I watched him wandering, trying to find the group he was supposed to be in. I had seen him ambling aimlessly from the tent where the kids had been for their Bible lesson, so I had intercepted him as he tried to score a second snack for the night, and headed him in the direction of his group. I had removed a huge pile of grass from his head too--I was guessing he didn’t get much out of the Bible lesson.
He knew what a soccer game was, and what the objective of the game was, but with all the distractions of the other kids and the great outdoors around him, he was unable to focus enough to actually play the game. He lay down in the middle of the field, fortunately away from where the kids were running and kicking the ball. Not the safest thing to do in the middle of a soccer field where a game was being played. Then the game headed in his direction, someone almost tripped over him, and he jumped up. He alternated between experimenting with pulling his pinny over his face (it‘s fun to look through the mesh at the altered perspective of the world through a red pinny), then running madly around the field chasing one of his teammates. He wasn‘t coordinated enough to be able to get a kick in at the ball, though he did try a few times when one of his coaches attempted to show him how to play “defense.” But the other kids were faster and kept the ball away from him. He quickly lost interest when he was unable to get to the ball.
Our church does a soccer camp for school-age children instead of a Vacation Bible School for those ages. Somewhere in the muddle of my smallest one‘s attempt at the First Night of Soccer Camp, I made the decision that this would be his first and last night of soccer camp for the year. He just was not ready, even for the youngest group. By the end of the week, he would either wander away and get lost, or place himself squarely in harm’s way and get hurt.
I was still weary from unpacking after a (very lovely) vacation at the beach. I was frustrated with trying to figure out where this boy fit. He had done okay at Bible School last year, (at least not getting lost or hurt) but he had been somewhat confined indoors at Bible School. Less opportunity for random wandering and physical injury. But this year, he was too old for Bible School. I had asked if the organizers would make an exception because of his autism, but the answer had been “no.”
As I watched my little boy in various group settings in the last few months, I was observing that he seemed to need a one-on-one adult, or at least an adult sitting close by to keep an eye on him, in almost all situations where he was part of a large group. That is a lot to ask--volunteers for Bible School, Sunday School, and Awana groups are almost always at a premium. I myself am pretty well fried from homeschooling for the last 8 years, from trying to stay a step ahead of my little guy 24/7, and the challenges that go with living with a mental illness. There is no way I have it in me to volunteer for a group of kids at this time in my life. And it felt unfair to me to send a high maintenance child to an activity that I am not able to volunteer to help out with. I’ve done it at various times, but always with some guilt hanging over my head.
I began to run over the options of fun things I could do with him to soften the blow of pulling him from soccer camp after the first night. I had thought about trying to send him to another Bible School, from another church, where they would have a class for his age. But I was not sure. Likely he would be with a group of kids and adults who don’t even know him. He would need close supervision, if not his very own volunteer. Arrgh...what to do? But soccer camp was definitely not the answer.
As I was pondering the looming question of “what to do with the youngest boy?” our pastor, in heading to a point beyond me on the field, intersected with my path. I was asked the inevitable question of “how are you doing?” which I hate to answer when I am not happy (i was quite grumpy at that point). It feels dishonest to answer with a smile and “I’m fine! isn‘t it a beautiful evening?” when I am not so great at the moment and the evening‘s beauty is lost on me for the time being. But it also seems rude to answer a pleasantry with “well, I am tired and irritated right about now.” This time, honesty won out, and we spent several minutes discussing the challenge of figuring out where this boy would best fit into church activities for children of his age.
Our church is large, and the children’s activities generally involve big groups of kids. This obviously presents an ongoing difficulty for a child who does not do well in a large group. Another difficulty is the fact that, although he is six years old, quite tall for his age (he is taller than two of my nieces who turn eight this summer) and precocious in some things (those things that he enjoys with a single minded focus that makes him a little expert ahead of his time), his maturity level reminds me of where my other two children were at about four to five years old (he needs very clearly defined boundaries--almost like a toddler at times, and still needs to be watched closely when he is in unfamiliar territory, due to not knowing where danger lies and his tendency to wander off and become absorbed in his own world).
I had been a bit hurt and frustrated when I found out that he would not be able to attend Bible School with the younger children. In spite of his autism and the fact that he was not ready for soccer camp, the age rule was firmly in place. But I also understand that there are times when rules can be adjusted to make room for special situations, and that there are times when it is not advisable to do so. I was not in charge of the Bible School; so in spite of how i felt about it, I tried to give the benefit of the doubt to those who were. However, it still left me hung out to dry, with a little boy who understood that for some reason he was not accepted--everybody else was going to Bible School or Soccer Camp--but with not enough understanding to know why.
I was a bit hesitant to air my frustrations to the pastor--he was not in charge of soccer camp and Bible School, though he did help out with them at times. But even though he wasn’t in charge of them, it was an area that he had oversight of; and I did not want to be insulting or come across as accusing him of doing a poor job. I think that he does a very good job. I didn’t need to worry though--he was pretty understanding of my dilemma due to what he remembered from the time his wife worked with autistic children. He understood where we were coming from--there seemed to be a place for everyone else...but not my little guy. Although I had been assured by the Bible School organizer that it wasn’t a personal rejection, that they were just abiding by the age rule; to a little boy who was not able to engage with--or safely participate--in the activities for his age group, it was a rejection of sorts, whether it was meant to be or not.
But as I talked, another question rose in my mind too. Why was I hurt and angry? What debt was owed to me? What made me feel entitled to having the program adjusted for my child? What made me feel entitled to someone, anyone, understanding the difficulty in helping him to interact with his peers? Why did I feel entitled to being able to find a place for him at our church, in the children‘s activities? No one person or organization can meet everyone’s need.
Could it be that the church owes me nothing? Christ has paid all for me on the cross. Yes, the Bible says that as Christians, we are known by our love...but that does not mean that just because I am a church member, that I am owed love or understanding by the other members. If God chooses to meet our needs through people in our home church, that is wonderful. But maybe He will not choose to work through them, this time.
Those who give love, kindness, and understanding, give it freely just as Christ gave freely when He died on the cross. But when I expect it, I set myself up for disappointment. We are all human and there will be times we will let others down, intentionally or unintentionally. There will be times when, no matter how good the program, it will not meet the needs of everyone. I would be better off to be grateful when I do receive kindness, understanding, and acceptance, but not to expect it. God is bigger than one church. He will take care of my needs.
But at least I had received understanding, even if there was still no good way to blend this kiddo into our church’s summer kids’ activities. As the pastor and I chatted, we also watched my son continue to make a pretty good case for his not being ready for a rousing game of soccer with his peers. But it was suddenly okay. I was still sad that my little guy felt rejected from Bible School, and I knew I was going to add insult to injury at the end of the night when I told him he couldn’t do soccer camp for this year. But God had sent someone to hear and understand, even though the ongoing dilemma of trying to find a place for my boy in his world was still going to be there from time to time.
This listening and trying to understand...this certainly must be a big part of “bearing one another’s burdens.” It lightened the burden that had been resting heavily on me.
And, the next night, a little church just out the road from our house began their Bible School. I knew a few people who attended there, but had never visited it. I had seen their VBS sign as I traveled to and from home the last few days, and realized that this might be an answer to my little guy’s longing to go to Bible School. It was.
This new Bible School is a small Bible School, for all ages of elementary school youngsters, and all indoors. (Small groups with little chances for escape are awesome.) The pastor who welcomed us the first night said that there were two other Bible School students with autism, and that it was no problem to have my son there. They were familiar with some of the issues that arise, and they would keep an eye on him.
When I picked my little boy up at the end of the night, he was beaming. He announced that he was definitely going back for the rest of the week. When I asked the pastor how the evening went, he said my son was very well behaved and they had no problems with him.
God is bigger than just one church. No matter how many ministries and programs there are, He always ministers through people. People, not programs. Lots of people get lost in programs. People with mental illness, little boys with special needs, people who have physical illnesses or handicaps, elderly people who can’t always make it to church anymore, and anyone else who doesn’t quite fit--all of them quickly get lost in a program. But people who take the time to see the uniqueness of the person--those are the people who make all the difference to someone looking for a glimpse of Jesus and His love.
And once again, God sent just the right people at just the right time; in their kindness, i saw a glimpse of Jesus and His love for me, and His love and provision for this little boy He entrusted to my care.
Friday, June 27, 2014
Friday, June 13, 2014
...just memories...
She was too weak to talk. Her breathing was labored; her eyes were mostly closed. I wished the hospice nurse would stop talking. The nurse was probably a nice, kind lady; I knew she was just doing her job. She seemed to be going through some kind of list of what is normal to see at this stage as someone is coming to the end of life. But...I have been around dead and dying people, in many different settings. I knew what to expect, and I knew what I was seeing was normal. I didn’t want to listen to a soothing voice talking about it, but I didn’t want to seem terribly rude, either. I tried to push the nurse’s voice to the background. I leaned over the bed; talked about what the kids and hubby were doing; mentioned that I had had a chiropractor appointment that morning; said “we love you, Grammy.” Kissed her soft, tangled gray hair.
It has been almost a year since my hubby’s Grandpop died. Grammy has missed Grandpop terribly. But we have had one more year with Grammy, for which we are grateful.
My daughter embroidered a pillowcase for Grammy for a Christmas present. This girl of mine is usually a very diligent little girl; Grammy’s Christmas pillowcase was finished by Thanksgiving vacation. We delivered it one day while hubby and my oldest son were hunting. Grammy was delighted. She proclaimed it too pretty to sleep on, even though her great granddaughter assured her that it was meant to sleep on. I don’t think the pillowcase ever did make its way to a pillow. It was given a place of honor and given its due admiration.
My little guy and I took our turn staying with Grammy during some days when the rest were at school and work, over the time when Grammy needed help at home, but was still well enough that I could bring a little boy along. He remembers the ice cream bars she kept in the freezer, and the toy box and marble roller for little people who came to visit. Sometimes he had fun; sometimes it tried his patience when he had to be quiet if she was resting. But during those days with her, we learned to know her better than we had before.
She was reading a book of memories of schooldays and yesteryear, written by a man she had known from childhood. He had included quite a few pictures in the book, and one of the faces in a group of schoolchildren was hers. It was difficult for her to read because of cataracts; she had been scheduled to have them fixed, but was unable to keep the surgery date because of illness. So, that day, I read to her until she was tired. She also told me more of the story--some of the things she remembered that were not included in the book. Then she rested while I read to my little guy, but she seemed to be listening to Peter Rabbit, the Berenstein Bears, and Frances the badger too, even when her eyes were closed.
The days with Grammy were mostly full of ordinary things that happen in the quiet house of an elderly lady--a bit of washing, sweeping, and cooking; a bit of reading, and a few of her tv shows that she enjoyed. I washed and combed her hair for her when she was too weak to do it herself--she was appreciative, but it wasn’t quite like she did it. It was okay, I understood. No one else can ever comb your hair or place your glasses just exactly right.
Though they were ordinary, the days were special too; we knew that this wouldn’t be for long. Her heart was giving out slowly; we knew that soon all the times with Grammy would only be memories.
And i will hold the memories in a special place in my heart. Late this evening, we got the call. It was my mother-in-law’s voice, saying that Grammy had just passed away.
Hubby and I walked into the room and stood by the bed. He stepped behind me and pulled me toward him in a hug. We stood silently. It was her, but just her shell. Her spirit had flown. He gave her a goodbye kiss; I stroked the softness of her gray hair that I would not comb again.
It has been almost a year since my hubby’s Grandpop died. Grammy has missed Grandpop terribly. But we have had one more year with Grammy, for which we are grateful.
My daughter embroidered a pillowcase for Grammy for a Christmas present. This girl of mine is usually a very diligent little girl; Grammy’s Christmas pillowcase was finished by Thanksgiving vacation. We delivered it one day while hubby and my oldest son were hunting. Grammy was delighted. She proclaimed it too pretty to sleep on, even though her great granddaughter assured her that it was meant to sleep on. I don’t think the pillowcase ever did make its way to a pillow. It was given a place of honor and given its due admiration.
My little guy and I took our turn staying with Grammy during some days when the rest were at school and work, over the time when Grammy needed help at home, but was still well enough that I could bring a little boy along. He remembers the ice cream bars she kept in the freezer, and the toy box and marble roller for little people who came to visit. Sometimes he had fun; sometimes it tried his patience when he had to be quiet if she was resting. But during those days with her, we learned to know her better than we had before.
She was reading a book of memories of schooldays and yesteryear, written by a man she had known from childhood. He had included quite a few pictures in the book, and one of the faces in a group of schoolchildren was hers. It was difficult for her to read because of cataracts; she had been scheduled to have them fixed, but was unable to keep the surgery date because of illness. So, that day, I read to her until she was tired. She also told me more of the story--some of the things she remembered that were not included in the book. Then she rested while I read to my little guy, but she seemed to be listening to Peter Rabbit, the Berenstein Bears, and Frances the badger too, even when her eyes were closed.
The days with Grammy were mostly full of ordinary things that happen in the quiet house of an elderly lady--a bit of washing, sweeping, and cooking; a bit of reading, and a few of her tv shows that she enjoyed. I washed and combed her hair for her when she was too weak to do it herself--she was appreciative, but it wasn’t quite like she did it. It was okay, I understood. No one else can ever comb your hair or place your glasses just exactly right.
Though they were ordinary, the days were special too; we knew that this wouldn’t be for long. Her heart was giving out slowly; we knew that soon all the times with Grammy would only be memories.
And i will hold the memories in a special place in my heart. Late this evening, we got the call. It was my mother-in-law’s voice, saying that Grammy had just passed away.
Hubby and I walked into the room and stood by the bed. He stepped behind me and pulled me toward him in a hug. We stood silently. It was her, but just her shell. Her spirit had flown. He gave her a goodbye kiss; I stroked the softness of her gray hair that I would not comb again.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
...a rose...
It is a beautiful year for the roses. A few years ago, I wanted to plant a hedge to separate the yard from the road going by the house. Not having an over abundance of cash to work with, I began it with starts from shrubbery at my parents' house. The little white "tea roses" begin putting out baby rosebushes galore, in the spring. So I was able to get all the roses I wanted. June is the most beautiful month, i think...everything is green and blooming. These little white roses are my favorite.
In Amy Carmichael's book Rose from Brier, she tells of how restful a beautiful picture was, in her time of illness; how it could take her, in her mind's eye, miles away from her sickroom. So here is a rose, for the one who wishes for a breath of springtime laden with the sweetness of roses; and the dampness of green, growing woods and fields; and new-mown hay.
"And may [its beauty]...speak not of a vanished spring, but of that to which we are hastening."
Thursday, June 5, 2014
...the exactly right time...
I am not too fond of sewing denim. It is thick; when it is doubled up--such as one needs to do when sewing it--it has this tendency to get caught in my machine or break the needle if I am not careful. Sometimes it gets caught and breaks the needle, anyway, even if I am careful. I am not a super skillful seamstress. I am what might be kindly called “competent.” I prefer things with straight seams and light fabrics and a minimum of fuss. In my teen years, I used to love to experiment with making dolls, toys, and things like that; but now i have enough necessary sewing that unnecessary sewing doesn’t usually sound like fun. But, I also have enough basic sewing skills that i can’t justify not doing my own mending. And on this day, I had some mending that couldn’t be put off any longer.
I measured and pinned the material. Most of it wouldn’t be too bad, but there were four places where I needed to sew through a folded seam of denim. I did have a few extra needles, in case I heard the usual “snap” and felt the thread go slack.
The first item was finished quickly. I had started it a week or so earlier, but had gotten interrupted. Upon looking at it again, I realized it would be easier than I thought. And it was. The second item was the one that i expected the most trouble with, due to those stupid folded seams.
I carefully sewed past the pins, only stabbing myself a few times and not even enough to draw blood. So far, so good. I carefully sewed through the folded seams by hand-turning the wheel instead of letting the machine do the work. I got through all of them without breaking a needle, or any other annoying or disastrous mishaps. I lifted the pants from the machine and reached for the scissors to cut the threads. There was no bobbin thread to cut. Aaack. Bobbins are notorious for running out of thread at inconvenient times. On my machine, I cannot see the bobbin thread unless i open the compartment and lift the bobbin out--thereby making it difficult to see that how close the bobbin is to being empty--but neither is it possible to sew with only the thread from the needle. The stitches do not hold. When the bobbin runs out of thread, the only thing to do is to refill it, go back to where it ran out, and re-stitch.
Now when did that run out? I started examining the stitches I had just put in. Probably I would have to go back and re-sew at least part of what i had just finished--and Murphy’s law would dictate that I would probably need to go back over at least one or two of those troublesome seams.
I looked closer. The stitches were exactly where they were supposed to be, right down to the tacking at the end, that i put in to hold my sewing in place. I looked at the bobbin. It was definitely, completely, out of thread. But it had not run out until I had completely finished my sewing, even the tacking at the end.
I seemed to hear a still small voice...”remember, I do love you. I am watching over all the little details of life, right down to whether the bobbin thread will hold out or not.”
I had been so exhausted lately that I didn’t feel much love coming from anywhere. Deep down, I know that, whether they say it or not, my family loves me dearly. My friends do too. But I had been so tired lately that all I wanted to do was to hide from everyone. My kids’ baseball season is in full swing. Life has been revolving around games and practices. School is soon finished for the year, and with no dearth of field trips and other end-of-year activities. I was hoping that hubby’s changed work schedule would help lighten the load, this spring...but it didn’t. I am still doing most of the activities on my own, usually with my youngest in tow. His routine has been mostly thrown out the window, so he is more defiant and difficult than usual. I am exhausted with correcting socially inappropriate speech and behaviors, and from trying to keep him from injuring himself in such exhilarating pursuits as jumping from the tops of bleachers and throwing himself flat on the ground from a standing position, etc.
My kids have so little “normal” sometimes, because of their Daddy’s erratic work schedule, that I try to make it to as many of their games and school activities as possible. I want to do that much for them, at least.
And lately, probably partly due to the busyness and the need for extra vigilance with the young one, the terrible fears are setting in again--if I sent the older children to their games with someone else so that I could have a little breathing space, I would be almost frantic till they got home. So, while I have help available in the form of other parents--and also their grandparents--who could give them a ride to their games, it would not help my state of mind much. It is sometimes a necessity to find one child a ride with someone else, at times when they both have games at different places at the same times; but my relief is great when we are all safely together again. It is hard enough to send everyone to work or school right now. I know that they are fine--that school and work and activities are just part of life, and that my husband and children are in our Father’s care wherever they may be...but try telling that to my brain. Behavioral therapy is a nice idea, but there is a difference between giving someone the tools to deal with a difficulty and preventing the thing from happening. I have the tools to deal with panic attacks, but I still have to deal with them.
So has God abandoned me? Do I not have enough faith? Life, just plain old normal life, is still really hard right now. Shouldn’t I be full of peace and joy if my faith were real? If He were real?
But...I have not collapsed. He has given me strength and provision for each day, right down to the details of how much thread I needed for a sewing job I dreaded. I have the panic attacks, but in spite of them, a still, small voice still speaks peace to me. I am tired, but I can still laugh at some of my little guy’s speeches and antics (the socially acceptable, less dangerous ones). I can share my daughter’s pride when, the first night she got a chance to pitch in a game, she made the game-ending out by striking out the batter who said, “she’s just a girl, this will be easy.” (“His face was so red, Mom!“ she said gleefully...) I even enjoyed a field trip to Baltimore with my oldest son’s class, in spite of the fact that “everybody and their brother” decided that that would be a good day to take a bus trip to Fort McHenry and the Baltimore Aquarium. I was “field-tripped out” by the end of the day, but I had a good time. Even my 13 year old, almost-too-cool-for-enjoying-stuff-anymore, kid had a good time. He told me so. (Oh, the teen years. And this is just the beginning...) And Baltimore Aquarium’s gift shop carried, amongst all the expensive souvenir junk, real live Venus flytraps. My science junkie kid has been wanting one of these awesome plants for years and we couldn’t find them. So now there is a Venus flytrap sitting hungrily on the kitchen window sill, slowly digesting its latest fly. i can’t help but hear a still, small voice whispering love to me even in the finding of that Venus flytrap for my boy.
So, as I keep saying on this blog, He still has not failed me yet. Once again, I am finding that He gives me what I need at the exactly right time.
I measured and pinned the material. Most of it wouldn’t be too bad, but there were four places where I needed to sew through a folded seam of denim. I did have a few extra needles, in case I heard the usual “snap” and felt the thread go slack.
The first item was finished quickly. I had started it a week or so earlier, but had gotten interrupted. Upon looking at it again, I realized it would be easier than I thought. And it was. The second item was the one that i expected the most trouble with, due to those stupid folded seams.
I carefully sewed past the pins, only stabbing myself a few times and not even enough to draw blood. So far, so good. I carefully sewed through the folded seams by hand-turning the wheel instead of letting the machine do the work. I got through all of them without breaking a needle, or any other annoying or disastrous mishaps. I lifted the pants from the machine and reached for the scissors to cut the threads. There was no bobbin thread to cut. Aaack. Bobbins are notorious for running out of thread at inconvenient times. On my machine, I cannot see the bobbin thread unless i open the compartment and lift the bobbin out--thereby making it difficult to see that how close the bobbin is to being empty--but neither is it possible to sew with only the thread from the needle. The stitches do not hold. When the bobbin runs out of thread, the only thing to do is to refill it, go back to where it ran out, and re-stitch.
Now when did that run out? I started examining the stitches I had just put in. Probably I would have to go back and re-sew at least part of what i had just finished--and Murphy’s law would dictate that I would probably need to go back over at least one or two of those troublesome seams.
I looked closer. The stitches were exactly where they were supposed to be, right down to the tacking at the end, that i put in to hold my sewing in place. I looked at the bobbin. It was definitely, completely, out of thread. But it had not run out until I had completely finished my sewing, even the tacking at the end.
I seemed to hear a still small voice...”remember, I do love you. I am watching over all the little details of life, right down to whether the bobbin thread will hold out or not.”
I had been so exhausted lately that I didn’t feel much love coming from anywhere. Deep down, I know that, whether they say it or not, my family loves me dearly. My friends do too. But I had been so tired lately that all I wanted to do was to hide from everyone. My kids’ baseball season is in full swing. Life has been revolving around games and practices. School is soon finished for the year, and with no dearth of field trips and other end-of-year activities. I was hoping that hubby’s changed work schedule would help lighten the load, this spring...but it didn’t. I am still doing most of the activities on my own, usually with my youngest in tow. His routine has been mostly thrown out the window, so he is more defiant and difficult than usual. I am exhausted with correcting socially inappropriate speech and behaviors, and from trying to keep him from injuring himself in such exhilarating pursuits as jumping from the tops of bleachers and throwing himself flat on the ground from a standing position, etc.
My kids have so little “normal” sometimes, because of their Daddy’s erratic work schedule, that I try to make it to as many of their games and school activities as possible. I want to do that much for them, at least.
And lately, probably partly due to the busyness and the need for extra vigilance with the young one, the terrible fears are setting in again--if I sent the older children to their games with someone else so that I could have a little breathing space, I would be almost frantic till they got home. So, while I have help available in the form of other parents--and also their grandparents--who could give them a ride to their games, it would not help my state of mind much. It is sometimes a necessity to find one child a ride with someone else, at times when they both have games at different places at the same times; but my relief is great when we are all safely together again. It is hard enough to send everyone to work or school right now. I know that they are fine--that school and work and activities are just part of life, and that my husband and children are in our Father’s care wherever they may be...but try telling that to my brain. Behavioral therapy is a nice idea, but there is a difference between giving someone the tools to deal with a difficulty and preventing the thing from happening. I have the tools to deal with panic attacks, but I still have to deal with them.
So has God abandoned me? Do I not have enough faith? Life, just plain old normal life, is still really hard right now. Shouldn’t I be full of peace and joy if my faith were real? If He were real?
But...I have not collapsed. He has given me strength and provision for each day, right down to the details of how much thread I needed for a sewing job I dreaded. I have the panic attacks, but in spite of them, a still, small voice still speaks peace to me. I am tired, but I can still laugh at some of my little guy’s speeches and antics (the socially acceptable, less dangerous ones). I can share my daughter’s pride when, the first night she got a chance to pitch in a game, she made the game-ending out by striking out the batter who said, “she’s just a girl, this will be easy.” (“His face was so red, Mom!“ she said gleefully...) I even enjoyed a field trip to Baltimore with my oldest son’s class, in spite of the fact that “everybody and their brother” decided that that would be a good day to take a bus trip to Fort McHenry and the Baltimore Aquarium. I was “field-tripped out” by the end of the day, but I had a good time. Even my 13 year old, almost-too-cool-for-enjoying-stuff-anymore, kid had a good time. He told me so. (Oh, the teen years. And this is just the beginning...) And Baltimore Aquarium’s gift shop carried, amongst all the expensive souvenir junk, real live Venus flytraps. My science junkie kid has been wanting one of these awesome plants for years and we couldn’t find them. So now there is a Venus flytrap sitting hungrily on the kitchen window sill, slowly digesting its latest fly. i can’t help but hear a still, small voice whispering love to me even in the finding of that Venus flytrap for my boy.
So, as I keep saying on this blog, He still has not failed me yet. Once again, I am finding that He gives me what I need at the exactly right time.
Friday, May 23, 2014
...it never goes unnoticed...
Matthew 25:23
“His lord said unto him, “Well done, good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord.”
None of this goes unnoticed. These words came out of the blue this morning, along with the reminder of the story that precedes the above scripture, about the master who gave his servants the responsibility while he went on a journey. The servants who were faithful with his goods while he was gone were rewarded upon his return. Jesus used the story as a picture of how each of us have been given different gifts, and His pleasure at our faithfulness.
All our weariness, all the times we put aside what we want to do what we should, all the things we bear for the love of others and for the sake of His kingdom, He notices.
My great-great-aunt and -uncle, Clinton and Maybelle Ferster, lived a life of putting aside their own comfort and desires, for the sake of His kingdom. Uncle served a short time as pastor of Richfield Mennonite Church back in the 1920’s, until he and Aunt Maybelle left Richfield for many years of service in what was then Tanganyika Territory in Africa. Their lives and testimonies deserve an entire book to do them justice, but what i will always think of when i think of them, is a small embroidered picture that my mother found among their things while we were cleaning their house and getting ready “to make sale” (local colloquial way of saying “preparing for an estate auction”). This picture was simply black thread on a plain background and it said, “As Unto Christ, Not Unto Men.” It was saved with things valued and special, and Mom was sure that Aunt Maybelle had made it for Uncle Clinton. It now sits on a dresser in my parents’ home, a simple but powerful tribute to two lives well lived. That Aunt Maybelle would have chosen that verse when making that gift for Uncle, and that he would have saved it among his treasured things.
But we don’t have to go to Africa to be faithful. We all have different callings, different gifts. No matter where we are, no matter what the job He has called us to, what we do for Him never goes unnoticed.
Blackwood Bros "That's What Heaven Will Be"
And the above link goes to yet another beautiful quartet number that i like...some day we will live "forever in the sweet by and by..."
“His lord said unto him, “Well done, good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord.”
None of this goes unnoticed. These words came out of the blue this morning, along with the reminder of the story that precedes the above scripture, about the master who gave his servants the responsibility while he went on a journey. The servants who were faithful with his goods while he was gone were rewarded upon his return. Jesus used the story as a picture of how each of us have been given different gifts, and His pleasure at our faithfulness.
All our weariness, all the times we put aside what we want to do what we should, all the things we bear for the love of others and for the sake of His kingdom, He notices.
My great-great-aunt and -uncle, Clinton and Maybelle Ferster, lived a life of putting aside their own comfort and desires, for the sake of His kingdom. Uncle served a short time as pastor of Richfield Mennonite Church back in the 1920’s, until he and Aunt Maybelle left Richfield for many years of service in what was then Tanganyika Territory in Africa. Their lives and testimonies deserve an entire book to do them justice, but what i will always think of when i think of them, is a small embroidered picture that my mother found among their things while we were cleaning their house and getting ready “to make sale” (local colloquial way of saying “preparing for an estate auction”). This picture was simply black thread on a plain background and it said, “As Unto Christ, Not Unto Men.” It was saved with things valued and special, and Mom was sure that Aunt Maybelle had made it for Uncle Clinton. It now sits on a dresser in my parents’ home, a simple but powerful tribute to two lives well lived. That Aunt Maybelle would have chosen that verse when making that gift for Uncle, and that he would have saved it among his treasured things.
But we don’t have to go to Africa to be faithful. We all have different callings, different gifts. No matter where we are, no matter what the job He has called us to, what we do for Him never goes unnoticed.
Blackwood Bros "That's What Heaven Will Be"
And the above link goes to yet another beautiful quartet number that i like...some day we will live "forever in the sweet by and by..."
Friday, May 16, 2014
...rain...
It’s a rainy day here at our house. I am trying to keep my head above water, but sinking again. The trigger seems to be the chaos of spring baseball season and trying to keep my youngest happy during his brother‘s and sister‘s baseball games (or, if not to keep him happy, at least to avoid major meltdowns). But, if the trigger were not the busyness of baseball season, it may be something else. It isn’t going away...so, i learn to live with it. Is it possible to embrace it?
I love a rainy day in spring. This world of cool green mist is probably one of my favorite parts of spring. I love to hear the rain; I love to see it against the leaves and grass; I love looking through the drops to the tops of the trees in the woods behind the house. For lack of a description that does it justice, suffice it to say it is nothing short of a glimpse into fairyland.
Without rain, there would be no growth. The green would give way to parched barren brown. There would be little shade. A tall tree needs deep roots. Could the same be true for a soul?
Back when I was a kid, one of my favorite songs was Keith Whitley’s “I’m No Stranger to the Rain.” At the time, I didn’t know the story behind the song--the story of the man who fought his own demons throughout his life and died of an alcohol overdose in 1989. I just knew it was a beautiful song; and even back then, the sadness in the song, and in the voice that sang it, struck a chord with me.
I'm No Stranger to the Rain--Keith Whitley
There is depth and beauty in rain itself--in the rain outside, and the rain that falls “in the soul.” And if it were not for the rain, much depth and beauty in the world would be lost.
So, how now shall we live? For those of us who are not strangers to the rain--what can we do but beg, steal or borrow a little sunshine? And learn to embrace the rain?
I love a rainy day in spring. This world of cool green mist is probably one of my favorite parts of spring. I love to hear the rain; I love to see it against the leaves and grass; I love looking through the drops to the tops of the trees in the woods behind the house. For lack of a description that does it justice, suffice it to say it is nothing short of a glimpse into fairyland.
Without rain, there would be no growth. The green would give way to parched barren brown. There would be little shade. A tall tree needs deep roots. Could the same be true for a soul?
Back when I was a kid, one of my favorite songs was Keith Whitley’s “I’m No Stranger to the Rain.” At the time, I didn’t know the story behind the song--the story of the man who fought his own demons throughout his life and died of an alcohol overdose in 1989. I just knew it was a beautiful song; and even back then, the sadness in the song, and in the voice that sang it, struck a chord with me.
I'm No Stranger to the Rain--Keith Whitley
There is depth and beauty in rain itself--in the rain outside, and the rain that falls “in the soul.” And if it were not for the rain, much depth and beauty in the world would be lost.
So, how now shall we live? For those of us who are not strangers to the rain--what can we do but beg, steal or borrow a little sunshine? And learn to embrace the rain?
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
...an anchor in the storm...
There is a storm raging in my mind, exhausting me. Part of me wants to embrace the busy-ness of springtime--distractions sometimes keep the blackness at bay. The other part of me wants solitude--sometimes it seems that the storm in my mind cannot be tolerated amidst any other activity. But the problem with solitude is that, then, the mind can run in its own direction. But whether in solitude or company, there is no stopping it; there is only masking the noise of the storm with “doing the next thing,” the daily activities that need to be accomplished. And sometimes one just holds onto the side of the boat for dear life, so as not to get swept away.
I could not read much when I opened my Bible. The words seemed to jump around the page when I tried to concentrate. A normal day of life stretched ahead of me, looking pretty daunting. I needed strength from somewhere, from Someone. I put my Bible down and instead asked for “just a word” from Him for the day. Jesus, please? A verse? A song? Something to anchor my mind to, in the storm?
“Peace, be still.”
It is a line of an old song we sing from time to time, here at our house. The song is titled, “Master, the Tempest is Raging.” It comes from the story of Jesus calming the storm; the account of it is in the 8th chapters of the gospels of Matthew and Luke.
“And when He was entered into a ship, his disciples followed Him. And behold, there arose a great tempest in the sea, insomuch that the ship was covered with the waves; but He was asleep. And his disciples came to Him, and awoke him, saying, “Lord, save us; we perish.” And He saith unto them, “Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith? Then he arose, and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a great calm. But the men marvelled, saying, “What manner of man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey Him!”
Matthew 8:23-27
The tempest is raging, and it is beyond tiring. A weariness of the mind and heart, for lack of a better description. But what manner of Man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey Him? He alone can calm this storm.
“Master, the tempest is raging!
The billows are tossing high!
The sky is o’er-shadowed with blackness,
No shelter or help is nigh;
Carest Thou not that we perish?
How canst Thou lie asleep,
When each moment so madly is threat’ning
A grave in the angry deep?
The winds and the waves shall obey Thy will,
Peace, be still! Peace, be still!
Whether the wrath of the storm-tossed sea,
Or demons, or men, or whatever it be,
No water can swallow the ship where lies
The Master of ocean and earth and skies;
They all shall sweetly obey Thy will,
Peace be still! Peace be still!
They all shall sweetly obey Thy will,
Peace, peace, be still!”
-Mary A. Baker
No storm, no waves, can swallow this ship, where lies the Master of ocean, and earth, and skies. And I realize that, sometimes, when the wind and the waves are high, I don’t ask Him to calm my storm. In the back of my mind, something says I deserve it...by virtue of the weakness that causes me to suffer it, maybe. There is something about the blackness of depression that envelops the soul and whispers that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, there should be no relief of pain, no calming of the storm. That the one who suffers it is so innately flawed that whatever he or she may suffer at the hands of this, is only a bit of what is deserved.
And...when we try to wrap our minds around what our Lord has redeemed us from--an eternity without God--the reality is that the blackest depression, the blackest night of the soul, is not even the tip of the iceberg compared to the suffering we would endure for an eternity without Him. So, yes, for my sin, all my suffering is deserved, and so much more.
But, thank God, He endured the cross and paid the price. So, while suffering here on earth is inevitable, I do not have to pay the price for my sin. No matter how I suffered here on earth, I could still never atone for all my sin. I do not need to try. Just as I asked Him to redeem me from sin, I can freely ask Him to calm the storm.
And, whatever the storms i endure here on earth, whether He sends calm sooner, or later...i can know that no waves can swallow my ship.
I could not read much when I opened my Bible. The words seemed to jump around the page when I tried to concentrate. A normal day of life stretched ahead of me, looking pretty daunting. I needed strength from somewhere, from Someone. I put my Bible down and instead asked for “just a word” from Him for the day. Jesus, please? A verse? A song? Something to anchor my mind to, in the storm?
“Peace, be still.”
It is a line of an old song we sing from time to time, here at our house. The song is titled, “Master, the Tempest is Raging.” It comes from the story of Jesus calming the storm; the account of it is in the 8th chapters of the gospels of Matthew and Luke.
“And when He was entered into a ship, his disciples followed Him. And behold, there arose a great tempest in the sea, insomuch that the ship was covered with the waves; but He was asleep. And his disciples came to Him, and awoke him, saying, “Lord, save us; we perish.” And He saith unto them, “Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith? Then he arose, and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a great calm. But the men marvelled, saying, “What manner of man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey Him!”
Matthew 8:23-27
The tempest is raging, and it is beyond tiring. A weariness of the mind and heart, for lack of a better description. But what manner of Man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey Him? He alone can calm this storm.
“Master, the tempest is raging!
The billows are tossing high!
The sky is o’er-shadowed with blackness,
No shelter or help is nigh;
Carest Thou not that we perish?
How canst Thou lie asleep,
When each moment so madly is threat’ning
A grave in the angry deep?
The winds and the waves shall obey Thy will,
Peace, be still! Peace, be still!
Whether the wrath of the storm-tossed sea,
Or demons, or men, or whatever it be,
No water can swallow the ship where lies
The Master of ocean and earth and skies;
They all shall sweetly obey Thy will,
Peace be still! Peace be still!
They all shall sweetly obey Thy will,
Peace, peace, be still!”
-Mary A. Baker
No storm, no waves, can swallow this ship, where lies the Master of ocean, and earth, and skies. And I realize that, sometimes, when the wind and the waves are high, I don’t ask Him to calm my storm. In the back of my mind, something says I deserve it...by virtue of the weakness that causes me to suffer it, maybe. There is something about the blackness of depression that envelops the soul and whispers that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, there should be no relief of pain, no calming of the storm. That the one who suffers it is so innately flawed that whatever he or she may suffer at the hands of this, is only a bit of what is deserved.
And...when we try to wrap our minds around what our Lord has redeemed us from--an eternity without God--the reality is that the blackest depression, the blackest night of the soul, is not even the tip of the iceberg compared to the suffering we would endure for an eternity without Him. So, yes, for my sin, all my suffering is deserved, and so much more.
But, thank God, He endured the cross and paid the price. So, while suffering here on earth is inevitable, I do not have to pay the price for my sin. No matter how I suffered here on earth, I could still never atone for all my sin. I do not need to try. Just as I asked Him to redeem me from sin, I can freely ask Him to calm the storm.
And, whatever the storms i endure here on earth, whether He sends calm sooner, or later...i can know that no waves can swallow my ship.
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