...i have Someone to thank...

“But sometimes it cometh to our mind that we have prayed long time, and yet we think to ourselves that we have not our asking.  But herefor should we not be in heaviness.  For I am sure, by our Lord’s signifying, that either we abide a better time, or more grace or a better gift.”  -Julian of Norwich


It was a hot, humid summer day. 
The woods were cool and green. 
The rhododendrons hung low over the creek
that bubbled over the rocks
near the cabin tucked into the trees
at the edge of the woods
that bordered my aunt and uncle’s farm
at the foot of the mountain. 

It felt like coming home.  I had spent many happy hours on this farm and in this cabin as a child, when my grandparents--my mother’s parents--lived here.  i was so grateful that my aunt and uncle hosted a get-together each summer for all the aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws, and great-grandchildren who were able to come.  Many changes have come to the farm since I tagged along with Grandpa out to the barn while he did the milking by hand.  But it is still the same place I have always loved.  And my aunt and uncle are always so kind and welcoming, a truly gracious host and hostess.

A stranger would probably smile to look around our group.  A majority of the ladies still wear plain dresses.  But not all.  Some of us wear jeans and look slightly out of place.  A few wear skirts and t-shirts; the skirts either out of personal conviction or out of respect for those in the cape dresses.  The majority of the ladies wear white head coverings...but not all.  I don’t.  My mom, a few aunts, a few cousins don’t either.  One aunt wears a short black veil over the back of her hair.  Most of the little girls wear pigtails...but not all.  Not my daughter, at least not most days.  The majority of the men wear plain dark work pants and button down shirts.  A few wear jeans--my hubby, my sons, my brother, some of the uncles.  A few t-shirts here and there.  Most of the men are clean shaven, but a few have beards.  And my hubby--one of a kind--in his jeans and usual everyday t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, tattoos in evidence.  A gathering of unmistakably plain Mennonite heritage and background.  But some of us who definitely broke out of the mold.  In spite of our differences, the welcome and the conversation includes all.  My hubby is welcomed too...among the general banter, the occasional joke is made about his aversion to shirt sleeves.  Nothing mean or spiteful in any way; all good-natured.  Some of us look like rather unlikely additions to the group, but we are all glad to be part of it.  Glad to call these people family, regardless of our differences. 

When all who are expected have gathered together and the food is ready, one of the uncles announces that we are ready to say the blessing on the meal.  And, in typical Mennonite fashion, we have a verse of song before the prayer.  Acapella, in four part harmony, as we have learned from childhood in church.  And something in my heart sighs in contentment as each part finds its pitch and the music begins.  It rings through the trees and echoes off the water.

The food is shared in leisurely fashion and the children head for the creek or other fun places to be found on the farm.  The usual quiet chatter and laughter of people who have not seen each other for some time and are glad to be together again--for some of us, it’s been days; for others, weeks; and others have months of catching up to do.  And then, one of the uncles (one of the ones who came in jeans and a beard) brings out his guitar.  Songbooks are handed around to those who want to sing, pages are flipped till someone finds a favorite number and announces which page it is on.  The key is found; each part finds their pitch.  And the woods ring with music.

And on this warm summer day, at this gathering that sticks in my mind as so very special in its sweet ordinariness, one of my cousins suggests #669 in the Zion’s Praises songbook.  “Someone to Thank,” words and music by Geraldine Koehn.  The melody is simple to follow; the harmony not too difficult.  I look around the faces of the group as we sing and, really, who can miss the joy and gratitude etched there; I see the cousin who suggested this song watching his lovely wife and beautiful baby nearby and see why this song struck a chord with him.  It resonates with me too, though I need to leave the singing briefly to attend to my youngest.  Has anyone ever been blessed so, as we are?  With such a heritage, and such wonderful spouses and children with whom we share the love and blessings of our God and the joy of life?

“There is Someone Who daily my needs doth supply,
These good things don’t just happen, there’s Someone on high.
‘Tis His mercy and grace that allows me to live;
He deserves all the thanks I can give.

(I have) Someone to thank
for ev’ry new day,
(I have) Someone to thank
for the gifts on life’s way;
(He’s the) One Who expects
and One Who accepts
All the thanks that I feel each day.”

Some time later, several months into my bout of severe depression, after I was able to read again with some intelligence, one of my dad’s cousins sent me a gift of the book One Thousand Gifts, by Ann Voskamp.  I must admit, I struggled to get through it.  Mrs. Voskamp is a gifted writer, but her style of writing uses the parts of speech very loosely...sometimes adjectives are used as verbs, and the like.  For someone who struggled with bringing her mind into enough focus to read (that is something I still struggle with), to get through Mrs. Voskamp’s book, and on top of that, to comprehend what I had read, was an accomplishment indeed.  But I was not sorry I had made the effort.  In this story, she tells how her life was changed when she was challenged to make a list of 1000 gifts in her life.  Little things like a sunrise, a cup of hot coffee...anything.  An exercise in living in gratitude all the time.  One of the thoughts that my muddled brain pulled out of her writing was that one emotion overcomes another--we cannot be both thankful and fearful at the same time; we cannot be both thankful and discontented at the same time.  I mulled this idea over for some days, trying it out.  Did thankfulness really overcome the panic attacks?  I tried it.  It did not keep them away completely, but it became another weapon in my arsenal to fight these demons.  It did help--sometimes a little bit, sometimes tremendously.  And an attitude of thankfulness helped me to be more kind and personable to the people around me, even on the rough days.

And, sometimes when life gets heavy, or the unknowns loom large in front of us, do we get impatient with God?  Well, maybe no one else does, but I do.  I want my prayers answered the way I want them answered.  Right now, or preferably, yesterday.  I want the burden lifted from my shoulders, not more strength to carry it. 

But thankfulness and impatience do not seem to be able to co-exist.  When I looked around me for things to be thankful for, such as when i enjoyed a hot cup of coffee and beautiful sunrise with real gratitude instead of dwelling on the exhaustion or the jitters that awoke me from sleep, I was no longer impatient with God.  I could see His love wrapped around me and rest in the knowledge of His perfect timing, even in trials.  i found that the “peace that passeth all understanding” did guard my heart and my mind in Christ Jesus.

And i was again sure that i did “abide a better time, or more grace or a better gift,” by the endurance of this trial.  And i could be grateful in the midst of it.



(The link below is to Mrs. Voskamp's blog, with information on her books and other resources.)


Ann Voskamp's blog "a holy experience"

...one from the archives...

I have been reading over much of my past writing as I write and edit for this blog.  Recently I came across something that I wrote nearly 10 years ago, but that seemed to fit with what I have been sharing with you here, dear reader.  The title in my files simply said, "Mine."  It was written one night when I was very sad and lonely, when God just seemed to step down and whisper in my ear.  It was such an encouragement to me; I hope it will be for you as well.

Mine...

You are My child.  Of course you know that.  You’ve been Mine since you were very small.  For many years now you have been willing to let Me use you.  I have, in big and small ways, and in many ways you will never know until you see Me face to face.

Right now you feel all alone.  You bury your grief alone in your heart, because you know that no one understands.  But I understand.  I put that longing, that loneliness in your heart.  Why?  Because I want you to know Me.  I allow that weakness, that tendency toward depression, to stay with you.  Why?  Because I am stronger.  I want you to need Me every moment, every day.

The psalmist said, “I will lift up my eyes to the hills—From whence comes my help?  My help comes from the LORD, Who made heaven and earth.  He will not allow your foot to be moved; He who keeps you will not slumber.  Behold, He who keeps Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.  The LORD is your keeper; the LORD is your shade at your right hand.  The sun shall not strike you by day, nor the moon by night.  The LORD shall preserve you from all evil; He shall preserve your soul.  The LORD shall preserve your going out and your coming in from this time forth, and even forevermore.” (Ps. 121)


Preserve:  “To save from injury; to keep in a sound state; to maintain.”


Did you see that, My child?  I will preserve your soul.  Do you know what that means to you?  I will preserve you from evil.  I will preserve you as you go about everything that you need to do.  When you don’t feel like getting out of bed in the morning, I will preserve you.  When you want to hide from the world because your own inadequacy is looming so large that it has swallowed your courage, I will preserve you.  And when your work here is complete, I will take your hand and lead you into My presence.  There I will preserve your soul for eternity. 

You tell Me you feel like a prisoner in your own mind.  The enemy attacks at your weakest point.  He wants to defeat you, to make you useless to Me.  He wants you to forget what I have said to you in My Word in James chapter 1...  “My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience.  But let patience have its perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing.  If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask of God, who gives to all liberally and without reproach, and it will be given to him.”  (James 1:2-5) 

You are small and inadequate, but I am able to give you everything you need.  I have ordained each day that you will spend on this earth.  The pain that you have now does not compare to the glory you will share with Me.  I have allowed each trial you face.  I want to consume the dross of your humanity and refine your gold in the fire of My Spirit.  You are made in My image, and I want the world to see Me when they look at you.

Child, you are Mine.  I wouldn’t give you up when Satan offered me all the kingdoms of the world in exchange for you.  Nothing will ever take you out of My hands.  I love you.

...sitting at His feet...thank God, He is enough...

Luke 10:38-41
Now it came to pass, as they went, that He entered into a certain village: and a certain woman named Martha received Him into her house.
And she had a sister called Mary, which also sat at Jesus’ feet, and heard his word.
But Martha was cumbered about much serving, and came to Him, and said, “Lord, dost thou not care that my sister hath left me to serve alone?  bid her therefore that she help me.”
And Jesus answered and said unto her, “Martha, Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things:
But one thing is needful:  and Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her.”

Is this not the essence of loving Him?  To sit at Jesus’ feet?  To rest in Him?  What we have learned, sitting at His feet, shall not be taken away from us.

What if we are too weary, too battered with life, to sit at His feet?  What if we are lying wounded on the battlefield of life?

Have you ever held a child, flushed with fever, who did not want to leave the comfort of your arms?  And did you wrap your arms around that little one and drink in the softness of baby hair and the weight of a little warm body and little arms around your neck?  And did you find a cool washcloth for a hot forehead, or a drink for a sore throat?  doing your best to soothe, and help speed the healing?

Is this not what He does for us?  He gives us a safe place to rest in Him, we who are battered and bruised with life.  There is a time to work for Him; a time to busy ourselves in His service.  But when we who are His soldiers are lying wounded on the battlefield of life (to borrow another picture from Amy Carmichael’s book Rose from Brier); when we are wounded, we cannot draw our swords. 

He does not put us to rest on a shelf (“we have declined the easy, laid-aside, cracked-china view of the matter,” as she says).  For us, His wounded soldiers, He takes us to a place of healing--His “field hospital,” if you will--out of the heat of the battle, where we can rest and heal. 

When I am in the darkest places, I cannot pray.  Sometimes I cannot focus enough to read my Bible, or any good Christian books of encouragement.  At one time, this was a source of frustration for me, adding to my already addled and frazzled state of mind.  How could i get better if I could not open the Word?  How could I feed my mind?  My mind was so broken, that I must be in desperate need of it...but no.

He who made me, He remembers that “[I am] dust.”  He is at the Father’s right hand, interceding for me.  Sometimes with “groanings that cannot be uttered.”  If He can do that for me, do I need to worry when, no matter how I try, my mind will not be still?  Do I need to add guilt onto the pain that already seems too much to bear?  In place of the guilt, He gave me of this picture of Mary sitting at His feet.  My weary mind did not need more activity.  It needed rest and healing. 

So He sent me rest, in the form of modern medical care and medicine.  He sent me healing, in the form of behavioral therapy techniques to help with the panic attacks and racing thoughts.  And above all, He sent me His love, wrapped around me and in pictures of Him...everywhere.  Beautiful sunrises and sunsets; winter wonderlands of snow and ice; notes of encouragement that meant more than I can say; hugs from friends when I most needed it but sometimes when i least expected it; laughter and love of my family; good movies; and...with time...a measure of focus to be able to read again from my Bible and wonderful books of stories and encouragement.

There will always be tough days, I think.  It has been over a year since the worst of it.  I wonder if I will never completely be free of this.  But if not, it is okay.  Where I am weak, He is strong.  He will carry me through.  And thank God, He is enough.

...i know His voice...

From the gospel of John, chapter 10

“But He that entereth in by the door [of the sheepfold] is the shepherd of the sheep.
To Him the porter openeth; and the sheep hear His voice:  and He calleth His own sheep by name, and leadeth them out.
And when He putteth forth His own sheep, He goeth before them, and the sheep follow Him; for they know His voice. (v. 2-5)
...then said Jesus unto them again, Verily, verily, I say unto you, I am the door of the sheep... (v. 7)
...I am the door; by Me if any man enter in, he shall be saved, and shall go in and out, and find pasture... (v. 9)
...I am the good shepherd; the good shepherd giveth His life for the sheep. (v. 11)
...I am the good shepherd, and know My sheep, and am known of Mine.” (v. 14)


I do know His voice.  I sometimes think my walk with Him is very slow, very halting, sometimes one step forward and two steps back...but when I listen, He is there.  His voice is unmistakable.  He speaks through so many things.  A brilliant sunrise, the haunting beauty of the moon in the darkness.  More snow, more brilliant white to remind me of how clean He has washed my heart.  The sweetest little boy who sat on my lap in church yesterday.  Even though this gorgeous baby with the blonde curly hair didn’t know me (and usually, little kids and babies don‘t automatically love me unless they know me--I have never been a “baby whisperer“), my sparkly necklace got his attention and a couple of pieces of candy kept it.  Hugs from family and friends and little kiddos, on a day when I desperately needed them. And the surprise of having a good day when I again woke with the fear that I was not going to be able to tackle the day at all.

And, from her book Rose from Brier, another poem by Amy Carmichael that went straight to the heart of me.

“Lover of souls, Thee have I heard,
Thee will I sing, for sing I must
Thy good and comfortable word
Hath raised my spirit from the dust.

In dusty ways my feet had strayed
And foolish fears laid hold on me,
Until what time I was afraid
I suddenly remembered Thee.
 
Remembering Thee, I straight forgot
What otherwhile had troubled me;
It was as though it all were not,
I only was aware of Thee.

And quietness around me fell,
And Thou didst speak; my spirit heard;
I worshiped and rejoiced; for well
I knew Thy comfortable word.

Whoso hath known that comforting,
The inward touch that maketh whole,
How can he ever choose but sing
To Thee O Lover of his soul?”

In the chapter I was reading, Miss Carmichael tells how she was dealt one disappointment after another.  Though she was hoping to be healed from her injuries in time to attend and enjoy a much-longed-for event, it was not to be.  By the time of the great occasion, she was still confined to her bed, not even able to be up in a chair.  It was a sore disappointment.  She writes:

“And I ached to be there really, not just in spirit--ached till everything was one ache; and then, each word as clear as though it slid down the clear chiming bells, this little song sang within me:

“Thou hast not that, My child, but Thou hast Me,
And am not I alone enough for thee?
I know it all, know how thy heart was set
Upon this joy which is not given yet.

And well I know how through the wistful days
Thou walkest all the dear familiar ways,
As unregarded as a breath of air,
But there in love and longing, always there.

I know it all; but from thy brier shall blow
A rose for others.  If it were not so
I would have told thee.  Come, then, say to Me,
My Lord, my Love, I am content with Thee.”
After the poem, she continues:

“From thy brier shall blow a rose for others.”  ...I saw rather a low, very prickly rosebush in an old-fashioned English garden; it was covered with inconspicuous pink roses.  But the wonder of the bush was its all-pervading fragrance, for it was a sweetbrier.  And I saw One who has long been in the land where no thorns grow, cutting a spray, stripping the thorns off and giving it to me.

...I think that when He whom our soul loveth comes so near to us, and so gently helps our human weakness, then...we are borne over the oppression that would hold us down, we mount up on wings, we find a secret sweetness in our brier.  But it is not of us.  It is Love that lifts us up.  It is Love that is the sweetness.

Is the one who reads this in a great weariness, or the exhaustion that follows a sore hurt, or in the terrible grasp of pain?  He who loves as no one else can love, who understands to the uttermost, is not far away.  He wants us to say, he can give it to us to say, “My Lord, my Love, I am content with Thee.”

 
Hmmm.  How did she know?  She could not have known the great weariness that I would be in, as I read this chapter of her book.  She could not have known how my dear friend, with whom I share many of these words, aches with terrible physical pain, all the time.  She could not have known the hurts of all you who will read this; and the aches in your hearts that only Jesus can see and know. 

But...she could hear His voice.  And we who know His voice can hear it, however He chooses to send it to our ears.  Whether it be through a song, a poem, a beautiful sunrise, a smile or a hug when we most need it.  And i am learning that, in weariness or pain, when I am dealt sore disappointments or hurts; in each of these things, He is teaching me to say, “My Lord, my Love, I am content with Thee.” 
 

...just a couple love songs...

And what is Valentine's Day without beautiful (sappy) sweet love songs?  A couple of links to our all-time favorites...

waylon jennings waltz me to heaven    

--i think "Waltz Me to Heaven" is one of the prettiest songs i have ever heard.  This particular youtube mix with all the pictures of Waylon and Jessie is sweet and a little sad too...so thankful that music lives on, though the man who sang it is gone... 

olivia newton-john let me be there   

--a beautiful song that reminds me of dancing with my hubby at his friend's wedding...i think i fell in love with him all over again...

kenny rogers and dolly parton islands in the stream    

--my husband's favorite love song...such a gorgeous song, not necessarily g-rated but not in any way raunchy or in bad taste..and hey, we are married...   :)   

happy valentine's day, honey...

Sixteen years ago, I said “I do” to the best husband in the world.  He has stuck by me, for better and for worse. 

The sweetest thing he has ever said to me is, “I’m not leaving.”  I ramble on a bit, on this blog, about the insecurities I have battled over the years.  What healing I have found, in the knowledge that he is here to stay.  What security for the little people...and not-so-little-anymore...people who call us “mama” and “daddy.”

He has put his time and energy into being the right husband, instead of trying to figure out whether he found the right wife.  (I think he did.  :)  )  He puts on the uniform and goes to work every day, to do a difficult job--so that his family has food, clothing, and shelter; and so that all the rest of you are safer out there.

He teaches his boys what it means to be a good man; and gives them an example to look up to.  He teaches his daughter what a good man should be, and how he should treat her; and I pray that she remembers that when she begins to date.

Because, at the end of the day, the most important thing is not to find the right person, but to be the right person.  And he is.

Though we both have our failings and shortcomings; though sometimes one or both of us are not what we should be, or what we want to be; in this too, the blood of Christ covers all. 

And, at the end of the day, after sixteen years, three kids, and some of the hard knocks that life sometimes brings, we...are...still...so...in...love.

happy valentine’s day, honey!

...and the band softly played...

“...and the band softly played on this magical night...”

I have a thank you note that sits on a little stand in a tray with my watch, bobby pins, barrettes, and hairbrush.  It has a few water spots because somebody at my house does tend to brush his teeth with water flinging everywhere.  But though it is smudged and almost two years old, I keep it.  Sometimes there is a magical time--a moment, an hour, an evening, that one wishes to keep just a glimpse of...to remember...

the note begins, “Dear Host family...” 

On the last Sunday in March of 2012, almost two years ago, our church had plans to host a choir from a Bible college for our Sunday morning service.  But due to distance and travel plans, the choir members were in need of a place to sleep on Saturday night and a breakfast on Sunday morning before church.  A request was posted in the bulletin, wondering if the good people of our church would be so kind as to host them for the Saturday night before the program.  At our house, we had room for three.  

We do enjoy company...i have always been shy but have learned that one of the best exercises for keeping it at bay is to practice not being shy.  So, when there is a chance to practice my hostess skills, I try to do so. 

And...Hebrews 13:2...”Be not forgetful to entertain strangers; for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” 
And in Matthew 25:34-35  ...”Then shall the King say unto them on His right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world:
For I was [hungered] and ye gave me meat:  I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me in...” 

It does not say that only those who are not shy in this life will sit on His right hand in the kingdom of heaven, so i think this means that I am not excluded in this directive to entertain strangers...

So, anyway, we had these three lovely “angels unaware” in our home that evening.  These three girls were college students in their early twenties--friendly, sweet, and kind to my children.  My children are usually very eager little hosts and this time was no exception.  Our guests were duly shown their rooms and we invited them to make themselves at home, as is our usual. 

It was a chilly night, too early in the year to sit outside at a bonfire as we often do when we have guests.  We all gathered in the living room to visit.  The girls had had a long day and to them, nothing sounded better than hot showers and comfortable chairs.  They were easy to chat with; but, as I have learned on previous occasions of “entertaining strangers,“ at times it is nice to have a bit of background music or tv, if I can find something that everyone enjoys; to help out with conversation.  I do my best to be a kind and comfortable hostess, but shyness sometimes makes me a bit awkward at the same time.  So as we visited in the living room, I pulled up a recording on our DVR that had given our family so many happy hours of entertainment.  Good old PBS. 

A few years before, my hubby had called me in to the living room one night to watch a show on PBS...one of the concerts that PBS aired during their fund drive (said fund drive is otherwise referred to by my children as “the beggars are on!”).  The concert hubby was watching was a fairly new group, or new to the United States, anyway.  The work of Irish music legend Phil Coulter and Celtic Woman production originator Sharon Browne, Celtic Thunder was an awesome show with full orchestra, intricate choreography, and the beautiful seamless harmony of George MacDonald, Keith Harkin, Paul Byrom, Damian McGinty, Ryan Kelly, and Neil Byrne.  We had never heard of Celtic Thunder before that evening, but they were unforgettable. 

Now, a few years later, with the wonderful technology of DVR, we had recorded Celtic Thunder’s Heritage concert when the beggars took to the screen again with the promise of Celtic Thunder tickets in return for a little chunk of support for your friendly neighborhood PBS stations.  Skipping through the “beggarly” portions of the two hour time slot was a small price to pay to watch the Heritage show; and we watched it again and again.  The first Celtic Thunder show we watched, titled That’s Entertainment, had been excellent--a look back at American entertainment through the years.  But Heritage was a look back at traditional Irish music and this performance was...well, something absolutely special.  Almost magical.

In March of 2012, I was already beginning my downward spiral into depression, although I didn’t realize it at the time.  I chalked up my growing fear and occasional attack of near panic to apprehension building for the surgery that I had scheduled for the last week in March--the countdown was now down to only a few days.  But during the weeks leading up to the surgery, I couldn’t get enough of this music.  Something in it soothed my soul and held the darkness at bay, if only for a short time.

And “the band softly played on that magical night...” 

We watched, captivated.  Our guests were talented and dedicated singers and musicians.  They knew their music and they knew quality when they saw it.  Though I had watched Heritage many times already, I saw it anew through their eyes.  I learned new things that I had not noticed before; as we watched, gently critiqued, and thoroughly enjoyed the show.  This was not only quality music and showmanship, but this concert had a beautiful chemistry...I was beginning to believe it was simply one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments, never to be duplicated.  It was filmed in Poughkeepsie, New York, in September 2010; shortly before two of the original members left the group--Paul Byrom to pursue a solo career, and Damian McGinty to join the tv show The Glee Project.  Whether or not this was their farewell performance, I did not know; but I was sure that they could not have delivered a better one.  More than once we had goosebumps on our skin and tears in our eyes.

It was a wonderful evening, in its quiet conversation, sweet fellowship, and beautiful music.    My children have a knack for song and harmony, and my oldest son (never quite as shy as his mother) added his voice to his favorite number--George Donaldson’s performance of “Working Man”--when it came on.  The admiration of my son's talent by our musician guests--and the evidence that they knew whereof they spoke--added to his confidence and helped to inspire him to join a men’s singing group a few months later, to add to his musical skill and natural ear for harmony.  My daughter (who tends to be a little shy like her mother) was also brave enough to sing a bit for these sweet girls; and I watched her with the joy of a mom seeing a usually closed little flower open and sharing her beauty with the world.  My youngest had adopted one of the girls as his special buddy for the night and parked himself on her lap with the assurance of a child who knows he is adorable and loved.

The girls’ kind thank you note said, “Thank you so much for everything!  We really enjoyed every minute of it [our visit]!”  Oh, girls, we did too... 

And the memory, the music, the lingering joy of it...it carried me through the beginning of the darkness that was seeping into me.  I still carry that lingering joy in my heart. 

I still enjoy Celtic Thunder; though they have seen many changes, they are still a wonderful show.  And this Christmas, when PBS aired a Christmas special by Paul Byrom, my youngest child came flying out to the kitchen to find me...“it’s Paul, it’s Paul!  on the tv, Mom!“  Paul Byrom and Damian McGinty were sadly missed when we watched the later Celtic Thunder shows without them; and my little guy was rather afraid that they had passed away.  So what a relief it was to him; to find Paul, alive and well, and singing on our tv.

My dear understanding hubby bought me the DVD of that September 2010 Heritage concert after the DVR showed an error message one day and refused to play the PBS recording of it again.  Sometimes I still put the DVD in and let the music seep in to me, into all the dark places.  And it soothes my soul...

So I wanted to say thank you...to all of you--Phil Coulter, Sharon Browne, George Donaldson, Ryan Kelly, Keith Harkin, Paul Byrom, Damian McGinty, Neil Byrne, and all the rest of the talented people who made this show possible, whose names i don‘t know.  You have brought such joy in the middle of a dark time, and I will always, always be grateful...
 

 (...the two links below are some background information on Celtic Thunder, and one of our favorite songs from the 2010 Heritage concert...)

 Celtic Thunder wikipedia


Celtic Thunder--A Place in the Choir

...awake, my soul, and sing--of Him Who died for thee...

Fear gripped me, and I was suddenly awake.  My whole body was shaking and my heart and mind were racing.  I raised myself on my elbow and looked at the clock.  Two minutes till my alarm would go off.  I lay back down and tried to remember why I was scared.  Was it a dream?  Had something terrible happened?  No.  I remembered the dream--it was a little weird, but nothing scary.  I took inventory of my surroundings--all was normal, calm and quiet.  There was no reason that I could see, for the fear and trembling that woke me.  I tried to calm myself, but my mind would not be calm.  I switched off my alarm as the radio switched on.  I was left with quiet...except for a verse of song floating through my head--an old song I remembered from church as a little girl.  What’s up with that?  I had no idea where it came from.

“Crown Him with many crowns,
The Lamb upon His throne;
Hark! how the heav’nly anthem drowns
All music but its own:
Awake, my soul, and sing
Of Him who died for thee,
And hail Him as thy matchless King
Through all eternity.”

(“Crown Him With Many Crowns,” Matthew Bridges, 1851.  Music by George J. Elvey, 1868.)

I lay as still as I could, listening to the verse of song...”awake, my soul, and sing--of Him who died for thee...”  My hubby sleepily reached out and squeezed my knee and I squeezed his warm hand in return.  My heartbeat slowed into a more normal range.  I was still shaking.  It was not an auspicious start to a day, this beginning with completely irrational fear.  But I still had a day to begin, a family to care for.  There was no hiding under the warm covers till the terror passed. 

But there was this thread of hope, this directive to “do the next thing,” as Elisabeth Elliot used to say on her radio program.  “...awake, my soul, and sing--of Him who died for thee...”  So that’s what I would do.  I wrapped up in the Giant Blue Fuzzy Thing that eases the transition between my cozy bed and the cold room on winter mornings (sometimes referred to by regular people as a robe or housecoat) and stumbled out of bed on shaky legs.

Thank God for automatic timers on coffeepots.  There is nothing quite as comforting as the smell of coffee and the bubbling of the coffeepot to greet one in the morning.  Even in little things like the coffeepot, His mercies are new every morning.  I grabbed my Bible and the book by Amy Carmichael that I was reading through, for a few minutes before my family woke up and the morning quiet was shattered.

And in Amy Carmichael’s book were the most beautiful words of encouragement...

“In the night the stars shine, and beyond the Cross the love of God shines; our earthly sadness, too, will be lost in the Light of Jesus.”

“For to all the children of the Father of Lights, however shadowed life may be, there is, there will be, the light that changes all things.”
 
And then, after the quiet was shattered by the noise of my family beginning their day, our scripture reading for the morning was Psalm 103.  Some of the verses almost jumped off the page at me.

“Bless the Lord, O my soul; and all that is within me, bless His holy name.
Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits;
Who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases;
Who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies;
Who satisfieth thy mouth with good things; so that thy youth is renewed like the eagle’s.  (verses 1-5 KJV)

“...The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy.
He will not always chide; neither will he keep His anger forever.
He hath not dealt with us after our sins; nor rewarded us according to our iniquities.
For as the heaven is high above the earth, so great is His mercy toward them that fear Him.
As far as the east is from the west, so far hath He removed our transgressions from us.
Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him.
For He knoweth our frame; He remembereth that we are dust.”  (verses 8-14  KJV)

And could it be, that He loves me, and has compassion on me?  Loves me and has compassion on me like I am His child, His little girl?  And that He removed my sins as far as the east is from the west?  It can be, and it is.

So even though the anxiety is not gone...even though it is often a daily battle...He is there.
And in His love and compassion i can carry on.

...He's got my back...

My back was against the bricks of the wall.  My tormentor was surrounded by a group of supporters, but i had no one to stick up for me.  Cornered, with nowhere else to run, I scratched at her arms with my fingernails and drew blood.  In shocked but gleeful horror at the drama of it all, someone ran to tell the teacher that I had scratched Ethel.  Fighting back was forbidden, no matter how badly one was provoked. 

My memory of the incident is clouded by a haze of anger, but I remember that, when recess was over, the teacher shamed me in front of the whole class for fighting.  Scalding tears of anger at the injustice of it all kept me from pleading my case.  Not that it would have made a difference.  One of my tormentor’s supporters piped up, “I know why you’re crying--because you hurt Ethel.”  I was NOT crying because I hurt her.  I was furious.  I didn’t want to fight anyone; I just wanted to be friends and fit in with the other kids.  It was futile.  I never fit.  This particular minister’s daughter was a year older than me, had it in for me, could talk faster and play out an incident in her favor when the adults investigated, and knew how to push my buttons--righteousness just tended to fall on her side when we clashed.

Many years have passed since we clashed in grade school, and today I bear her no ill will.  We do not see each other often--just here and there in passing; but when we do, we say hello and inquire after each other’s families if time permits.  But I will never forget the feeling of being cornered and helpless.  I wish I had known then, that Jesus had my back.
Back then, it seemed that no one had my back except the wall I was cornered against.

God’s people are just that--people.  The most well-intentioned can be so wrong.  They can punish a cornered little girl for fighting and overlook the mob of little girls who backed her into the corner.  They can boycott the girl scout cookies because of their “convictions” and rudely shut the door in the face of the little girls selling them.  They can be so busy finding verses that say that homosexuality is wrong that they forget that each person, gay or straight, is a human being with hopes, dreams, hurts, and feelings like everyone else.  They can come down hard on a teenage boy for swearing but not see the good heart underneath the “strong language.“  They can be so busy looking at his outward behavior that they cannot see how he needs the men around him to lead by example; to teach him what it means to be a man and use the strength God gave him to do good in his world. 

As a law enforcement officer, my husband works in a dangerous job.  He knows the value of working with good people who are trustworthy.  People who will have your back when something goes down.  It is not a kiddie playground spat; it could mean the difference between life and death.  The bond between him and his fellow officers goes deep. 

I always knew that was how it was for him at work...but it had yet to sink in for me, that he carried this into life in general.  But then a situation arose where I felt caught in the middle and didn’t know what to do.  It seemed I could not win.  I faced anger from people I loved and wanted to please, but most of the anger was dealt out in conversations that took place behind my back.  I had little chance to plead my case.  I was cornered and frustrated again.  To back off and remove myself and my children from the situation for a time, or ignore the hurtful things and pretend everything was fine?  I did not know what to do.  Finally my hubby told me that, no matter what, he had my back.  He what?  No one ever had my back.  Consistently.  But he did.  Just like he would back up an officer at work, he said, he would back me up too.  He trusted me and my judgment of the situation.  Something in my broken confidence began to heal that day.  It would be a long time before I could trust my own judgment without second guessing myself; but in my husband’s confidence in me--and his willingness to back up my decisions, I began to see a picture of Jesus having my back and taking care of me.  Could it be, that I could trust Him to have my back too?

Finally it somehow hit home for me--after knowing in my head for years but never fully absorbing into my heart--that God is the One in Whom we can place our complete confidence.  When I realized that I had been looking to everything and everyone else but Him, I began to see why I could never feel secure, never feel like I was worthwhile unless I had positive feedback around me, never sure I was doing right.  But in a still small voice Jesus began to whisper to me, “I’ve got your back.”  It is all through the Bible.  It says it in words like,

    “Lo, I am with you always even to the end of the age.” 
    Matthew 28:20

...and from a psalm of David...
   
    “I have been young, and now am old;
    Yet I have not seen the righteous forsaken,
    Nor his descendants begging bread.” 
    Psalm 37:25

And God began to remind me gently of the fact that I had never forgiven the hurt.  How many times had I told my children that I didn’t want to hear them tattling on their sibling when it was so obvious that the tattler was not behaving as he or she should?  But what was I doing?  The same thing.  Telling God how much they had hurt me while ignoring His command to forgive and to love our enemies.  Afraid that if I forgave and stopped running from being hurt, that I would be hurt again.  And again.  But, while it wasn’t audible, the still small voice said so clearly in my mind: 

“I’ve got your back.  If I could say, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do,’ while I was being nailed to the cross, how can you doubt Me when I ask you to forgive?  Trust Me; I’ve got your back.” 

 
So I can face the world...the hurtful stuff, the judgmental Christians, the hard decisions.  There is no brick wall at my back anymore.  The arms of Jesus are around me and He stands at my back.

whiter than snow...thank God, He forgives...

This week at my house, slush and mud and dead brown stuff has been covered in brilliant white.  Snow days and school delays make me despair of hope of spring--and make my children despair of any hope of ever finishing school before the end of June.  (When it’s time to go to the beach, we’re going.  School in June is for the birds...) 

And, as the snow and freezing rain/mist drifted down outside; inside my house, my last nerve was stretched very tightly...so...my youngest little cherub began jumping up and down on it to see if he could get it to go “ping!”  And my oldest began picking on his two younger siblings to see just how far that last nerve would stretch.  And my daughter, ever the middle child and slightly bossy sister--rolled her eyes and yelled loudly at her brothers for their transgressions (as if I was unaware that such things were going on).  And my last nerve snapped, as did my voice.  My little and not-so-little people understood that their mother was over-tired and weary of being cooped up indoors; and that they were testing her last nerve...but still, there is no kind way to snap at one’s children.

And, as the world closed in on me as the snow days overwhelmed me, I was finding it easier to retreat into my own world.  My mind was so jittery that outside noise--such as the existence of other people around me, the need for housework and meals, etc.--was hard to take.  I was able to do what was needed; but when I finished, I would curl up in my chair in the living room and hide under a blanket with my eyes closed.  A world of sound...with visual...was so...very...much...to...deal...with.

But this was not right.  I have a family.  Would Jesus not give me strength to engage with them?  To participate in life?  The feeling of being overwhelmed was not where I was wrong--feelings are just feelings, not right or wrong; they just are.  But how I was dealing with it was wrong.   I needed to at least try.  I could not just back out of life when it got to be too much, even if it was hard.

Will I ever get it right?  Will I ever be free of the “sin that so easily besets?”  There are so many times, in so many ways, where I have “failed and come short (of the glory of God).”  This beautiful, terrifying Goodness of God shows my failures and weaknesses far more glaringly than the brightest, most unflattering florescent light shows my flaws in any department store fitting room. 

But, though I am not yet what I should be...praise God, I am not what I was.  And, as Katy says, in Stepping Heavenward, by Elizabeth Prentiss, we can “fly to Jesus,” and there, on our knees, find forgiveness for our sins and rest for our souls.  And His blood will wash our hearts clean.

So, on second thought, I am thankful for the snow...what a picture of Him and what He does for us.  The sun has come out today and the snow with the ice on top of it is absolutely brilliant with light.  I can hardly bear to look at it.  God, can it be that my heart is that clean?  But it is! 

I John 1:9  “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”  (emphasis mine)

Psalm 51:7  “Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.” 

(...and this, this description of "whiter than snow," this is from Psalm 51...a psalm of repentance written by the Old Testament King David, after David had had Uriah the Hittite killed so that 1.) David could have Uriah’s wife Bathsheba; and 2.) in an attempt to cover up the fact that the baby that Bathsheba was carrying was David’s, not Uriah’s.  If David could be forgiven for this...is that not hope for all of us who grow weary of our sins and wonder if God can truly pardon us all of our transgressions?)

The whiter the snow, the more brilliantly the light is reflected in it.  The dirty stuff piled beside the road where the snowplow went, that stuff does not gleam.  But as I look out across pristine, untouched, snow covered fields, the sun on the snow is so bright that my eyes hurt.  Is that not a picture of God too?  Only when our hearts are clean can we reflect Him brilliantly.  Thank God, He forgives.

thank God He lives...and a thank you note...

Fall 2013   

The sadness is back.  Summer is over.  Beautiful Indian summer days have given way to brilliant fall colors and frost is near.  The garden that gave us so many hours of enjoyment, a wonderful outlet for childish energy (or slave labor, depending who you ask), and so much wonderful food, is dying--a few last peas and maybe a few more “pickings” of green beans and peppers before frost.  Sunlight hours are fewer; the moon is huge and beautiful.  Our sixteenth wedding anniversary has come and gone.  Hunting season is here.  Much to the pride and joy of our oldest son, there is a deer waiting for the freezer already.

And hello, darkness, my old friend...

I am so much better equipped to handle it this year, than last year.  I have a much better understanding of this monster that I have fought for so many years.  I have an arsenal of weapons to fight with this time around.  By now they are battle tested and so am i. 

But it still isn’t easy.  I know it may never be easy.  Some days are good; but many days I still battle the sadness, the darkness, the panic attacks.  But it is okay.  Jesus died for me...for even me, mind you...He would not have done that if He had not loved me.  I am not worthy; but in His love, He has made me worthy.  Still shy, still melancholy I am, even on the good days...but finally I am able to be at peace with that, if that is how He made me.

January 2014

And as I battled my way through fall and winter; the joyful chaos of Christmas, once again trying to hold life together and feeling as though I were not succeeding so well; God seemed to come down and wrap His arms around me as my daughter and I watched a movie one night.  I wanted to write it down, didn’t want to forget the feeling of being wrapped in God’s love...but the words just would not come.  I was more than a bit overwhelmed with life, and while I could still talk if necessary; once again, putting words together took effort.  So I gave up on it and just tried to remember...until one night I sat down at the keyboard and typed out a slightly rambling one-sided conversation...uh...i mean, a thank you note, to Sam Elliot, one of the actors who played the scene...and what a relief to be able to talk if only on a keyboard...



“You...tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man...could tear apart. Only faith...poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view the...beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now...ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.”

Dear Mr. Elliot,

I have always been a fan, from the first time I saw you on the screen.  An actor is not so much different from a painter--he tells stories in a series of pictures and scenes, and paints the story for his audience.  And you, sir, are one of the great masters of the art.  You have one of those unforgettable voices and a knack for timing and making the words and characters come alive.  In the grand scheme of things, the film i am referencing may not be your most unforgettable movie; but this scene at the end of the movie Prancer has quite possibly become my favorite movie scene of all time.  Sometimes God talks through other people...sometimes He pushes aside that curtain with a story, a film, a poem...and lets us view the beauty and the glory beyond.

I apologize in advance for spilling so much of my personal life as I am going to do, but to properly say thank you I have to explain why it meant so much.  So, please forgive me and bear with a bit of background. 

A panic disorder is kind of a tough thing to live with.  It sort of freezes a person in their tracks when an attack comes on.  Sometimes it is possible to tell oneself that one’s fears are not rational...but rational or not, they are very, very real.  In the last year and a half I have become well acquainted with how to live with this and how to try to work with it...it doesn’t go away, although there are meds and therapies that do help.

As I write this, it’s winter.  It’s the time of year when the days are short and the darkness is long; kids get sick, husbands get sick, roads are often treacherous with plenty of traffic accidents here where i live.  My husband works in law enforcement; I have some years of experience working in emergency medical services.  Most of the fear; and some of the panic attacks, arise from things I have seen; and things that I know could happen.   

So, in this bleak winter landscape, I was battling the unseen foe--because, of course, no one but me can see or know the fears that lay in wait for a time when I am weak.  Those battles are fought within.  It stings...sometimes people don’t understand.  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.  To top it off, few days before Christmas, I managed to aggravate an old back injury; I was barely able to walk.  I had had surgical recoveries that left me with more mobility.  Then my children managed to come down with a stomach bug.  In this clever way, God made sure I was firmly ensconced in my couch and flipping channels to find something to watch.  And I came across a movie that I had not watched since I was a child.

Two nights before Christmas, my daughter woke me up crying that she was going to throw up.  Obviously, there was no sleep for the time being.  For her or me.  So we sat up with her ginger ale and bucket; and my heating pad and pillows; flipped through Christmas movies and infomercials, and found Prancer on tv.  Back in the day, it had been the first Sam Elliot movie I ever saw.  (Well, of course.  I was 11 at the time--it wasn’t like any sane adult was going to let me watch Road House. :) ) Prancer was the world of the 1980’s forever frozen in a film.  It made me a little homesick to be a child again. 

I watched tiredly.  I was weary from interrupted sleep and the anxiety that kept popping up no matter how faithful I was with my meds; no matter how hard I tried to focus on other things.  As I had many times over the past days and weeks, I asked God to please take away my fear.  At least enough to get me through the next hours, the next day.  At least enough so I could function with some normalcy for my husband and children.  God is not a magic genie in a bottle.  It’s not like we can rub the bottle with our prayers and get what we want.  But He sent His Son to die for us.  How can we doubt that He loves us beyond what we can ask or imagine?  I was finding that He sent me the strength I needed, at the time I needed it.  Not before I needed it, or too little too late...but just at the right time.

So He sent me this movie.  What’s up with that?  This is a story about a little girl who lost her mom.  For a mom with young kids, this taps into one of life’s great fears.  We can’t leave these little people motherless...but what control over it do we have?  Our times are ultimately not in our hands.  I watched with a lump in my throat as Jessica sat in front of her mother’s picture with her tea set, talking to her mama as little girls do.  Missing her; needing, for a moment, to remember things as they used to be. 

It made me ache for my children; the panic attacks were not great but it had been much worse.  At this time last year my children’s mama was a shell of what she used to be.  Closed into her own world of pain and fear.  In spite of the deep depression I was in, I couldn’t leave them; but I couldn’t mother them.  i was surviving day by day, sometimes hour by hour.  Just fighting to get better.  In the past 12 months I had improved a lot.  After long months of darkness, the day had come when I was finally able to engage with life; my husband said I began to talk again.  I began to enjoy my kids again.  I felt as if I had been asleep for months, and was finally awake.  But while I was sleeping, my babies had grown up.  My little girl was fast becoming a young lady.  My sons were so tall and had somehow become protective of their mom.  I was so thankful to be awake again that I tried not to waste too much time in regret of what I had missed.  Why lose more?  But watching Jessica’s tea party brought it back, that ache that stuck in the back of my throat and choked me.  What’s up with that, God?  This is supposed to make me feel better?  But I was riveted.  I followed the story, almost forgetting the little girl across the living room from me, almost becoming a little girl again as i went back in time to when I first saw this movie. 

And then, on the screen, Jessica asked her daddy to read from a book her mother used to read to her, an excerpt from the 1897 editorial “Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus.”

“You...tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man...could tear apart. Only faith...poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view the...beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now...ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.”

As he finished, and Jessica began talking, i found her words echoing what I had been saying to God in the last weeks and months...

...”Daddy, I didn’t really want to run away.  I just wanted you to find me and bring me back here and tell me things were gonna be okay.”


Oh, God, how I want You to tell me things will be okay.  Please tell me that the horrible images that pop into my head--patients that i have cared for who died in my arms, the sad and terrible things that have happened to other people, will not find their way to my home.  My sweet and self-sacrificing husband and my precious children.  My other family and my friends.  My dear, dear friend who has a genetic condition that could take her suddenly, without warning, before I even get to say goodbye.  Please, Jesus, please tell me things are going to be okay...

“Oh, Jessie, I can’t tell you that.  I wish I could, but I know things are always going to be hard around here.”

It was as if God were saying to me, “My precious girl, things will always be hard, here on  earth.  I wish I could tell you they wouldn’t be, but pain is part of living here.  Ever since the garden of Eden, when sin and death entered the world, things will always be hard around here.”

Tears...does God shed tears?  Does He weep over His children?  Tell them how He aches for their pain? 

“...Don’t cry, Jessie.  You’re home, honey, and that’s where you’re going to stay.”

And somehow, God seemed to hold me like I was His little girl.  He will not let me go.

Sometimes I have asked Jesus, “what do You look like?”  Not that I need to know, I just wanted to.  It would be comforting somehow, when I feel so alone.  I know I won’t really know till I get to heaven and He welcomes me Home.  But here, on earth, does He sometimes wear an old Carhartt coat and a few days growth of beard?  Does He hold us and cry with us?  For me, He did, in the wee hours of Christmas Eve morning.

Later, after the movie was done, I looked up the full text of “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.”  Here is another bit of it.  God is so real, but sometimes I think He speaks most through things that seem so unseen and unseeable...

“Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.”

You might as well not believe in God!  But just because we don’t see Him, what does that prove?  I don’t understand why life has to be so hard sometimes; why and how pain and beauty are so closely intertwined...I don’t pretend to understand Him or His ways, or why he allows suffering and pain at all.  But I don’t have to understand it all to recognize when He is there.  Thank God, He lives.

And so, Mr. Elliot, I must say thank you.  Thank you for putting your heart and soul into this movie so many years ago.  I am 35 now and most days don’t feel like a little girl anymore...but I needed to be one again, just for a little bit.  I needed to see a glimpse of Jesus and how He loves me.  Thank you for painting the picture for me...

many, many thanks...

(“Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus,” by Francis P. Church, first published in the New York Sun in 1897.)  Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus--full text

(Prancer, written by Greg Taylor, directed by John D. Hancock.  Nelson Entertainment, Cineplex Odeon Films.  Released November 17, 1989.)  Prancer wikipedia

story of a friendship...part 6

As with our phone calls, Anne and I were immediately comfortable with each other.  As Anne later said, “the weird thing about [having me in her home] was that it wasn’t weird.”  There was no awkwardness--it was like being in my mom’s or aunt’s or grandma’s house.  An extension of home.  Her kids came home from school and the babysitter’s about the time I got done showering away the airplane grime.  As I opened the bathroom door, I heard little-girl-whispering at the top of the basement steps. 

“Is she really a princess?”

“I think so...”

Anne’s daughters began calling me Princess Rose a long time before they met me.  The name came from a movie.  I had doubts about its accuracy...but it was pretty flattering.  i wasn’t going to argue and hurt their little-girl feelings.  They were even more beautiful than the pictures Anne had sent.  Her son was a handsome, delightful little boy with a mischievous grin. 

The first part of our visit was spent around the woodstove, watching the snow blow outside the windows.  I kept thinking of the descriptions in “The Long Winter” by Laura Ingalls Wilder.  I had heard and read about prairie blizzards, but had never seen one before.  It was beautiful, but the thought of surviving a winter in this barren wilderness 150 years ago was a sobering one.  It helped me see in a new way how truly tough the western pioneer settlers...and their descendents...had to be.  I was suddenly keenly aware of how tough I wasn’t, especially right then. 

But in spite of the bitter weather outside, inside it was warm and cozy.  There was a teakettle of hot water on the stove from the time we finished the coffee in the morning till we went to bed at night.  Who’d have guessed that we both went through cold winter days with a hot cup of tea (or, in my case, coffee for mornings) never too far from our hands? 

The funny thing was, that, while we certainly did lots of talking, silence wasn’t awkward either.  I think, at first, we were each getting used to the idea that the other was real.  Sometimes, it had seemed like, after we hung up the phone, that the voice on the other end was just that--a voice.  We knew so many details of each other’s hearts, minds, and lives...but sometimes it still seemed a bit surreal.  Maybe God gave us the phone number of a ministering angel...was it too much to hope that she was a real person? 

So, at first, we sort of marveled at how cool it was to add facial expressions and body language to our conversations.  We had exchanged a few pictures, mostly of our families, had thrown in were one or two of the more flattering shots of ourselves.  However, as we hung out around the table, on the couch beside the fire, playing with the kids...we realized that we had hardly known what the other looked like.  Thanks to the marvels of modern technology, we also talked on the computer with my parents and my kids.  i think (especially given my mental state of the previous months) that, deep down, my mother was just a bit relieved to find that Anne was really and truly a real person and that I wasn’t just floating around the Great American West somewhere.  Not that Mom thought that my husband would let that happen...but it was nice that she could actually see us, talk to us, and even take a bit of a virtual tour around Anne’s house. 

It was a wonderful week.  We spent a delightful Sunday afternoon wandering through a beautifully restored late 1800’s hotel a few minutes from Anne‘s home.  Looking down the wide main street, a person could almost hear the thunder of hooves as a long-ago cattle drive came through town.  It was a slow tourist season, this first week of February, and the owner of the hotel was gracious and welcoming.  She left us wander through her meticulously restored establishment at our leisure, except for the few rooms that were occupied, of course.  Modern conveniences had been discreetly blended into period decor; bullet holes had been left for ambiance.  The Teddy Roosevelt room seemed as if Teddy himself couldn’t have left that long ago.  Also preserved was the room where Owen Wister stayed (the author of “The Virginian”).  It had an adjoining writing room--really not much more than a cubbyhole--with a writing desk and a window.  Many more and less notorious characters had passed through the doors--Calamity Jane, Billy the Kid, and other famous outlaws and lawmen.  The place was full of photographs and history preserved...I was awed and a bit intimidated by the flavor of the old west that permeated everything.  I was again acutely aware of how eastern I was and how tough I wasn’t. 

In some ways our time was bittersweet.  I could see for myself the toll that EDS had taken on my friend.  The pain that had her rocking against the grocery cart in the store--I knew we needed to get out of there and get her home so she could rest and take her meds.  How thin she was, how she ate constantly to try to satisfy the hunger that resulted from her damaged system being unable to process nourishment well. 

I had thought long and hard about what to bring to her.  She loved the pictures of the woods and greenery around my house; so it was a fairly simple thing, with modern photo websites, to design a calendar of pictures I had taken around home, for her to enjoy through the year.  But another special thing that I was able to tuck in my suitcase was a print identical to one I had hanging on my wall, along with a copy of the Juniata Mennonite Historical Center Echoes newsletter titled “In loving memory of Noah Zimmerman.”  Over the years, I had gained much respect for Noah Zimmerman, the late historian and director of the Juniata Mennonite Historical Society.  His simple, quiet life had impressed me so...he had been gifted with the talent for remembering and preserving history, and had done so with all his heart, to the glory of God.  In his correspondence, he had signed his letters with:  “Until Reclaimed, Noah Zimmerman.“  He was faithful until he was reclaimed by his Lord and Savior following a battle with cancer at age 80.  After his death, the historical society had commissioned a print in his memory--a picture of his well-worn overalls, coat, and boots against the backdrop of one of the walls of his home, along with some articles of clothing that had belonged to his parents, whom he had cared for until their deaths.  The print was finished with a small inset of a picture of Noah and his sister Sarah.  Sarah was a dear lady who suffered from mental illness; Noah had also cared for her as long as he was able to do so.  The print was titled, simply, “Reclaimed.”  He didn’t need the overalls anymore.  His family responsibilities were finished.  His simple, unselfish life was an example I was honored to witness.  Anne had been captivated by his story and especially loved how he signed his letters, “Until Reclaimed.”  As I watched her face, as she looked over the things I had brought, I wondered how long it would be until she was “reclaimed.”  But I could not think of that.  This was our week, to just enjoy hanging out together.  

The hardest day was getting out the box of Jack’s things.  It was barely touched since the funeral--all the pictures, all the memorabilia that Anne had saved for her children.  Some months after Jack’s death, I had asked about reading the obituary sometime.  My family always passes around the obituary after someone passes away.  So, if it wasn’t too much trouble, I wanted to read Jack’s obituary.  That was all.  No biggie, no hurry.  Anne had said she would email it to me--it was in “the Jack box.“  But she wasn’t quite ready to look through his things yet.  The obituary had never materialized in my email inbox, and I knew it just wasn’t something she was ready to revisit.

So, when she offered to get out the box, I didn’t want to push the issue.  The obituary could wait a few more years if needed.  I didn’t want to go over territory that was too painful for them. 

But that cold, snowy day in early February, Anne and the kids all seemed to want, or need, to revisit old times.  It was not an easy day, but it turned out to be a good thing.  The kids didn‘t say much, but they looked and looked at the pictures of each other as babies, and of their mama and daddy.  I watched their faces, and realized that they were so young, and yet so old.  I ached for them.  But yet I was honored that they would share these memories with me.  We looked at pictures of happier days, and sadder ones; watching the faces in the pictures change from a loving couple with smiling babies to strained smiles put on for the camera.  Jack had known Jesus, but here on earth he had been so very broken.  The sadness in his eyes and brokenness in his soul had seeped through the whole family until they, too, had broken. 

But it leaped out at me, how, on Jack and Anne’s wedding picture, he had such a smile of real joy and love for his bride; as if, back then, he had hope for a future of a happy home and family.  I could see how he had loved her.  And I do think that Anne and the children gave him the most happiness he had in his life.  We looked long and hard at the pictures of those early days.  It was harder to look at the later ones, the sadder ones.  Sometimes wounds have to be painfully debrided in order for healing to progress.  I felt like I was watching that happen, that day.  Jack was healed now.  But those left behind still had raw, painful wounds. 

“Rose, he had the greatest laugh.  It just echoed through the room.  I know he is there, with Jesus, smiling...and his laugh just echoes, up there in heaven...” 

I held my cup of tea and sat with her.  There was nothing I could say.  But I could almost hear his laugh ringing, too.  Sitting with her that week, I felt like heaven was very, very, near. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

We drove to the airport keeping our talk light.  I thanked her for the wonderful week.  Tickets, luggage, all was in order.  She walked me into the airport as far as she could.  One last hug; the briefest of goodbyes.  We hate to cry.  So we didn’t.  At least, not then.  She walked away, a thin pretty girl with a mane of beautiful curly hair that I will probably always be slightly jealous of.  I pushed my suitcase toward the security checkpoint.

story of a friendship...part 5

My husband never ceases to amaze me...underneath the gruff exterior, there beats a heart of gold. Over the years, with time, maturity, and hard knocks of life, one learns to hold in emotions and develop a thicker skin; I tried to learn to roll with the ups and downs of life as a law enforcement wife. A person hears much about the sacrifices of military wives and families, especially in war time--I can also testify to the fact that the families of police and correctional officers have their own very real, if less publicized, challenges to face. (And in no way do I mean any disrespect to our military families--I am so grateful for them and what they do. And many law enforcement families are, or have been, military families too. I simply mean that we who have loved ones in law enforcement have our hurdles as well, that are unique to the job.) From the naive, trusting, romantic child I was during the teenage years, realism--and oh, maybe just a touch of cynicism, from time to time--gradually set in.

Hubby and I were married in 1997. Our love grew deep, strong, and tough with the years. We worked together, laughed together, raised children together, and shared annoyance for stupidity (sometimes other people’s, sometimes mine) together. We lacked nothing that we truly needed--the Lord provided abundantly for our needs. Sometimes I knew my dear hubby was weary of me and my faults. He loved me a lot; his thoughts on divorce were always (tongue-in-cheek, of course) “it’s cheaper to keep her...” Which, considering that divorce and child support can financially ruin a man, is most certainly true...but I knew that it was not finances that kept him by my side. He really loved me, in spite of everything. I had never really felt worthy of such love, especially one as deep as his.

There was nothing lacking in our marriage that we truly needed...although I must admit that we didn’t have an overabundance of romantic moments. But often, just when I was worn out with the mundane and the routine of life, or just plain worn out and discouraged, I would see a glimpse of the depth of his love for me that was beautiful enough to satisfy even the long-ago romantic ideals of my teenage years. And my heart would almost burst with joy, and at the same time ache with the knowledge that I was not good enough to deserve such love.

The term “best friend” is thrown around rather loosely these days...and I have been guilty of it too. In my husband--in his love, integrity, and loyalty--I have found my best friend here on earth.

In L. M. Montgomery’s “Anne” series, written in the early part of the 20th century, Anne Shirley and Diana Barry take an oath of friendship to be “bosom friends.” I loved this description of their faithful friendship--showing what a truly innocent child I was when I first read these books. I understood immediately that they were “friends who knew each other’s hearts.” I didn’t have a bosom friend, but I knew exactly what the author meant by it. In our way over-sexualized culture of 100 years later, I sometimes hesitate to use the term “bosom friends.” But there is no modern equivalent to it. It would be a disservice to my husband to equate another friendship to what he and I have been through together through the years. My husband is, and has been my best friend for many years. But, because he is male and I am female, I often have to explain things to him. And he understands partially, the best he can, as a man. He has my heart, holds it in his hand completely. But it takes another girl to be a “bosom friend,” I think--to know another girl's heart and understand as only another lady can do...and such a rare friendship is a gem not to be taken for granted, and never to be forgotten. And this was the friendship that God gave to my dear friend Anne and me.  And this, of course, is why i have named her Anne for the purposes of these stories.

And, my husband, in his wisdom, saw what a good thing this friendship was. He was determined that, if it were in his power to do so, he would see that Anne and I got to meet each other here--here on earth, before God called one or the other of us Home. So, for Christmas, he bought me a plane ticket west.

I was a bit frightened. I was barely able to function normally in my own home territory. What would I do 2000 miles away? With hours on an airplane (in a confined space--a terribly, small, confined space of a seat) between here and there? Anne had her own misgivings...but she only confided them to me later. The wild excitement that I was actually coming to visit was all that I heard at the time. The plane tickets were purchased for the last week in January, in order to give both of us time to recover from Christmas--and to give me a little more time to get stabilized.

Christmas was coming. I tried to do the normal stuff--what I remembered to be normal from years past, anyway. (I was doing a lot of guessing at normal...watching people around me for social cues when I was out “among people,” trying to remember what I had done in previous years for holidays and other seasonal things.) In spite of my best efforts, I don’t think I was doing very well.

I didn’t do crowds; when they were unavoidable--such as family gatherings, I often hid out away from any noise or lots of activity. Church was next to impossible; Sunday School was sometimes do-able, but I often got claustrophobic since our room was small and had this tendency to shrink when it got full. I couldn’t concentrate anyway...most of what I got out of class was practicing techniques for controlling panic attacks. Guess there is always something useful a person can be doing, even when one’s brain is a little foggy...

A few days before Christmas, a dear lady my husband had known from childhood and the mother of two of his close friends--passed away very suddenly from a heart attack. When I found out, it felt like someone punched me in the stomach. I couldn’t bear it, but I couldn’t stay away. I couldn’t cry, I just ached too deep in my soul. She had always treated us like members of the family--she was so accepting and loving to us. We were often included in their family gatherings, even though technically we weren’t family (so far, even my 89 year old grandfather, who has been a historian and geneologist for most of his adult life, hasn‘t found any geneological connection between our families). I don’t know why she seemed to love us so, but we loved her for it. I felt as though I lost a very dear aunt. And there was nothing we could do to make it better. All we could do was to be there, to grieve with these people we had come to love so much.

I took the maximum doses of my panic meds and did the best I could to get through the viewing and funeral. It was very hard, but if I had hidden out at home, I would have always regretted it.  Dear patient hubby described my demeanor at times as a “sullen teenager;” I attributed it to the meds and the fact that I was still in survival mode. (I didn’t realize how very withdrawn I had become until later, when I started to come out of my shell.  Several months later, he said, I began to talk again.) But none of us were ourselves...we sat in shocked, grief-stricken silence or making small talk to fill the silence and to keep from thinking about the matters at hand.

The funeral was on Christmas Eve. After that, we tried to settle back into the Christmas festivities, but there was a sadness hanging over us that did not leave for a long time. It seemed like, no matter where I turned, I was surrounded by the possibility or reality of losing someone dear to me.

I was never sorry for my training and experience as an EMT, but images and thoughts would pop into my mind, and I could not stop them. Thanks to field experiences and training classes, I had a wealth of terrible images and scenarios to draw from. But, as with all other mountains to climb, this too had to be conquered one step at a time. Again, there was always something useful I could be doing--even if it was just to put the techniques for dealing with this stuff into practice.  I had to keep reminding myself that these were just disturbing thoughts. Not reality. At least, not my reality, not now.  (Sadly, every bit of it was reality for somebody, at some time.)  But I had to put it aside and look at the real life around me.  The good things, the blessings God had given me.  I kept telling myself this, kept trying to work with the panic attacks...and slowly, with time, the horrible thoughts and images became less bothersome.  Never completely gone, but less bothersome.

I firmly pushed the thought of the potential of losing Anne out of my mind. I would think about that later, when I was stronger. Meanwhile, I concentrated on getting through each day as it came. And, as slowly the clouds lifted, I was finally able to feel happy. I could look forward to things again. I was truly excited to go see her.

January 30, 2013

It was a cold, windy, beautiful day out west, where the skies were huge and brilliantly blue. The sun was shining, but there was a prairie blizzard somewhere between the airport and my destination. I was on my way to spend a week with my “bosom friend,” this friend after my own heart. I was at baggage claim, getting my bags, telling her on my cell phone where to find me, and her next words were, “I know, I’m right behind you.” Then I was getting a hug from this girl who had become the sister I never had...the friend I never thought I would get to meet, here on earth.

But...here we were. Our God is so gracious; how tenderly He cares for us.

story of a friendship...part 4

Meanwhile, out west, Anne had her own problems...

After her surgery in the spring of 2012 (only a few weeks before I had mine--we do such things by the buddy system...) she sounded so much better on the phone, and told me how much better she felt.  But the relief was short-lived.  It wasn’t long--less than six months, I believe--till she began to develop terrific headaches accompanied by neurological symptoms such as vision changes, weakness, difficulty walking...not good stuff. 

I waited anxiously to hear what was wrong.  It took a lot of time and testing.  When a definitive diagnosis was finally reached, she was very reluctant to tell me.  But I wanted to know the name of this monster that had been stalking my best friend for so long. 
One disadvantage of getting to know someone over the phone and through emails is that some pieces of the puzzle come together slowly.  It took awhile for it to compute in my brain that the spinal curvature, the surgeries, the constant pain, and the bleeding problems that she endured were all connected.  The pieces finally fit, but my heart sank lower and lower as I read the information about vascular type Ehler’s Danlos Syndrome (EDS).  EDS is a complicated hereditary disorder that weakens the body’s connective tissue.  It takes various forms; some are more serious than others.  Of all of them, the vascular type is the most serious--the one with the shortest life expectancy, due to the weakening of blood vessels that make a person prone to spontaneous rupture of vessels and bleeding out via aneurysm or with any kind of trauma, even minor trauma.  I looked up various sources but they all said pretty much the same thing.  One statistic that burned its way into my brain was that, by age 40, 80% of individuals with vascular type EDS develop life-threatening complications.  I read as much as I could find--I had to know.  At least it had a name.  All I could think was...”she’s almost 36...and it‘s starting.”  Her last surgery almost killed her.  But without it, she‘d probably have been gone already... 

I began to wonder if maybe we would never meet here on earth...maybe God wanted it that way.  We had carelessly thrown around phrases like “when I come out west,” or “when I come east...”  and “if I were five minutes closer, I’d be right over.”  But now such talk made my throat and chest feel tight.  I had that blessed assurance that if I never got to see her here on earth, we would meet someday.  But oh, how I wanted to meet here, in this world...