Thursday, April 5, 2012

Saturday, March 17, 2012

be back soon...

Steve has the week off work! Yay! This little blogito is going on breakito!

Friday, March 16, 2012

assurance

{A moss covered plum tree dips blushing blossoms outside our picture window.}


A couple of things have been needling me since I shared the story of my faith in crisis (here). There is, as there always is, a broader scope to the story but things can only be written by bits, as I have time and brain space. Grace transformed me during that time in a way that eludes my attempts to tell. In retrospect, I view the timing of that spiritual free fall as His kindness because it was during a season of safety, when Caleb was still well and before stronger torrents. That slippery mire of despair and doubt His hand rescued me from? Well, it was over. Settled. Not that I wouldn't ,or don't, wrestle with trusting Him but it was as if He reassured my spirit with a rainbow of promise that I would never again be at that place of extreme doubt. No matter how dark the valley, how crippling the hardship, I would not suffer such disbelief. Not because I am faithful, but because He is. And throughout Caleb's great suffering, in my grief, and amidst all other trials, faith remains. God is profoundly good.


In a different post I wrote that He does not give us a stone for bread as we ask of Him. When the answer feels and seems to me very much a stone, I can know there is a more real knowledge that Christ Himself is my bread. He answers with Himself. Poured out, broken, and risen. This is how the gospel goes deeper and deeper into my soul. From impossible stone to living Bread. No pat answer, but a Person. I AM. I don't need to understand, I worship. His beauty, so ravishing, makes even rocks cry out.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

peace

Grandpa was in the Pacific Theater in WWII and received a Silver Star and two Bronze Stars. For twenty five years, he coached varsity basketball at Northern Arizona State University while raising my dad and his sister, Patty. After my grandmother passed away, he met Sonya, his darling wife, at the mailbox (we had fun teasing them about this) and she made his last years sparkle with her delightful humor and warmth.

There was brief recognition as my parents held his hand and sat with him Saturday afternoon. For the last three days and nights, my dad stayed at his side, reading, praying and gently talking of life... In the night, he slipped away...

There is everything and nothing to say. What peace that all things are in God's hands.

Monday, March 12, 2012

meeting Emily...

"Who are all these wonderful people in your life?" inquired a new friend the other day. I had to smile. It's true! The frosting of my life is thick, rich friendship. Like a crown of wild flowers, each one is an interwoven story of grace.

Kindly indulge a little reminiscing story then, as I tell of how I met my friend Emily over fifteen (FIFTEEN!) years ago...

It was a meeting of hearts. My mom still claims the credit, and I won't disagree for, indeed, as mothers always are, she was perfectly right. She met Mark and Emily, this "cute couple" on Sunday morning, after their class had wrapped up and a mingling handful gathered around my parents, the missionaries to Russia now home for their grandson's (Caleb's) precarious birth. They introduced themselves and bantered about missions a bit, about Emily's sister, Michelle, who was then in Nepal, also with TEAM (their mission organization). Mom promptly decided to inquire if they had dinner plans. She's emphatic that her match making decision was, in fact, immediate -- before a word was spoken.

Plopping her purse and then herself on the couch, Mom cheerfully (and cheekily) announced that we would be having dinner guests and I might as well not give her that look because she simply knew we would be fast friends. She had a feeling.

Emily surprised herself by tearing up while helping to set the table. Not because our table was grand but the reverse, in its simplicity. Having married and moved from Colorado six months prior, life in Arizona (well, in Scottsdale, an affluent city where they attended church) so far hadn't remotely resembled the nourishing, "earthy" home culture she'd left behind. A pot of white chili and corn bread centered our old oak table like the yellow of a daisy. Something there, amidst honest food and conversation strummed familiar and lovely tears sprung to her eyes. What I adored (and recognized) was that Emily did not hide them but rather expressed her thought and allowed us to enter her feeling. I loved her instantly from the heart. I glanced at my mom. How do mothers do that? That evening we laughed, passed the honey, shared our sweet baby boy's story, passed the butter, learned about their families and ladled more than bowl and belly to the brim.

Lord God of us



"Were our mouths were filled with a singing like the sea, and our tongues awash with song, as waves-countless, and our lips to lauding, as the skies are wide, and our eyes illumined like the sun and the moon, and our hands spread out like the eagles of heaven, and our feet as fleet as fawns. Still, we would not suffice in thanking you, lord God of us and God of our fathers, in blessing your name for even one of a thousand, thousand, from the thousands of thousands and the ten thousands of ten thousands of times you did good turns for our fathers and for us". (Excerpt from The New American Haggadah)

Haggadah means telling --the story of the Exodus that is read aloud every year at the Passover to commemorate the Israelites delivery from slavery.

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

song in the night...



For 231 days, terrorists held my dad in captivity on the other side of the world. Waiting for news laced hope with dread since news translated to wild demands and threats. The psalmists words nourished us day and night. Waiting on the Lord is difficult work. To be still and know that He is God, rather than wringing our hearts, does not come naturally to me. I'm still amazed, then, how singing in the very face of terror, is a flame that spreads peace and strength. It blazes deep within and without, proclaiming love and truth to my soul while surrounding us with flames that cannot be overcome by arrows of fear and doubt.

"On my bed I remember you; I think of you through the watches of the night,
Because you are my help, I sing in the shadow of your wings.
I stay close to you; your right hand upholds me." Psalm. 63:6-8

Wherever we are today, whether within the surging storm or upon a day of gentle breeze, let us sing in the shadow of His wings... As for me, I want to remember that while the world can understand praise in fair weather, it is confounded by sounds of adoration when all seems lost. May the call ring true and clear...come join the song of sinners and angels...

Praise to our glorious King!

Monday, March 5, 2012

in prayer...

As we spend the next days, awaiting our young friend, Thomas', CT scan on Wednesday and Mark's procedure on Monday, we are intensifying intercessory prayer. Join us? Knowing that God goes before them, that they are His and He is theirs is a deep, abiding comfort. We long to co-labor with them, to shoulder their burden. To labor and pray. (Ora et labora). Oh Lord, have mercy...

My unbelieving grandfather, today is being moved to my aunt's home in Arizona, away from his sweetheart wife, Sonya, so that hospice care may be provided during his last days upon this earth. He is suffering greatly, in body and soul. Please pray, friends.My dad will be flying out to sit with him, to comfort and to tell, again, the beautiful story of grace. So we pray, Lord, have mercy...

While physical distance feels vastly limiting, and despite my weak-willed nature, I turn to a realm more real than eyes can see. In prayer, I want to be found faithful. In this too, Lord have mercy...

I know even as I ask, that He IS full of mercy, He has always been merciful, and that He assuredly will be, so these days I petition His mercy even as I thank Him for it.

He does not give His children a stone for bread...

Saturday, March 3, 2012

Lulu's vocabulary list


The world is her oyster, no doubt. Never short on words, we think Lucia's language spins are very clever (we might be a wee biased) and too funny!

smooshmallows = marshmallows

jumpoline = trampoline

yoyuck = yogurt

hunkacheese = slice of cheese "Mom, I'm hungy, can I have a hunkacheese, pweese?"

snugglufugus = "Mom, will you cuddle me? You can be my snugglufugus!"

Wednesday, February 29, 2012

It is well

It was an Arizona winter in 1997...

Having been invited to sing special music for our church's worship service, I'd asked Emily, my dear friend, to accompany me on the piano. My selection -- It Is Well with My Soul, a moving old hymn written by Horatio Spafford upon learning that his four daughters had tragically perished during a shipwreck. This grieving father had penned the words as he traveled over the darkened waters where their ship had gone down. Knowing the story, I wanted, so wanted, his words of strength and peace in God to be my song.

Our son, Caleb, was about four months old then. Although a delicate three pounds at birth, he'd so far disproved gloomy predictions by becoming a happy, pudgy baby. Content, he nursed well and flirted adorably with his mama. Diagnosed with a devastating and rare genetic illness, our boy already had a shunt placed in his brain the day he was born due to hydrocephalus (fluid on the brain). His arms were missing the radii which caused the ulnas to bow like small half moons. Both hands were missing thumbs but he had eight perfect fingers. We were smitten with our blue eyed baby and thrilled that he had arms at all since several ultrasounds mysteriously indicated he would be born armless. Nevertheless, specialists asserted that despite his apparent health, his bone marrow would, without a doubt, fail him at some point in his early childhood.

I craved information about the new and unwelcome guest of ours, this shadowy figure with a strange name called Fanconi Anemia. But the more I learned, the more furiously black clouds gathered and the outlook went from worse to worse, to worse yet. Caleb would be extremely susceptible to leukemia and other cancers, he would have complex endocrine (growth) problems, viruses that were relatively harmless to most would likely annihilate his immune system. There was no cure. With each cruel wave, the current swept stronger. Why... WHY?! was there not a flicker of hope?

Out of desperation, I called the respected geneticist in New York who had identified a chromosome fragility which lead to Caleb's diagnosis. I must have hoped that since she was on the forefront of FA research, she would have something, anything, helpful to offer. (Unfortunately, I discovered that there is a good reason she, a PhD, does not normally see or interact with FA families.) From her removed, sterile lab, she pulled up my son's file, took inventory of his "anomalies", crudely rattling them off under her breath. But then, before I could catch my own breath, she continued, "Your son won't live much past the age of two by my estimation." Blindly, I managed to thank her, slowly moving my thumb to the OFF button.

Closing Caleb's bedroom door to practice my song, I tried to mean the words I sang. It was no use... on hands and knees, one sob followed another. "It's not well with my soul, Lord. It's not only not well, it's writhing agony. I can't sing this because I'm not sure I can mean it. Oh God, if you are even really there....I want you to know that I'm no Abraham. I cannot offer up my son. In fact, the most shattering truth is, that if I were given a choice between my relationship with you, Father, or my son's life -- I'd choose him. My son."

From the time I was a little girl, I've talked to Him. I had known my dear friend to die as a young teen which was truly life altering, but mostly had not experienced severe, lasting pain in my bright young life. When Steve and I had learned that our baby still developing in utero had not formed normally, I had sensed a warm wave of love from above -- as if we were loved enough to be entrusted with this child. But now, I couldn't hold on to it. The soft rug underfoot had been yanked, pitching me into unknown territory.

Immediately, I sensed the shift. What if God was a figment of my imagination and all this, my life, Caleb's illness, was not a part of some larger purpose or redemptive plan but a random series of circumstances? I confided in Steve and in my parents with how bitterly I wrestled, how my heart stormed. Without a glance of disapproval, they listened. Silently. And they prayed...

I struggled now to direct my prayers to Him. The lights had gone out completely, the night became starless and I threatened to suffocate on gray blankets of despair. There was no comfort in a godless world -- it was a shifting sand, mean, purposeless and vain. Void of eternal hope. Beauty dimmed as my sight wavered. I couldn't take this either, I soon realized. No, this, this place without God was far worse than pure pain or heart-piercing sorrow. This place was a loveless pit not unlike hell. Each twenty four hours the longest descent imaginable. And so I turned back, bowed low and called out.

Oh, how He came. My God heard me... I told Him that I wanted faith but no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't conjure it. He had to be the one to impart this faith-gift to me. Would He? I didn't want one single night more without Him, without the warmth of His face. I couldn't know what cross I'd be called to bear but if He stayed with me, helped me, I wanted Him more than relief. I'd discovered that His love truly was better than life. "I believe, help my unbelief!" was my cry one day. I'm unable to describe the soul crafting that the Potter did within this brittle, cracked vessel, but He set my feet back onto solid ground. He healed my disbelief and covered me with blankets of down, balming my sore soul as a sore throat with honey. I cried good and well. It was well with my soul.

Standing beside the church piano, I'd sung up to the refrain, And Lord haste the day when my faith shall be sight. My voice caught now though, my heart so full that only tears flowed. Emily paused at the piano. Gaze shifting from the rafters to the faces before me, I saw then that everyone, every beautiful saint in that room was on their feet. Weeping with full abandon we sang,

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul!

Sunday, February 26, 2012

Thursday, February 23, 2012

horrors

Last night I started reading Pilgrim's Inn by Elizabeth Goudge, one of my very favorite authors. Why do I smile every time I think about this line,

"And she vastly preferred writing a letter and walking with it to the post to using the telephone and hearing with horrors her voice committing itself to things she would never have dreamed of doing if she'd had the time to think."

The story of my life (well, the last bit anyway). :)

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Amen, Amen

Taken in the Arizona desert, a nondescript shoot until viewed from above,


Just as a father has compassion on his children,
So the LORD has compassion on those who fear Him.
For He Himself knows our frame;
He is mindful that we are but dust."
Ps. 103: 13-14


"And Ezra blessed the LORD, the great God, and all the people answered, “Amen, Amen,” lifting up their hands. And they bowed their heads and worshiped the LORD with their faces to the ground." Nehemiah 8:6

Monday, February 20, 2012

Sunday tea


"Daddy! I have a pic-in-ic all ready for the two of us in my room." And she did -- dainties, doilies and all. A little mouse snuck in for this pic and about expired from the cuteness.