. xoxo

Unheld Pain

There is a pain that cannot be contained, cannot be calmed, cannot be comforted. Like a tin roof that will not hold water, it bears down the rain fast and constant, holding none of it, save the few maverick drops at the last that hang uncertainly. This pain rain is a ruthless tyrant, and if not for the grace of my Abba, I would be swept into the gutter with it.

I woodenly do the next thing, unsure of anything. It's like walking through a breathable mud--I cannot see, but I can still function. I have no other help but the One I've asked to drive me through all this. My poor dad can hardly speak. I don't know that Alan knows what to do. No one seems to be in charge of this show, so we find ourselves somehow given the next thing. It is a thoroughly difficult mission, yet not without great, great Grace and Provision.

Thank You, Lord. XO

The Tears I Feel Today

This is a poem from a book called Dragonslayer by Anne McCaffrey. In it, Menolly composes this after her beloved mentor passes away. She is heartbroken and grieving deeply, but there is still much to be done, and the urgent tyrannizes the important.

There is much to be done in these next two weeks, many phone calls, emails, and inquiries. I will schedule a meltdown afterward. For now, the tears can flow at night where I am exhausted, but held and loved.

Song For Petterin

The tears I feel today
I'll wait to shed tomorrow,
Though I'll not sleep this night
Nor find surcease from sorrow.
My eyes must keep their sight;
I dare not be tear-blinded.
I must be free to talk,
Not choked with grief, clear-minded.
My mouth cannot betray
The anguish that I know
Yes, I'll keep my tears till later,
But my grief will never go.

Sunshine

Everything seems so much better when the sun is shining brilliantly, especially in the winter time when most of our days here in the Pacific Northwest are overcast and c-o-l-d. When the sun is full and so very present, every room in my house knows it. Not one goes unaffected by its permeating beams, as every facing wall and window absorb its warmth and radiate it collectively.

My Kevin goes about a little more joyful, Jylle dons those funky-cool yellow shades, the horses gambol in the fields, and there just seems to be a lightness that comes in proportion to the bright. Even when there are ongoing problems that need to be dealt with and worked out, there's a sense of it'll be all right...

As a Christian, I've heard the analogies of "sun" to "Son" and appreciate their truths. In learning what it means to live in the power of His resurrection, I'm experiencing this "Sonshine" in the bitterest of weather--literally and figuratively. In the storms and clouds and hail and ice, there is an imperturbable calm that neither grows nor shrinks. It is steadfast, unshakable, serene. This is the place out from where I want to live His Life. This is the place out from where others will be blessed as His power and living water flow.

Sun or no sun, the indwelling Son is Enough. There is no need that has ever been for which He is not Enough. This truth and the others He is revealing are invigorating, inspiring, and rejuvenating. Even when windows are darkened and wild winds force through cracks, I AM safe, and Enough is more than enough.

"Choose"

"I choose to love You. I will choose to love You."

Ah, Winter...

Snow shmow. It's ice that creates the real drama. At least, on the roads. We have a most dependable 4x4 half-ton truck that may as well be named Hercules. It's been our ace in the hole a hundred times when our other cars have fallen lame against winter's harshest road conditions. When this is what greeted us first thing this morning, it was a no-brainer that Kev would take Hercules to work.

Yeah, it's icy, but we have Chevy Hercules, right?

... right?

I was shocked when Kev called a minute after he left to say that he was stuck in the driveway. He was broadside halfway to the road, just slid right into the snowbank in slow-mo and not a thing he could do about it.

Hauling kitty litter, ammonium sulfate (snow melter), gloves & jacket for Kev, I opted for a shortcut through the field of snow rather than skate my way to him. Good choice. In the meantime, he'd fetched chains from the barn to lay down for traction. Like he always does, morphing into a mighty combo of MacGyver and Jack Bauer, he unstuck the truck and took Jylle to school so she wouldn't have to gauge the roads by her first-ever-winter-driving self.

I snapped a few pictures of the innocent-looking puddles along the way. One would never guess that inches away from the traction of that snow, lays ice that would just as soon smack your grandma than just sit there and look pretty.

Watching the water splash into the melt of the puddles, I was reminded of Rob Bell's book Drops Like Stars. He writes of a four year-old boy who says over and over, "Stars, stars, stars..." as he stares out the window at the rain. His mother explains that he thinks the droplets look like stars in the instant that they explode onto the sidewalk.


Magic in the mundane. A melody in the caterwaul. Victory in the tumult. Peace in the battle. Joy in the tragedy. My God delights in the upside-down, the impossible, the moment alive. Be still and know that I AM GOD. All is well...

The Face of God

For God Who said, Let light shine out of darkness, has shone in our hearts so as to beam forth the Light for the illumination of the knowledge of the majesty and glory of God as it is manifest in the Person and is revealed in the face of Jesus Christ. ~2 Cor. 4:6 (Amp)

I was talking to Ryan, and he shared this verse with me. He just started talking and said he was still processing it even as he spoke. As he went on, a shiver went through me. "When you look into the face of Jesus, you're looking at the face of God." God, in all His Godness, excluding nothing of His nature and essence, put on skin and flesh and walked Earth as a man called Jesus. The face of Jesus owned the glory and majesty of GOD. Within tangible pores, bones, organs--the Eternal, Self-Existent One.

When Moses asks God to show him His glory, God responds by saying He'll cause all His goodness to pass before him. His glory is His goodness. His goodness is His glory. In Jesus is all the glory-goodness of the Father. When I look on His face in worship, I am possessed by His glory-goodness.


Like Ryan, I'm still processing this. I love the immediate impact it had on my spirit. I know that means He's bringing on something. Something of His nature, and I dig that.

I don't know how accurate any of the pictures, paintings, or composite guesses are of Jesus' face. I rather like that we don't know. He becomes to each of us what we most need.

When Brett was two, I asked him if he'd ever seen Jesus. He played with a toy as he answered matter-of-factly, "Yes." Surprised, I asked what He looked like. Still occupied with the toy, he answered, "His hair is black." Even more surprised, I asked if there was anything else. "He not very tall." I asked, "What else?" He turned to me and said, "His skin is like yours." Tears flooded my eyes. Could he have actually seen You...? The only pictures he had of Jesus were in a calendar by Richard Hook, famous for his ruggedly handsome, GQ Jesus sketches. Interrupting my wonder, Brett piped up, "He was Good. And nice." Keeping it together, I asked, "Did you do anything together?" His voice grew a little quieter, "He just hold me and sing to me."

Was he making this up? Only God knows. You can imagine how I pondered this fiercely. Finally I remembered that he'd had chicken pox a couple of months before. It was bad too. Sores covered his little body from head to toe. He cried and cried, I gave him oatmeal baths, sang to him, tried everything to distract and entertain. Bedtime was the worst though. He didn't like to go to bed anyway, and this physical torment only exacerbated that dislike. As I held him and rocked, croaking out lullabies through tears, I begged the Lord to help him. I know it wasn't a fatal condition, but witnessing your child suffering and being helpless to do anything about it is a lonely agony.

Could this have been the result of a young mother's plea? Might His Spirit have held Brett in the night, the Comforter consoling His precious, hurting little one? Did He enjoy holding him like I did, delighting in being his solace? I'll never be sure in this life, but it's certainly in keeping with His nature to manifest compassion and refuge to the weak.

I've only told this story two or three times. It's very special to me, and I hold it dear. To look on the face of Jesus and see the glory-goodness of God... Unless you become like a child...