“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.
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Thursday, July 17, 2014
...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.
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.
Saturday, July 5, 2014
...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
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
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