...not about my comfort...

It is a tired kind of morning.  It will soon be Christmas vacation; the kids feel that at such a time, getting up for school is rather a cruel and unusual punishment.  Hubby and I were busy the last several days, processing deer meat for the freezer.  It was well worth it--we got a lot of meat in the freezer; and we had some help from friends who were dividing the meat with us.  But it was also a lot of work--what a relief when it was done.  So, all that to say that we tired folks all rolled out of our warm cozy beds somewhat begrudgingly.  It was cold and windy out; to stay under the covers and go back to sleep was definitely more inviting.

But life goes on, on cold, windy, tired mornings too.  So we sleepily went about getting ready to face the day.

Sometimes anxiety is so much a part of life that I am hardly aware of it.  It feels normal; although I have been told by professionals, family, and close friends, that this level of it is not normal.  Sometimes it fades into the background for a length of time and I realize, out of the blue one day, that I have had a restful day or week, with little bothersome agitation.  That my brain has been calm for days, and that life is so much more pleasant like this.  But other times, I realize that I am wound very tightly, and have been for so long that I can’t pinpoint when it started.  Lately, I am unable to pinpoint when the long-standing jitters have taken up residence.  But they are there.

My brain has been like a google search engine with a default setting of “frightening scenarios.”  Sometimes, for a while, I will use my brain for something; then the search engine might find “recipe for yummy cake,” or “cleaning the bathroom,” or “what shall we have for supper tonight?”  But once the search of the subject at hand has been done, the search engine defaults back to “frightening scenarios of a myriad of things that could happen (but haven‘t, yet).”  It is not fun; it is pretty wearying to continually haul my brain back out of the terror zone; but at least it is not a deep depression that renders one unable to function.  With the meds and therapy that have become part of life, it is something I can live with.

The other day, while doing that mindless motherly chore of washing dishes, I had a problem on my mind that could be a scary scenario...but isn’t yet.  And may never be.  As I thought and prayed over it, and tried to keep my mind out of that worst-case-scenario pit that it wanted to leap into, a thought came into my mind.

“This is not about your comfort.”

What?  Is that you, God?  Well, since it was just He and I in my kitchen that morning, I guess it had to be Him...

Again...”This is not about your comfort.  It is about My glory.”

I knew this, deep down, but I think I needed to be reminded again.  We were not put here to be comfortable.  We are pilgrims and strangers here on this earth.  Our home is not here, we are “looking for a city built above.”  But how often I forget.

I am of a generation of American kids who were raised with adequate food, clothing and shelter.  Yes, we had our problems, but by and large we were provided for, and raised with the notion that if we were uncomfortable, that something was wrong and needed to be fixed.

But the reality is that, no matter how hard we try, there will be times we will not be comfortable.  We live in a world where there is pain, illness, accident, hardship, and ultimately, death.  Our comfort is, at best, fleeting.  For some reason, God allowed sin, pain, and death to enter our world...and through it His glory will be shown.  In our weakness, his strength is made known.

I looked down at the dish I was washing.  There was some stubborn dirt that I couldn’t wipe off.  I heartily dislike washing dishes, and I was annoyed that this one had the nerve to make my job more difficult.  But...this is not about me being comfortable.  This is about me glorifying God.  I scrubbed at the dish in annoyance, but without really seeing it.  My mind was still on frightening scenarios and possibilities that could come to pass.

“But not this, too, God!”  my mind said of the perplexing problem that was weighing me down.  Didn’t I have enough anxiety in what was my normal state of mind, without adding another problem? 

Again, a thought popping into my mind that seemed not to be my own...  ”This is not about you being comfortable.  This is about My glory.”

So how do I glorify God in this, an annoyingly dirty dish and a bigger perplexing problem?  I am standing in front of a sink of dishes, with hair falling in my eyes and soap on my hands.  Where is the glory in that?

“As unto Christ, not unto men.”

Even the stubborn dirt on the dishes.  Maybe especially the stubborn dirt on the dishes.  A few months ago, He sent me a tiny beautiful flower--extravagant beauty in tiny petals that were only admired and enjoyed by myself, my little boy who brought me the flower, and He who made it.  He sees the smallest things.  Even how clean my dishes are.  I scrubbed the stubborn dirt until the dish was shiny.  Nobody in my house would admire it.  But He who put the tiny details into each flower petal would surely see and know that that dish was clean.  For His glory, even if nobody else notices.

He who made my mind and heart will see and know when I sweep the dirt out of the corners, even if no one else looks.  He will know when I work at memorizing scripture to take my mind off the worst-case-scenarios that will pop up in my head.  No matter what anyone else thinks of my kitchen, He will understand that graph paper taped to my kitchen cupboards with John 14 written on it does not make me a crazy lady, it gives me a useful direction to take my mind when it goes to dark places.  He will know and understand all these things, even if other people do not.  He will glorify Himself in all things, and meet all my needs.  Not always make me comfortable, mind you, but He will meet my needs.
 
When I cannot understand all the circumstances, all the whys...I can still do my very best in the tasks before me.  I can still honor Him in the little things that only He sees.  It is not about my comfort.  But each job He gives me to do, no matter how small or unseen, is for His glory.

...an extravagant beauty...

...a few weeks ago...

The screen door banged open, and little footsteps came thumping in to the kitchen where I was working on supper.  I looked up, and the first thing I saw was a little flower.  It was clutched in a grimy little-boy hand; there was a grin on the little-boy face as this offering was presented to me.  Duly charmed, I thanked him and admired the flower.  It was one of the last blooms of the year, from the hostas that line the edge of the walk.  They are far past their prime (as is much of my garden and flower bed); but this bloom was exquisite.  White flower, the petals shot through with purple down the centers and tipped with darker purple.  Tiny curved stamens with purple ends--so intricate.  All this beauty, extravagant beauty in hidden places.  Why?  I have no idea.  But the reality of God’s extravagant abundance has been a nagging realization in the back of my mind for some weeks now--one of those ideas that didn’t quite lend itself to words until that tiny flower showed up in my son’s grubby little fist.  Why put such extravagant beauty in a tiny flower that would not have been seen or examined if he had  not picked it?  Why pour such beauty into one tiny thing that would be appreciated and enjoyed by only two people--me and my little boy?  Why pour such detail and beauty into all the myriad of flowers, trees, snowflakes, animals, and all the other things that no knowing and appreciative eye may ever see and marvel at?

...today...

The wind is blowing, endlessly, it seems.  It has been so windy, for so many days that I really don’t remember when it started.  It is a brilliant fall day--sun shining on the corn in the field across the road that is waiting for a combine.  My little guy hopes he will be home from school to watch when they take that corn off...he loves combines.  Heaven forbid they chop it for silage--silage choppers are okay; but even the biggest and best silage chopper is not a combine in its bright green John Deere or red International splendor.  Some children get excited about Christmas, or summer vacation...this boy loves harvest time.

The weather has turned cold; there is a bite in the air.  The wind drives the chill through to one’s bones.  The skin on the backs of my hands has started to dry and crack almost overnight--the day the wind started, I think.  The sound of the wind seems to have brought with it a melancholy and weariness of soul.  Winter is coming.  What has happened to the green fragrance of growing things; where have our beautiful days of Indian summer gone?

“...it is autumn and beautiful as everything is it is the beauty of decay--the sorrowful beauty of the end.”        --L. M. Montgomery


Life here at home, with all the beauty of autumn around us, has been full of weariness and a great fear in my heart.  How much of this fear is born of a long-standing anxiety disorder and how much is simply an intuition of something being wrong?  I have been on close terms with both possibilities.  Two years ago, when I sank into a deep depression, I was terrified of so many things.  One fear was a nameless terror for the well-being of my youngest child and my husband.  Not that I was unconcerned for my two other children, but there seemed to be something different about my youngest that I had not yet put my finger on.  About a year later, I began to put the pieces of the puzzle together.  His autism diagnosis explained many of my fears for his safety.  Knowing does not change the facts, but instead of a nameless fear I now have a valid reason for caution and vigilance with him.  His “safety and survival” mechanism seems to be broken.  All six year olds have a tendency to do things that aren’t necessarily safe, but my little guy has a burning need to be on the edges of things, particularly high things such as the tops of bleachers and other places from which he could fall and hurt himself badly.  Anyway, it was a bit of a relief to know I was not being paranoid...well, I was being paranoid, but it felt better to know that i had a good reason to be vigilant.

My nameless fear for my husband was different.  I could not put my finger on it other than that, for years, he has had genetically high cholesterol, asthma, and sleep apnea.  Putting the three of them together is not a healthful combination.  But he takes his meds, uses a breathing machine at night, and on the whole is in pretty decent shape for the shape he is in.  If something seems off, and I ask him about it, he often reassures me (in a rather annoyed tone of voice) that he is fine.  But about two weeks ago, when about a quarter of the vision in his right eye was suddenly gone, something obviously was not fine.  We spent about a week making the rounds of various eye doctors, specialists, and tests, to see why.  And I was more frightened than I had been for two years.  Did not want to eat, did not want to talk, just wanted everything to be okay. 

He had had a stroke in the eye, caused by a bleed.  Nothing definitive showed on the tests to say exactly why it had happened.  No blockages showed up; no major diseases such as lyme’s or multiple sclerosis, which we were told he needed to be checked for as they can sometimes cause such an event.  The final word from the neuro ophthamologist was that he sees this particular scenario in patients with sleep apnea at times--there is an incident where one stops breathing during sleep which causes blood loss to the eye, and what happened to my hubby is not unheard of.  He may or may not get some of the vision back.  It takes a few months for the eye to heal, and till then he will not know.  The other eye was unaffected; which is good.  However, it could happen in the other eye as well, which could leave him with more disabling vision loss.

So we were left with a level of uncertainty.  There is only so much a person can control.  He was sent home with instructions to manage his cholesterol and blood pressure; to be more careful what he ate and to begin a regular exercise program (although he is far from inactive); and to be careful to wear his breathing machine while sleeping.  But beyond that, it is really beyond our control.  I have to be okay with that. 

But oh, that frightening window of time, between the time when we first knew that something was wrong, until we ruled out the most serious possibilities of what could be.  My mind ran in circles that week, wondering if this was the beginning of the end of our life together.  All my faults that have driven him crazy over the years, all the times I had not been the most awesome wife ran through my head.  But I had to pull my racing mind up short...I couldn’t allow it to do that...I would drive myself mad.  I had to think of the good times, for we have had far more good times than bad times.  But that too was heart-breaking when the uncertainty loomed in the back of my mind.  Somehow, over those days, I came to some sort of peace.  By the time we went for the last tests, I was afraid but not terrified.  If something were seriously wrong, if this was truly the beginning of the end, we had a good run.  We had laughed and loved, fought and made up, had three beautiful children in whom we take much pride and delight.  Oh, that everyone should be so blessed. 

I had to let go, had to peel my grasping little fingers off my husband‘s arm.  My greatest fear, of course, was of something life-threatening.  But I also had to let go of my expectation of him being able-bodied--what if he had lost more of his vision, been unable to drive or work?  I have to face the fact that it could happen.  I have to learn to be okay with the possibility.  How often do I hang on too tightly to people or things that I love?  One afternoon as I was fighting to keep my mind from going to dark places, God and I had a serious fight over this...me saying, “please don’t take him away from me;” and God saying, “Do you love Me more?  Enough to give him to Me?” 

None of us knows how much time we have, or what a day will bring forth.  The thought of giving up those I love still breaks my heart if i think about it...so I often don’t, unless the possibility stares me in the face.  But I know that, as much as I love each of them, He loves them more.  He clothes the lilies of the field and the hostas in my flower bed with such beauty.  Not a sparrow falls to the ground that He does not see.  I can trust Him, my God Who puts exquisite beauty in hidden places.  How much more will He make our lives, our pain and heartache, and the hidden sacrifices that only He sees, beautiful in His time?

...brighten the corner...

It is just a little thing--a white sugar bowl with little red flowers and gilt edging.  It is amazing how such a little thing can be so cheerful.  When I come downstairs at O-dark-thirty to start putting breakfast bowls on the table and packing lunches, the lamplight gleams off the gilt.  The flowers nearly jump out of their pattern onto the table, and some mornings that little sugar bowl makes me so happy it isn’t right. 

I love the color red.  It is so cheerful.  Even a tiny bit of it brightens up a whole outfit, or a whole room.  My little sugar bowl sat with its matching creamer on a very slightly chipped matching meat platter on a metal shelving unit at a flea market housed in the old shirt factory building here in town.  It was only $4, the whole set of them--and I didn’t need a sugar bowl.  Or a creamer.  Or a slightly chipped matching meat platter.  But as I was walking by, minding my own business, on my way to pick up some forgotten necessity from the grocery section, it fairly jumped out at me--tiny red flowers and slightly rubbed gilt edges gleaming cheerfully in the florescent lighting, little red flower fairies (nearly jumping off the china) crying in their little voices (sort of like the dolls in the children‘s story of the Little Engine that Could), “Please, please, little mama, take us home with you!  We will be worth every penny of that $4; we will make your table so bright!”

How could I resist?  So I have a sugar bowl, creamer, and slightly chipped meat platter that I do not, strictly speaking, need.  But how much brighter my table is--and my heart, too, come to think of it--because of those happy little red flowers and gilt edging.  It doesn’t matter to them whether the lighting is harsh florescence or soft lamplight.  It doesn’t matter to them that the sugar is a little damp and sticky from children helping themselves to it, or if the table is a bit sticky because we forgot to wipe it.  They will gleam in the light and hold the sticky sugar until the china breaks.

And our little corner is brighter for them...

The song "Brighten the Corner (Where You Are)" has brightened many of my dark days...I find that sometimes even when I am low I can still brighten the corner of the world where He has placed me, right now.  Below are links to two youtube videos taken from old 45 recordings of this song.


The Browns--"Brighten the Corner Where you Are"

The Statesmen--"Brighten the Corner"

...a constant change...

My words are back; I can write again.  The washer is running, the last of the coffee in the bottom of my cup is cooling rapidly.  My house is so quiet.  The most constant thing in the world seems to be change.

I did not think I would be sad to send them all to school.  And I can see it is a good thing.  A few bumps in the road, especially for my baby who is struggling with some issues common to autistic kiddos.  But nothing out of the ordinary or that i did not expect.  Now I am left with quiet days.

I have found plenty to do.  In fact, I am probably just as busy as I was while I had them here at home--or even more so.  I still feel like I am being lazy if I am not working at something nearly all the time.  I know that is not the case--I get up an hour before the rest of them to get lunches packed, breakfast on the table, and to get everybody organized so that they can all get out the door in time.  My house is cleaner than it has been in a long time--maybe cleaner than it’s ever been for weeks at a time.  Because I am the one at home, if there are errands to be run, it mostly falls on me to do them.  This thing of being a stay-at-home mother with all my children in school has not, so far, turned out to be one long vacation.  But in spite of the fact that I have had no trouble staying busy, I hear the quietness echoing in my ears. 

“Well, Lord, I guess it’s just You and me now.“  It was the first day that I had sent everyone off to school and work, and I was on the road driving on one of the numerous errands that had to be done that day.  It was quiet, and He and I had a lot of catching up to do.  I realized how much noise had been around me daily, and how my conversations with Him were usually pretty brief and to the point.  That was how it had to be at that stage of life...but now a new stage is here, whether I am ready for it or not.

And I am left alone with my thoughts.  And prayers.  I am not lonely...but here we are with quietness. 

    “...and lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.”  Matthew 28:20  


I know He will not leave me.  Sometimes I wonder if all moms feel this way...such mixed emotions.  There is this sense of accomplishment for having raised my children thus far--I am proud of the good reports that I get from school, and proud of my children for making right decisions and also just for being their sweet delightful selves.  They are a blessing.  But I also miss them quite a bit.  I am enjoying having my hubby to myself on the days when he has off work during the week when the kids are in school.  He said to me once that, while he loves his children, he misses his wife.  Maybe after a while, the newness of days together with kids in school will wear off.  But for now, we are enjoying our times together.  Nothing earth-shattering--mostly just working at things around home that need done.  Part of me feels like I barely know him anymore...but maybe it is more that i hardly know me anymore.  I am sure I will find me, somewhere...I feel sort of adrift, although I often seem to come to rest on the laundry, gardening, cleaning, and similar chores no matter how much I want to drift away from them.

And I am enjoying the quietness although it echoes.  I feel a bit like a clock that has been wound too tightly for too long--it seems to be taking a while for my springs to reset themselves.  I know this, too, is a good stage of life.  Or will be, once I adjust.  I am grieving a bit for the babies that are forever grown out of their sweet baby stages...but how I love these children that my babies have grown into. 

As with every other part of life, I am glad I am not walking this alone.  He is here; He is faithful.  Some days I find myself in dark places in spite of the bright fall sunshine--changes, no matter how good they are in the long run, have a way of putting me in darkness for a time.  Nothing that I would not expect, given the ups and downs of the past few years.  And He leads me through this too. 

...if i could turn back the clock...

It was like any other night here at our house when I opened the computer and pulled up the news headlines.  But it was not an ordinary news night...Robin Williams’ face was the top story, dead at age 63 of an apparent suicide.  I was so sad--i loved his work.  He was an awesome actor and wonderful comic.  He had such a presence, such a gift.  But under his gift of laughter was also a well of sadness that had been his undoing. 

Over the next few days, I read a lot of articles about Robin Williams, about depression, about suicide.  I learned a little bit about a lot of things, but maybe I learned the most about myself.  After having experienced depression episodically throughout my adult life, sometimes debilitating in its severity, I no longer see life, or the people in it, in the same way.  Some of the opinions that were expressed about Mr. Williams were kind; others were not.  Some were well-meaning but unhelpful.  I read and re-read, mulling things over.  Some of the things I read were helpful; some were hurtful.  Some brought back memories I would rather forget. 

When I had finished all the information and opinions that my brain could hold, I began to write something that I wish someone could have said to him.  Of course, it cannot bring him back.  Maybe my motive was selfish; I found, as I wrote, that it was healing for me to write this stuff out.  Maybe it won’t really help anyone who is in the same dark place either.  But if it will help someone understand how the dark places look, from someone who has been there, then I am glad I shared it.


Dear Mr. Williams,

If i could turn back the clock, turn it back to a few minutes before you did that fateful and fatal deed from which there is no coming back...if i could talk to you...

I know that if you are bent on destroying yourself, nothing I could say or do can stop you.  If I took one method from you, you would find another.  It is your decision, your choice.  But may I sit with you, for a while, before you make your decision?  I’m sorry the details of this whole sorry affair are so public...I feel like i am trespassing on private territory which should be personal.  But would you hand me the rope?  I know, it is yours...I am not stealing it.  I will just hold it for now.

I am so, so very sorry for your pain.  Probably, nothing I can say or do can stop the pain you face, or break through the shame and feelings of utter worthlessness.  I wish I could say something magically encouraging that would lift you out of this pit.  But it doesn’t work like that.  I would tell you that you are loved, by your family, your friends, your fans.  I would tell you how much joy you brought to my home and my family with your delightful movie performances, how one of your stand-up comedy performances made me laugh so hard I could not breathe. 

I wish that telling you how we have loved and admired you, both as a person and through your wonderful art--contradictory though it sounds to say “we love you for who you are  because of your acting ability,” I believe it is true because you gave us such a glimpse of the real man inside, through your acting--I wish telling you that you are loved and appreciated would chase the demons far away and bring you some feeling of self-worth again. 

But I know it can’t.  I have been there--not exactly where you are, as you sit here on such friendly terms with this rope, but I have known depths of pain.  i have known the feeling of being trapped by love, torn between the knowledge that the world would be better without me in it, but knowing that I could not leave it willingly because of those who were still in it.  i have known sadly, terribly, desperately that my family loves me.  I have known that my friends loved me (at least, the ones i had not pushed away as I sank lower and lower).  I have known that there was still something left in me that could not leave them, known how it would devastate them if i did...but it still did not change this feeling of worthlessness and utter self-loathing.  I would try to put on the best face I could, but then hide when I could no longer hold it together. 

I know what it is to feel, as Abraham Lincoln said, that one must die, or be better.  The feeling that there is no going on like this.  But deep down, I did not truly want to die yet.  I have been in the depths, but could not quite get on friendly terms with the rope or any other instrument of death.  The pain was terrifyingly strong; but for me, survival was still stronger. 

It made me angry, that, when I finally asked for help, the doctor treated me as if I were playing a mind game.  As if I were a risk to myself.  If I wanted to die, I would not have asked for help.  I wanted to live.  I wanted to find out how to get better, not to be treated with distrust and warned to rid my home of anything potentially lethal.  If I had wanted to destroy myself, I would have done it.  If one method had been taken from me, I would have found another.  But I was not playing a game, and it was a slap in the face to have every word that I spoke carefully weighed, distrust thinly veiled.  How I hated the shame and humiliation of that distrust.

I still wanted to fight, still wanted to live.  I felt like the world would be a better place without me in it, but I could not handle the thought of what devastation my children would endure.  I knew that my husband would be crushed if I were gone.  I could not bear the thought of willfully leaving him to face life alone.  We have been a team for so long.  So, I still kept my will to fight, for their sakes if not my own.   

My close friend endures terrible physical pain from a genetic illness; pain for which there is often little relief.  We have an understanding for each other, not because our pain is the same, but because we both know pain and live with it on intimate terms.  But one dark day, the deep pain in her body getting the best of her, she also had a taste of the pit of depression and the terror that lies therein.  She does not usually cry, but she was almost in tears when she said, “I can’t imagine how it feels to face this over and over again, Rose.”

I know how bad her physical pain can be, how much metal she has in her body from her bones being put back into place and supported with pins, rods, screws.  I can’t imagine facing her pain over and over...for her to say that mine is worse than she had imagined blew me away.  It was not a question of either of us trying to one-up the other--it was just her honest take on it having experienced both sides of it.   I had listened to the common jokes about mental illness and the derision that is sometimes carelessly thrown about by those who do not know whereof they speak.  It fed my own self-loathing and added to my conviction that I was worth less than nothing.  I had always felt weak, for battling these demons.  I had never before been the recipient of admiration for being strong enough to live with them. 

Oh, how I wish i could tell you that there is still beauty in life.  I wish you could believe it.  One of the most painful parts of depression is the total inability to see with any clarity, how things will ever be better.  They do get better.  I think that somewhere, deep down, you may know that, having experienced it before.  But when you are deep in the abyss, you can’t see it.  There are still clear, cool summer mornings, fresh and laden with dew; there are still hugs from children, and love from and for and with spouses.  There is still the haunting beauty, that, something, somewhere, is greater, bigger, and grander than us; and that we have a tiny part of it in our lives, our loves, our laughter, and our tears.

I wish I could tell you this.  I wish I could make you believe me.  But I can’t.  Ultimately, it is your choice, your decision.

It is so hard to keep fighting.  It is a painful, uphill battle.  It is frightening to live with the knowledge that, even after you have climbed out of the abyss, it is still an open pit, waiting around some corner that you have not yet turned...sometimes that knowledge is almost as frightening as the pit itself.

Anyone who looks down on you for fighting the battle, who looks down on you for sitting here on friendly terms with this rope, has never fought the battle themselves.  Does not understand, even if they think they do.  If they understood, they would not blame you or shame you.  They would sit with you and tell you how sorry they are for your pain--desperately wishing to make it better, but knowing that they cannot. 

Well, I can’t hold your rope anymore.  It is not mine.  But please, please don’t use it for that purpose you are thinking of.  Please stay with us.  We love you and will miss you so, when you go.  It is appointed to all men to die, but please don’t do it by your own hand.  There will never be another you.  Whether you are a great actor, a comic genius, or simply a man who lives a quiet life among family and friends who love him dearly and would miss him sadly. 

If you are bent on doing it, I can’t stop you.  I know that to live with this is a long, hard, painful fight.  One that you have fought for many years, so bravely.  I don’t blame you for being tired, aching, and battle-weary.  I want you to stay, but no matter how you decide, I understand.  I understand, but still...please stay.  Please stay.  This pain, too, shall pass away; and the world is still beautiful. 

...pure love...

It was one of those sweet, fresh late summer mornings.  Fragrant with mowed hay fields and dew.  Sunshine and cows across the road in the meadow.  I sat on the bench on the porch and listened to the rumble of hubby’s motorcycle from the shed as he got ready to leave for work.  Rested my chin on my knees and wrapped my arms around my legs against the morning chill.

It was a good morning...with a good night of sleep behind me and a minimum of wake-up jitters.  Kids were still in bed finishing up their good night of sleep--hopefully for a little while yet, anyway.  Coffee was waiting and I had fallen prey to a fit of domesticity and baked a blueberry coffeecake the night before in preparation for breakfast this morning. 

Love welled up in my heart, for my hubby, my kids, and this beautiful day.  Nothing out of the ordinary--except the blueberry coffeecake--but such a sweetness to life this morning.  Hubby and I laughing at our own jokes...only funny to us, but sweet and familiar...as he got ready for work.  Tiptoeing around the boys’ beds so as not to disturb the sleeping lumps under the covers as I turned off the fan in their window which was making the room downright cold.  In the next room, my little girl was another sleeping lump under the covers; finally home from camp and enjoying a good night of sleep in her own bed.

Sometimes, there are moments when life seems to be just pure love.  Maybe mingled with a bit of blissful contentment. 

One last check to be sure he had everything; one more hug and goodbye kiss. 

I hugged my knees and watched hubby pull to the end of the driveway.  I put my hand up in a little wave and he tapped the horn as he pulled out onto the road.  I sat on the porch and listened to the rumble of the motorcycle until it faded into the distance.

...sheltered...

“I feel the touch of Hands so kind and tender,
They’re leading me in paths that I must trod;
I have no fear when Jesus walks beside me,
For I’m sheltered in the arms of God.”

-Dottie Rambo

It was after midnight.  I could not sleep.  It had been a hectic week and a half--the oldest started off the activity with an allergic reaction that resulted in an ambulance ride (fortunately, his medication worked and all was well in the end, though his mother was a bit rattled till it was all said and done); the rest of us were passing illness through the house--one of the more frightening episodes being a bout of croup for the youngest that resulted in another emergency room visit; we had a lovely family reunion with my hubby’s family (blessedly unmarked by any hospital visits, although the kids and I were still tired and sick from the summer asthma/colds/croup that lingered), we had a nice visit with some out-of-state cousins we had not seen for several years; the usual summer work in the garden needed to be done; and we also began fall sports activities for the year...it was a week of ups and downs and little sleep.  This was the first night that I looked forward to an uninterrupted night of sleep since the craziness began...but it was not to be. 

The other half of my brain was awake too.  Unbeknownst to me, she was fighting her own battles in the bleak darkness of that night.  I dialed the phone, hoping i wasn’t going to wake her (due to the time difference, I wasn‘t sure if she would be asleep yet); but this night was dark and full of terrors; and, like Harold with his purple crayon, I suddenly felt a Great Need for Company.  I didn’t want to be a nuisance, but this night I was willing to take the chance.

“Rose, are you all right?  How did you know that I needed to talk to you?  But you first...what is going on?”

In the bleak blackness of that night, we walked beside each other--with thousands of miles between, but each with an arm under the other’s burden.  And somehow, our own burdens seemed to lift a bit as we shouldered each other’s.  Somehow from the darkness came the thought that “all may not be lost yet.” 

The circumstances that weighed on us and chased sleep far from us that night did not change.  The battles yet to be fought are many.  The weariness of another sleepless night was still there.  But in this “one-anothering” (to use a phrase coined by Mennonite author Simon Schrock) there was new strength to bear up under the burden.  Because we are not alone. 

Thank God, we have a Savior--a Savior who tells us, “Take My yoke upon you, and learn of Me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.  For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”  Matthew 11:29-30.

“So let the storms rage high
The dark clouds rise,
They won’t worry me,
For I’m sheltered safely in the arms of God;
He walks with me, and naught of earth shall harm me,
For I’m sheltered in the arms of God.”
 
-D. Rambo

Each time I talk to Anne, I am reminded anew of her frailty.  Her wheelchair and cane are now an accepted part of life.  She has acknowledged a bit ruefully that her spirit chafes a bit at this blow to her pride; but she speaks of it with grace and acceptance and a complete lack of self-pity.  It is simply what must be.  As I did a few years ago, again I find myself wondering how much time we have left...but it is okay.  That is in the hands of God too.  When it is our time to leave this earth...well, none of us knows just when that will be.  He will care for us then, and those around us as well.  We do not need to be afraid. 

Someday we will hear that call...and even then, we will still be sheltered in the arms of God...

“Soon I shall hear the call from Heaven’s portals
‘Come home my child, it’s the last mile you must trod,’
I’ll fall asleep, and wake in God’s new heaven
Sheltered safe within the arms of God.

So let the storms rage high
The dark clouds rise,
They won’t worry me,
For I’m sheltered safely in the arms of God;
He walks with me, and naught of earth shall harm me,
For I’m sheltered in the arms of God.”
 
-D. Rambo

 (“Sheltered in the Arms of God,” written and recorded by Dottie Rambo)

The clouds are still hanging darkly above us...but we are sheltered safely in the arms of God.  I climbed back into bed and held my hubby’s hand in the darkness.  His fingers curled around mine and i finally fell asleep.

...a little princess...

She is just the best little girl ever.  She was a very fussy baby, with a cry loud enough to wake the dead (one of her grandmas referred to it as her “foghorn”); shy and all but glued to my side for the first two and a half years of life (I always said I was never worried about anybody taking her--no one would keep her long once she unleashed her trademark howling, which she almost always did when someone suggested that she be sociable and hang out with someone other than mom); but for all her fussiness at the beginning of life, she has certainly made up for it since.

My little girl is 10 years old now, and though she bears a striking resemblance to pictures of my mother-in-law at the same age; in personality she is almost as much my mini-me as if someone had found the pieces of the mold from 25 years earlier and glued them back together.  Sometimes it is a little scary, but more often it is absolutely delightful.

She loves to draw, write, and sew; and can spread a mess across my house twice as fast as her brothers.  Between the crayons, papers, markers, fabric, thread, and scissors in terrible places, it drives my obsessively organized soul a bit wild.  I do think she veers off from my personality slightly in this--in looking at the toys I saved from my childhood, I can see evidence of a very careful kid who could not bear to have things in disarray.  But I remember a few times during the pre-teen and teen years when my room looked as if a tornado hit it...so maybe she hasn’t veered off my path too drastically.

When she was first born, I thrilled to have her; but I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with a little girl.  I had a three year old son at the time, and I was so used to chasing after a little boy--and I had a distinct aversion to the cotton candy sweetness of Disney princess pink.  Why couldn’t companies that produced kids’ clothes and other items make tasteful girly-looking things, in a variety of colors? 

But every sleepless night and deafening scream has been worth it.  She has grown into a sweet little princess--girly enough to enjoy watching Fiddler on the Roof and Phantom of the Opera with me while we do our nails, but still able to bait her own fishhook (even i don’t do fishhooks) and play baseball with the boys.  Growing up around her daddy and brothers has kept her feet on the ground, but at times this little girl who lives at my house seems to have stepped out of one of George MacDonald’s princess stories--stories of princesses who are not only outwardly beautiful but full of honor and courage as well.

She has been my right hand girl this summer.  With her oldest brother often gone to his summer job working on my cousin’s produce farm, the bulk of helping out at home has fallen on her capable little shoulders.  She has learned to help with peas and beans by the bucketful, without undue complaining.  She has devised delightful games for her little brother; games which, according to his behavioral therapist, have been tremendously helpful for him in learning needed social skills that are more difficult for autistic kids than neurotypical children.  She is only 10, but her price is already “far above rubies.”

She also has a mild form of Tourette Syndrome herself, sometimes fighting upper body twitching and vocal tics that, a few years ago, were so severe that she could not do her schoolwork as she could not keep her head still enough to read her books.  They have improved a lot, but still become bothersome when she is tired or nervous about something.

I have sometimes wondered if my little girl will look back on her childhood with happy memories or a feeling of sadness.  Maybe some of both.  It seems that she has had a bit more than her share of adversity for her young years.  But as I watch her character develop, I am so proud of her.  She has learned not to complain unduly; she has learned to be resourceful and make the best of what she has, when things are not ideal.  She has a wonderful spirit and a sparkle in her eyes.  As she plays with her little brother, and other small children among our friends and family, I can see she is a fun and capable babysitter (as long as there is an adult around as well, of course--she is only 10).  She has produced much lovely art and writing too.  I have many cards, pictures, and letters she has written, that I have kept for her to enjoy sometime when she is older.  She also tries her hand at poetry from time to time, and I especially love one poem that she wrote a year or two ago.

I’m just a little kid,
but God made me, so He did.

When I am all grown
I’ll still be his own.

Thank You for making me,
compared to you I’m like a pea!

God You are strong,
and You have never been wrong.

You also have a lot of power,
or else you wouldn’t know the name of every flower.

Thank you God for being there for me,
even though I’m like a pea.

~K.H.

I wish sometimes, that I could smooth the way for my children.  I watch my oldest son struggle with multiple allergies to common substances that require constant vigilance and an ever-present epi-pen.  I watch my daughter endure uncomfortable jerky upper body movements without complaining, except when her back and neck get sore from the motion and her efforts to keep it under control.  I watch my youngest hide under tables in groups of people and try to soothe himself when the sensory overload of daily life sometimes gets overwhelming.  But I also see their endurance, their spirit, and their perseverance develop in a way that it could not have done without the adversity.  The things that I wish they did not have to deal with, are the very things that are cultivating the good character that I know will serve them well as they grow into adulthood and make their own way in life.

Our Father knows what we need.  And He loves these little people--well, not so little anymore, but to me they will always be my “little people” that I love with all my heart--He loves them more than is humanly possible for me to love.  He knows what will turn my daughter from a little girl into a beautiful, courageous lady; he knows what will turn my sons into men of strength, courage and honor.  I am so proud of my kids and I know I can trust His mercies to give them joy in life even in the adversities they may face.

For today, I wanted to spotlight my little princess.  She is just a pretty awesome kid.  

...love that can be trusted...

At the end of the day, I looked at the clean living room and the folded wash waiting to be put away, and wondered how it had gotten accomplished.  Supper was a simple affair--meatloaf, peas from the garden, baked potatoes (the potatoes are not hubby’s favorite, but food to fill our bellies, and something the kids can be trusted to cook competently).  Sometime around lunch, anxiety had begun to build; and my ability to concentrate or pull thoughts together began to slip away into the wild blue yonder...or somewhere else unreachable.

It got worse throughout the evening.  The kids were up late doing their Fourth of July fireworks with Daddy.  We don’t go all out--just a few for fun, relatively low-powered stuff--but even a few sparklers were enough to send me to a place where I could not talk.  I got a few words out on autopilot, and hoped the rest of my family did not find me a huge damper on their enjoyment of the evening.

Morning dawned, fresh and beautiful and fragrant, with no change in my state of mind.  Only a mountain of peas and green beans to pick.  I am grateful.  Somewhere, I remember that gratitude trumps impatience.  But I don’t think gratitude trumps this feeling.  The panic is still there, though I am grateful for the garden full of good things.  I still have to pick these good things, blanch them, and get them in the freezer.  I will have to do it in tiny increments, such as one pea pod at a time.  And kids, made to do endless boring slave labor, such as pea picking and snapping green beans, will talk endlessly.  How am I going to listen to them today?  I am still in that dark, silent place, where I cannot talk. 

I often have pushed away the question of “why?”  Why must this be?  Why does God allow pain and suffering, mine or other people’s?  I have told myself, deep down, that my pain is so much less than some others’ pain.  That i don’t need to ask why.  It would open up a whole new world of pain.  Besides, the “why” doesn’t matter, does it?  I should be more concerned with how I should live with this, how to play the hand that has been dealt me.  “Why” doesn’t change anything.

But this morning He pointed me to a chapter from Amy Carmichael’s Rose from Brier, called “Thy Calvary stills all our questions.”  And here, Miss Carmichael had penned her own struggle with this “why” that I refused to even think.  I still do not have any answers to the “why,” or even to the question of how I am going to get through today, but there was comfort in the words. 

He who died for me will also make me able to live for Him, even if I have to get through the day one moment at a time.  That is all we are given anyway, one moment at a time.

“But, though, indeed, we know that pain nobly borne strengthens the soul, knits hearts together, leads to unselfish sacrifice (and we could not spare from our lives the Christ on the Cross), yet when the raw nerve in our own flesh is touched, we know, with a knowledge that penetrates to a place which these words cannot reach, that our question is not answered.  It is only pushed farther back, for why should that be the way of strength, and why need hearts be knit together by such sharp knitting needles, and who would not willingly choose relief rather than the pity of the pitiful?

...What then, is the answer?  I do not know.  I believe that it is one of the secret things of the Lord, which will not be opened to us till we see Him who endured the Cross, see the scars in His hands and feet and side, see Him, our Beloved, face to face.  I believe that in that revelation of love, which is far past our understanding now, we shall “understand even as all along we have been understood.”

And till then?  What does a child do whose mother or father allows something to be done which it cannot understand?  There is only one way of peace.  It is the child’s way.  The loving child trusts.

I believe that we who know our God, and have proved Him good past telling, will find rest there.  The faith of the child rests on the character it knows.  So may ours; so shall ours.

...But we know our Father.  We know His character.  Somehow, somewhere, the wrong must be put right; how we do not know, only we know that, because He is what He is, anything else is inconceivable.

...There is only one place where we can receive, not an answer to our question, but peace--that place is Calvary.  An hour at the foot of the Cross steadies the soul as nothing else can.  “O Christ beloved, Thy Calvary stills all our questions.”  Love that loves like that can be trusted about this.”  

-Amy Carmichael

...His love and provision...

I watched him wandering, trying to find the group he was supposed to be in.  I had seen him ambling aimlessly from the tent where the kids had been for their Bible lesson, so I had intercepted him as he tried to score a second snack for the night, and headed him in the direction of his group.  I had removed a huge pile of grass from his head too--I was  guessing he didn’t get much out of the Bible lesson. 

He knew what a soccer game was, and what the objective of the game was, but with all the distractions of the other kids and the great outdoors around him, he was unable to focus enough to actually play the game.  He lay down in the middle of the field, fortunately away from where the kids were running and kicking the ball.  Not the safest thing to do in the middle of a soccer field where a game was being played.  Then the game headed in his direction, someone almost tripped over him, and he jumped up.  He alternated between experimenting with pulling his pinny over his face (it‘s fun to look through the mesh at the altered perspective of the world through a red pinny), then running madly around the field chasing one of his teammates.  He wasn‘t coordinated enough to be able to get a kick in at the ball, though he did try a few times when one of his coaches attempted to show him how to play “defense.”  But the other kids were faster and kept the ball away from him.  He quickly lost interest when he was unable to get to the ball.

Our church does a soccer camp for school-age children instead of a Vacation Bible School for those ages.  Somewhere in the muddle of my smallest one‘s attempt at the First Night of Soccer Camp, I made the decision that this would be his first and last night of soccer camp for the year.  He just was not ready, even for the youngest group.  By the end of the week, he would either wander away and get lost, or place himself squarely in harm’s way and get hurt. 

I was still weary from unpacking after a (very lovely) vacation at the beach.  I was frustrated with trying to figure out where this boy fit.  He had done okay at Bible School last year, (at least not getting lost or hurt) but he had been somewhat confined indoors at Bible School.  Less opportunity for random wandering and physical injury.  But this year, he was too old for Bible School.  I had asked if the organizers would make an exception because of his autism, but the answer had been “no.”

As I watched my little boy in various group settings in the last few months, I was observing that he seemed to need a one-on-one adult, or at least an adult sitting close by to keep an eye on him, in almost all situations where he was part of a large group.  That is a lot to ask--volunteers for Bible School, Sunday School, and Awana groups are almost always at a premium.  I myself am pretty well fried from homeschooling for the last 8 years, from trying to stay a step ahead of my little guy 24/7, and the challenges that go with living with a mental illness.  There is no way I have it in me to volunteer for a group of kids at this time in my life.  And it felt unfair to me to send a high maintenance child to an activity that I am not able to volunteer to help out with.  I’ve done it at various times, but always with some guilt hanging over my head.

I began to run over the options of fun things I could do with him to soften the blow of pulling him from soccer camp after the first night.  I had thought about trying to send him to another Bible School, from another church, where they would have a class for his age.  But I was not sure. Likely he would be with a group of kids and adults who don’t even know him.  He would  need close supervision, if not his very own volunteer.  Arrgh...what to do?  But soccer camp was definitely not the answer.

As I was pondering the looming question of “what to do with the youngest boy?” our pastor, in heading to a point beyond me on the field, intersected with my path.  I was asked the inevitable question of “how are you doing?” which I hate to answer when I am not happy (i was quite grumpy at that point).  It feels dishonest to answer with a smile and “I’m fine! isn‘t it a beautiful evening?” when I am not so great at the moment and the evening‘s beauty is lost on me for the time being.  But it also seems rude to answer a pleasantry with “well, I am tired and irritated right about now.”  This time, honesty won out, and we spent several minutes discussing the challenge of figuring out where this boy would best fit into church activities for children of his age. 

Our church is large, and the children’s activities generally involve big groups of kids.  This obviously presents an ongoing difficulty for a child who does not do well in a large group.  Another difficulty is the fact that, although he is six years old, quite tall for his age (he is taller than two of my nieces who turn eight this summer) and precocious in some things (those things that he enjoys with a single minded focus that makes him a little expert ahead of his time), his maturity level reminds me of where my other two children were at about four to five years old (he needs very clearly defined boundaries--almost like a toddler at times, and still needs to be watched closely when he is in unfamiliar territory, due to not knowing where danger lies and his tendency to wander off and become absorbed in his own world). 

I had been a bit hurt and frustrated when I found out that he would not be able to attend Bible School with the younger children.  In spite of his autism and the fact that he was not ready for soccer camp, the age rule was firmly in place.  But I also understand that there are times when rules can be adjusted to make room for special situations, and that there are times when it is not advisable to do so.  I was not in charge of the Bible School; so in spite of how i felt about it, I tried to give the benefit of the doubt to those who were.  However, it still left me hung out to dry, with a little boy who understood that for some reason he was not accepted--everybody else was going to Bible School or Soccer Camp--but with not enough understanding to know why.

I was a bit hesitant to air my frustrations to the pastor--he was not in charge of soccer camp and Bible School, though he did help out with them at times.  But even though he wasn’t in charge of them, it was an area that he had oversight of; and I did not want to be insulting or come across as accusing him of doing a poor job.  I think that he does a very good job.   I didn’t need to worry though--he was pretty understanding of my dilemma due to what he remembered from the time his wife worked with autistic children.  He understood where we were coming from--there seemed to be a place for everyone else...but not my little guy.  Although I had been assured by the Bible School organizer that it wasn’t a personal rejection, that they were just abiding by the age rule; to a little boy who was not able to engage with--or safely participate--in the activities for his age group, it was a rejection of sorts, whether it was meant to be or not.

But as I talked, another question rose in my mind too.  Why was I hurt and angry?  What debt was owed to me?  What made me feel entitled to having the program adjusted for my child?  What made me feel entitled to someone, anyone, understanding the difficulty in helping him to interact with his peers?  Why did I feel entitled to being able to find a place for him at our church, in the children‘s activities?  No one person or organization can meet everyone’s need.

Could it be that the church owes me nothing?  Christ has paid all for me on the cross.  Yes, the Bible says that as Christians, we are known by our love...but that does not mean that just because I am a church member, that I am owed love or understanding by the other members.  If God chooses to meet our needs through people in our home church, that is wonderful.  But maybe He will not choose to work through them, this time. 

Those who give love, kindness, and understanding, give it freely just as Christ gave freely when He died on the cross.  But when I expect it, I set myself up for disappointment.  We are all human and there will be times we will let others down, intentionally or unintentionally.  There will be times when, no matter how good the program, it will not meet the needs of everyone.  I would be better off to be grateful when I do receive kindness, understanding, and acceptance, but not to expect it.  God is bigger than one church.  He will take care of my needs.

But at least I had received understanding, even if there was still no good way to blend this kiddo into our church’s summer kids’ activities.  As the pastor and I chatted, we also watched my son continue to make a pretty good case for his not being ready for a rousing game of soccer with his peers.  But it was suddenly okay.  I was still sad that my little guy felt rejected from Bible School, and I knew I was going to add insult to injury at the end of the night when I told him he couldn’t do soccer camp for this year.  But God had sent someone to hear and understand, even though the ongoing dilemma of trying to find a place for my boy in his world was still going to be there from time to time. 

This listening and trying to understand...this certainly must be a big part of “bearing one another’s burdens.”  It lightened the burden that had been resting heavily on me.

And, the next night, a little church just out the road from our house began their Bible School.  I knew a few people who attended there, but had never visited it.  I had seen their VBS sign as I traveled to and from home the last few days, and realized that this might be an answer to my little guy’s longing to go to Bible School.  It was.

This new Bible School is a small Bible School, for all ages of elementary school youngsters, and all indoors.  (Small groups with little chances for escape are awesome.)  The pastor who welcomed us the first night said that there were two other Bible School students with autism, and that it was no problem to have my son there.  They were familiar with some of the issues that arise, and they would keep an eye on him. 

When I picked my little boy up at the end of the night, he was beaming.  He announced that he was definitely going back for the rest of the week.  When I asked the pastor how the evening went, he said my son was very well behaved and they had no problems with him. 

God is bigger than just one church.  No matter how many ministries and programs there are, He always ministers through people.  People, not programs.  Lots of people get lost in programs.  People with mental illness, little boys with special needs, people who have physical illnesses or handicaps, elderly people who can’t always make it to church anymore, and anyone else who doesn’t quite fit--all of them quickly get lost in a program.  But people who take the time to see the uniqueness of the person--those are the people who make all the difference to someone looking for a glimpse of Jesus and His love. 

And once again, God sent just the right people at just the right time; in their kindness, i saw a glimpse of Jesus and His love for me, and His love and provision for this little boy He entrusted to my care.

...just memories...

She was too weak to talk.  Her breathing was labored; her eyes were mostly closed.  I wished the hospice nurse would stop talking.  The nurse was probably a nice, kind lady; I knew she was just doing her job.  She seemed to be going through some kind of list of what is normal to see at this stage as someone is coming to the end of life.  But...I have been around dead and dying people, in many different settings.  I knew what to expect, and I knew what I was seeing was normal.  I didn’t want to listen to a soothing voice talking about it, but I didn’t want to seem terribly rude, either.  I tried to push the nurse’s voice to the background.  I leaned over the bed; talked about what the kids and hubby were doing; mentioned that I had had a chiropractor appointment that morning; said “we love you, Grammy.”  Kissed her soft, tangled gray hair. 

It has been almost a year since my hubby’s Grandpop died.  Grammy has missed Grandpop terribly.  But we have had one more year with Grammy, for which we are grateful.

My daughter embroidered a pillowcase for Grammy for a Christmas present.  This girl of mine is usually a very diligent little girl; Grammy’s Christmas pillowcase was finished by Thanksgiving vacation.  We delivered it one day while hubby and my oldest son were hunting.  Grammy was delighted.  She proclaimed it too pretty to sleep on, even though her great granddaughter assured her that it was meant to sleep on.  I don’t think the pillowcase ever did make its way to a pillow.  It was given a place of honor and given its due admiration.

My little guy and I took our turn staying with Grammy during some days when the rest were at school and work, over the time when Grammy needed help at home, but was still well enough that I could bring a little boy along.  He remembers the ice cream bars she kept in the freezer, and the toy box and marble roller for little people who came to visit.  Sometimes he had fun; sometimes it tried his patience when he had to be quiet if she was resting.  But during those days with her, we learned to know her better than we had before.

She was reading a book of memories of schooldays and yesteryear, written by a man she had known from childhood.  He had included quite a few pictures in the book, and one of the faces in a group of schoolchildren was hers.  It was difficult for her to read because of cataracts; she had been scheduled to have them fixed, but was unable to keep the surgery date because of illness.  So, that day, I read to her until she was tired.  She also told me more of the story--some of the things she remembered that were not included in the book.  Then she rested while I read to my little guy, but she seemed to be listening to Peter Rabbit, the Berenstein Bears, and Frances the badger too, even when her eyes were closed. 

The days with Grammy were mostly full of ordinary things that happen in the quiet house of an elderly lady--a bit of washing, sweeping, and cooking; a bit of reading, and a few of her tv shows that she enjoyed.  I washed and combed her hair for her when she was too weak to do it herself--she was appreciative, but it wasn’t quite like she did it.  It was okay, I understood.  No one else can ever comb your hair or place your glasses just exactly right. 

Though they were ordinary, the days were special too; we knew that this wouldn’t be for long.  Her heart was giving out slowly; we knew that soon all the times with Grammy would only be memories. 

And i will hold the memories in a special place in my heart.  Late this evening, we got the call.  It was my mother-in-law’s voice, saying that Grammy had just passed away.

Hubby and I walked into the room and stood by the bed.  He stepped behind me and pulled me toward him in a hug.  We stood silently.  It was her, but just her shell.  Her spirit had flown.  He gave her a goodbye kiss; I stroked the softness of her gray hair that I would not comb again. 

...a rose...

It is a beautiful year for the roses.  A few years ago, I wanted to plant a hedge to separate the yard from the road going by the house.  Not having an over abundance of cash to work with, I began it with starts from shrubbery at my parents' house.  The little white "tea roses" begin putting out baby rosebushes galore, in the spring.  So I was able to get all the roses I wanted.  June is the most beautiful month, i think...everything is green and blooming.  These little white roses are my favorite.  

In Amy Carmichael's book Rose from Brier, she tells of how restful a beautiful picture was, in her time of illness; how it could take her, in her mind's eye, miles away from her sickroom.  So here is a rose, for the one who wishes for a breath of springtime laden with the sweetness of roses; and the dampness of green, growing woods and fields; and new-mown hay. 

"And may [its beauty]...speak not of a vanished spring, but of that to which we are hastening."

...the exactly right time...

I am not too fond of sewing denim.  It is thick; when it is doubled up--such as one needs to do when sewing it--it has this tendency to get caught in my machine or break the needle if I am not careful.  Sometimes it gets caught and breaks the needle, anyway, even if I am careful.  I am not a super skillful seamstress.  I am what might be kindly called “competent.”  I prefer things with straight seams and light fabrics and a minimum of fuss.  In my teen years, I used to love to experiment with making dolls, toys, and things like that; but now i have enough necessary sewing that unnecessary sewing doesn’t usually sound like fun.  But, I also have enough basic sewing skills that i can’t justify not doing my own mending.  And on this day, I had some mending that couldn’t be put off any longer.

I measured and pinned the material.  Most of it wouldn’t be too bad, but there were four places where I needed to sew through a folded seam of denim.  I did have a few extra needles, in case I heard the usual “snap” and felt the thread go slack.

The first item was finished quickly.  I had started it a week or so earlier, but had gotten interrupted.  Upon looking at it again, I realized it would be easier than I thought.  And it was.  The second item was the one that i expected the most trouble with, due to those stupid folded seams. 

I carefully sewed past the pins, only stabbing myself a few times and not even enough to draw blood.  So far, so good.  I carefully sewed through the folded seams by hand-turning the wheel instead of letting the machine do the work.  I got through all of them without breaking a needle, or any other annoying or disastrous mishaps.  I lifted the pants from the machine and reached for the scissors to cut the threads.  There was no bobbin thread to cut.  Aaack.  Bobbins are notorious for running out of thread at inconvenient times.  On my machine, I cannot see the bobbin thread unless i open the compartment and lift the bobbin out--thereby making it difficult to see that how close the bobbin is to being empty--but neither is it possible to sew with only the thread from the needle.  The stitches do not hold.  When the bobbin runs out of thread, the only thing to do is to refill it, go back to where it ran out, and re-stitch.

Now when did that run out?  I started examining the stitches I had just put in.  Probably I would have to go back and re-sew at least part of what i had just finished--and Murphy’s law would dictate that I would probably need to go back over at least one or two of those troublesome seams. 

I looked closer.  The stitches were exactly where they were supposed to be, right down to the tacking at the end, that i put in to hold my sewing in place.  I looked at the bobbin.  It was definitely, completely, out of thread.  But it had not run out until I had completely finished my sewing, even the tacking at the end.

I seemed to hear a still small voice...”remember, I do love you.  I am watching over all the little details of life, right down to whether the bobbin thread will hold out or not.” 

I had been so exhausted lately that I didn’t feel much love coming from anywhere.  Deep down, I know that, whether they say it or not, my family loves me dearly.  My friends do too.  But I had been so tired lately that all I wanted to do was to hide from everyone.  My kids’ baseball season is in full swing.  Life has been revolving around games and practices.  School is soon finished for the year, and with no dearth of field trips and other end-of-year activities.  I was hoping that hubby’s changed work schedule would help lighten the load, this spring...but it didn’t.  I am still doing most of the activities on my own, usually with my youngest in tow.  His routine has been mostly thrown out the window, so he is more defiant and difficult than usual.  I am exhausted with correcting socially inappropriate speech and behaviors, and from trying to keep him from injuring himself in such exhilarating pursuits as jumping from the tops of bleachers and throwing himself flat on the ground from a standing position, etc. 

My kids have so little “normal” sometimes, because of their Daddy’s erratic work schedule, that I try to make it to as many of their games and school activities as possible.  I want to do that much for them, at least. 

And lately, probably partly due to the busyness and the need for extra vigilance with the young one, the terrible fears are setting in again--if I sent the older children to their games with someone else so that I could have a little breathing space, I would be almost frantic till they got home.  So, while I have help available in the form of other parents--and also their grandparents--who could give them a ride to their games, it would not help my state of mind much.  It is sometimes a necessity to find one child a ride with someone else, at times when they both have games at different places at the same times; but my relief is great when we are all safely together again.  It is hard enough to send everyone to work or school right now.  I know that they are fine--that school and work and activities are just part of life, and that my husband and children are in our Father’s care wherever they may be...but try telling that to my brain.  Behavioral therapy is a nice idea, but there is a difference between giving someone the tools to deal with a difficulty and preventing the thing from happening.  I have the tools to deal with panic attacks, but I still have to deal with them.

So has God abandoned me?  Do I not have enough faith?  Life, just plain old normal life, is still really hard right now.  Shouldn’t I be full of peace and joy if my faith were real?  If He were real?

But...I have not collapsed.  He has given me strength and provision for each day, right down to the details of how much thread I needed for a sewing job I dreaded.  I have the panic attacks, but in spite of them, a still, small voice still speaks peace to me.  I am tired, but I can still laugh at some of my little guy’s speeches and antics (the socially acceptable, less dangerous ones).  I can share my daughter’s pride when, the first night she got a chance to pitch in a game, she made the game-ending out by striking out the batter who said, “she’s just a girl, this will be easy.”  (“His face was so red, Mom!“ she said gleefully...)  I even enjoyed a field trip to Baltimore with my oldest son’s class, in spite of the fact that “everybody and their brother” decided that that would be a good day to take a bus trip to Fort McHenry and the Baltimore Aquarium.  I was “field-tripped out” by the end of the day, but I had a good time.  Even my 13 year old, almost-too-cool-for-enjoying-stuff-anymore, kid had a good time.  He told me so.  (Oh, the teen years.  And this is just the beginning...)  And Baltimore Aquarium’s gift shop carried, amongst all the expensive souvenir junk, real live Venus flytraps.  My science junkie kid has been wanting one of these awesome plants for years and we couldn’t find them.  So now there is a Venus flytrap sitting hungrily on the kitchen window sill, slowly digesting its latest fly.  i can’t help but hear a still, small voice whispering love to me even in the finding of that Venus flytrap for my boy.

So, as I keep saying on this blog, He still has not failed me yet.  Once again, I am finding that He gives me what I need at the exactly right time. 

...it never goes unnoticed...

Matthew 25:23
“His lord said unto him, “Well done, good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things:  enter thou into the joy of thy lord.”
 
None of this goes unnoticed.  These words came out of the blue this morning, along with the reminder of the story that precedes the above scripture, about the master who gave his servants the responsibility while he went on a journey.  The servants who were faithful with his goods while he was gone were rewarded upon his return.  Jesus used the story as a picture of how each of us have been given different gifts, and His pleasure at our faithfulness. 

All our weariness, all the times we put aside what we want to do what we should, all the things we bear for the love of others and for the sake of His kingdom, He notices.

My great-great-aunt and -uncle, Clinton and Maybelle Ferster, lived a life of putting aside their own comfort and desires, for the sake of His kingdom.  Uncle served a short time as pastor of Richfield Mennonite Church back in the 1920’s, until he and Aunt Maybelle left Richfield for many years of service in what was then Tanganyika Territory in Africa.  Their lives and testimonies deserve an entire book to do them justice, but what i will always think of when i think of them, is a small embroidered picture that my mother found among their things while we were cleaning their house and getting ready “to make sale” (local colloquial way of saying “preparing for an estate auction”).  This picture was simply black thread on a plain background and it said, “As Unto Christ, Not Unto Men.”  It was saved with things valued and special, and Mom was sure that Aunt Maybelle had made it for Uncle Clinton.  It now sits on a dresser in my parents’ home, a simple but powerful tribute to two lives well lived.  That Aunt Maybelle would have chosen that verse when making that gift for Uncle, and that he would have saved it among his treasured things.

But we don’t have to go to Africa to be faithful.  We all have different callings, different gifts.  No matter where we are, no matter what the job He has called us to, what we do for Him never goes unnoticed.  

Blackwood Bros "That's What Heaven Will Be" 

And the above link goes to yet another beautiful quartet number that i like...some day we will live "forever in the sweet by and by..."

...rain...

It’s a rainy day here at our house.  I am trying to keep my head above water, but sinking again.  The trigger seems to be the chaos of spring baseball season and trying to keep my youngest happy during his brother‘s and sister‘s baseball games (or, if not to keep him happy, at least to avoid major meltdowns).  But, if the trigger were not the busyness of baseball season, it may be something else.  It isn’t going away...so, i learn to live with it.  Is it possible to embrace it?

I love a rainy day in spring.  This world of cool green mist is probably one of my favorite parts of spring.  I love to hear the rain; I love to see it against the leaves and grass; I love looking through the drops to the tops of the trees in the woods behind the house.  For lack of a description that does it justice, suffice it to say it is nothing short of a glimpse into fairyland.

Without rain, there would be no growth.  The green would give way to parched barren brown.  There would be little shade.  A tall tree needs deep roots.  Could the same be true for a soul?

Back when I was a kid, one of my favorite songs was Keith Whitley’s “I’m No Stranger to the Rain.”  At the time, I didn’t know the story behind the song--the story of the man who fought his own demons throughout his life and died of an alcohol overdose in 1989.  I just knew it was a beautiful song; and even back then, the sadness in the song, and in the voice that sang it, struck a chord with me.

I'm No Stranger to the Rain--Keith Whitley

There is depth and beauty in rain itself--in the rain outside, and the rain that falls “in the soul.” And if it were not for the rain, much depth and beauty in the world would be lost.

So, how now shall we live?  For those of us who are not strangers to the rain--what can we do but beg, steal or borrow a little sunshine?  And learn to embrace the rain?

...an anchor in the storm...

There is a storm raging in my mind, exhausting me.  Part of me wants to embrace the busy-ness of springtime--distractions sometimes keep the blackness at bay.  The other part of me wants solitude--sometimes it seems that the storm in my mind cannot be tolerated amidst any other activity.  But the problem with solitude is that, then, the mind can run in its own direction.  But whether in solitude or company, there is no stopping it; there is only masking the noise of the storm with “doing the next thing,” the daily activities that need to be accomplished.  And sometimes one just holds onto the side of the boat for dear life, so as not to get swept away.

I could not read much when I opened my Bible.  The words seemed to jump around the page when I tried to concentrate.  A normal day of life stretched ahead of me, looking pretty daunting.  I needed strength from somewhere, from Someone.  I put my Bible down and instead asked for “just a word” from Him for the day.  Jesus, please?  A verse?  A song?  Something to anchor my mind to, in the storm?

“Peace, be still.”

It is a line of an old song we sing from time to time, here at our house.  The song is titled, “Master, the Tempest is Raging.”  It comes from the story of Jesus calming the storm; the account of it is in the 8th chapters of the gospels of Matthew and Luke.

“And when He was entered into a ship, his disciples followed Him.  And behold, there arose a great tempest in the sea, insomuch that the ship was covered with the waves; but He was asleep.  And his disciples came to Him, and awoke him, saying, “Lord, save us;  we perish.”  And He saith unto them, “Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith?  Then he arose, and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a great calm.  But the men marvelled, saying, “What manner of man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey Him!”

Matthew 8:23-27

The tempest is raging, and it is beyond tiring.  A weariness of the mind and heart, for lack of a better description.  But what manner of Man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey Him?  He alone can calm this storm.

“Master, the tempest is raging!
The billows are tossing high!
The sky is o’er-shadowed with blackness,
No shelter or help is nigh;
Carest Thou not that we perish?
How canst Thou lie asleep,
When each moment so madly is threat’ning
A grave in the angry deep?

The winds and the waves shall obey Thy will,
Peace, be still!  Peace, be still!
Whether the wrath of the storm-tossed sea,
Or demons, or men, or whatever it be,
No water can swallow the ship where lies
The Master of ocean and earth and skies;
They all shall sweetly obey Thy will,
Peace be still!  Peace be still!
They all shall sweetly obey Thy will,
Peace, peace, be still!”

-Mary A. Baker 


No storm, no waves, can swallow this ship, where lies the Master of ocean, and earth, and skies.  And I realize that, sometimes, when the wind and the waves are high, I don’t ask Him to calm my storm.  In the back of my mind, something says I deserve it...by virtue of the weakness that causes me to suffer it, maybe.  There is something about the blackness of depression that envelops the soul and whispers that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, there should be no relief of pain, no calming of the storm.  That the one who suffers it is so innately flawed that whatever he or she may suffer at the hands of this, is only a bit of what is deserved. 

And...when we try to wrap our minds around what our Lord has redeemed us from--an eternity without God--the reality is that the blackest depression, the blackest night of the soul, is not even the tip of the iceberg compared to the suffering we would endure for an eternity without Him.  So, yes, for my sin, all my suffering is deserved, and so much more.
 
But, thank God, He endured the cross and paid the price.  So, while suffering here on earth is inevitable, I do not have to pay the price for my sin.  No matter how I suffered here on earth, I could still never atone for all my sin.  I do not need to try.  Just as I asked Him to redeem me from sin, I can freely ask Him to calm the storm.

And, whatever the storms i endure here on earth, whether He sends calm sooner, or later...i can know that no waves can swallow my ship.

...faith is a choice...

“Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.  For by it the elders obtained a good report.  Through faith we understand that the worlds were framed by the word of God, so that things which are seen were not made of things which do appear....But without faith it is impossible to please him; for he that cometh to God must believe that He is, and that He is a rewarder of them that diligently seek Him.”

Hebrews 11:1-3, 6


Faith is a choice.  No matter what the circumstances around me, no matter how anxiety attacks or panic will insist on messing with me, I can choose to trust.

There will always be things in this world that, because I am a finite being, i cannot see, know, and experience for myself.  I have to take someone’s word for it.  From the things that i have seen, i am convinced that the view of the world that makes the most logical sense comes through the word of God.  And the only view of the world that gives an unshakable hope of redemption--a hope that is built on solid rock, not the shaky foundation of humanity--comes through the blood of Christ.  We need a Savior; and, thank God, in Christ we have One.

It is one of those times when i am wrestling with the fine line between disobedience and disability.

My youngest son and his actions brought up the question in my mind.  I am adjusting to a new mindset, trying to be understanding of what he is able to bring under control and what he is not.  And...more often...trying to figure out if he is being naughty or if the problem behavior is part of his disability.  Just because he has autism does not mean he does not possess a human nature.  He has a sweetness and innocence typical of a child a few years younger than himself; but, like any other child, he also has the capacity for disobedience.  So I do the best I can to balance understanding with discipline.  Both are needed.

If anything, it is harder to do this, to find this balance, for myself.

Where is the line in the sand, where the gripping terror of a panic attack turns into the sin of giving in to fear?  Where the anxiety attack, which comes out of the blue, turns into the sin of giving in to worry?  When do I need to look inside to see if i am sinning; and when do i allow myself grace to not feel guilty over something beyond my control?  ...knowing that i am doing the best i can to be courageous and that He who made me knows my mind and heart. 

A few months ago, I wrote a post called “Thank God, He lives.“  One of the thoughts in there, rings true here, too.

“[It is a battle with an] unseen foe--because, of course, no one but me...[and God]...can see or know the fears that lay in wait for a time when I am weak.  Those battles are fought within...

...There is glory and honor in fighting battles we can see.  No one applauds, no one understands, when you fight the unseen demons simply to get another supper cooked, to finish washing another basket of clothes.” 


...thank God He lives...and a thank you note...
 
But He sees and knows.  Sometimes I realize that I am telling God, “I am sorry, so very sorry,” over something that I truly had no control over.  Some bit of this illness that was just that--part of the illness.  If someone breaks an ankle, is it imperative that they confess and repent of the pain of the broken bone?  Do we say “only this much pain relief, and no more?”  Do we ask such a one to pull himself up by his own bootstraps while keeping the broken ankle straight?  I think not.  Pain relief is given to ease the stress pain inflicts on the body, in order for it to relax and heal.  So, too, in the pain of a mental illness, there is a time to use appropriate medications and therapy techniques; and to give grace and kindness rather than judgment to ourselves.

It’s been two years, now, since this all started.  I am so grateful to be where I am.  I can smile; I can laugh; I can take care of my family.  My kids tell me they would rather have me than anybody else for a mom; my husband loves me very much and he too is glad to have his wife back from the unreachable place where i had been.

Some of the effects linger.  I still do battle with jitters and anxiety on a fairly regular basis; and at times, panic attacks.  For that reason, I have not been able to be completely free of the need for meds; although I have been able to cut back quite a bit.  I still have a point where, suddenly, I am done.  Whether it be in a crowd, within a setting of noisy children, or simply weariness, there are times when I suddenly need to leave to avoid the onset of a panic attack.  Sometimes depression still rears its ugly head; and at those times, speech and other interaction with people is difficult.  At those times, i often do only what is absolutely necessary; and my best just has to be good enough...because that is all i have to offer.

So, as before, I will choose to trust Him.  I will choose to be of good courage, and allow myself grace for the times when i cannot will an illness away.  The fact that I still do battle with this--though largely an unseen battle--is not evidence that He is not with me.  Rather, the fact that I am really pretty functional--on most days i am able to care for my family instead of needing them to care for me--is evidence that His grace is sufficient for my every need, that His mercies are new every morning.
 
The end of Hebrews 11 tells of those who did great things here on earth, through faith in God; but the writer also tells of those who were faithful through great trials and tribulations, though they never saw the fruition of their hopes here on earth, “that they might obtain a better resurrection.” 

What a wonderful thought--just because we don’t see it all here, and don’t understand it all here, does not mean He is not here.  No matter the circumstances, He is always at work.  Though our faith may falter at times, He is always faithful.  When we choose to trust Him; He will hold us, and carry us through.