the "more" He has for me

     When the ground started to shift at the other place, I spent some time hunkered down in resistance, clawing at any root I could find. I set my jaw and crossed my arms and leaned against a rock of unwillingness. 

Slowly, the love of God soaked into the ground underneath that giant rock. It went all the way down to where the fears lived, like I Can’t Do This Again, It Won’t Be Ok, and What About the Children? 

The love of God soaked all the way down to the hard, brittle parts of me that think it’s their job to Make it Ok, Keep it Together, and Get it Under Control.

And the love of God seeped down deep, and like a holy acid, broke down all those strong supports that held up the rock of unwillingness. And one day there was a decisive storm, a flood and a great collapse. The rock of unwillingness fell down, over a cliff into a deep valley, against my will but also somehow freeing it.
I found myself on the edge overlooking a great expanse. I have more in store for you. 

“But what? and how will it be? and will it work out? and what about the children? 

No answers. Only Presence. 

And then, we just sat there. For a long time. Days, weeks, months of the tension: trying to live present in one place with awareness of shifting ground and things on the move. 

I remember the dizzying feeling, sitting on the heights with the Lord, trying to imagine what’s next for me in the valley.  We sat there as possibilities came and went, fog rolled in and out.

We’re approaching one year in this new house, in this new life. I am still unpacking all the “more” He has here for us. This week I had a wonderful sing-and-ride on my motorcycle: 80 degrees, open fields, spring bursting out all over Illinois. I sang through all the wrenching aching love I have for my people in other states; danced through the joy of being present here. I drove over a bridge and caught my breath at the beauty- St Pauls, from this angle! Our new church home, the most recent place where we have found extended family!  It took my breath away.

I stopped to take a picture, to help me hold on to God’s gracious “I told you so.”

the bird

 If his eye is really on the sparrow, why is this bird dying on my porch?

this bird that woke his nurturing side, that seemed to be calling him out of his depression into service and joy

for like five minutes

and now he’s in his room not responding

and I’m crying on the porch with a little bird’s failing heartbeat in my hands.

Do we ever get over things, or do we just get through?
And how does a soft heart avoid growing bitter?
How can we resist turning into a concrete tower or a phoney or a total cynic or just a weeping puddle on the floor surrounded by losses?

Not a bird falls without his knowledge

but many do fall with his knowledge 

and somehow we have to live here

and try to keep loving fragile things

and try to keep trusting Him who gives and takes away.

I have never been able to resign myself to this

and maybe I’m not supposed to.

I live defiantly

making lunch for the living boys in my home

and I don’t want to pet the smiling dog as he comes wagging up to me

but I stretch out my hand and do it anyway

and I refuse to close my heart. 

And what of the children?
Will they find a way to hold hope?  It is not in the bird; it is not in wise parental words; it is not in mindset shifts; it is not in denial or hardness or hiding in bedrooms. If they are to find hope and strength to keep loving what can be lost they will have to find it in Jesus. May His love strengthen and fill our hearts. 

Jesus, receive this little bird into your ground- dust to dust- along with all of our questions and struggles about life in this broken place. We commend to you every loose end, every sad part. Help us, as we live in this fragile place, to love what we cannot keep, and wait with hope in Your redemption. Help us remember your heart, Your longing for the New Creation, Your whole-bodied commitment to making all things new.  Amen

 At the funeral, I choke a bit on the words we sing:

Children of the heavenly Father…

From all evil things He spares them, 

In His mighty arms He bears them…

Isn’t this evil? Luther, taken so suddenly, and his wife, so sick, left behind? Trauma upon trauma, shocking, sudden grief on top of cancer? Is this not evil, and why wasn’t this family spared?

The choir loved him so deeply, and I am amazed that they can sing so well, even wounded as they are. If their voices are shaking, I can’t hear it. Perhaps they take turns, one shakes, and another upholds in strong song; the shared music stabilizes heart and voice once again.

The choir is a family within our church family. Lorraine tells me, when she came back from college for the first time, Luther’s words to her were “So? Have you found the young man that your parents will approve of?” followed by a booming laugh. The choir will insist on meeting (vetting) her boyfriend, and I love that.  We have a large, large family.

And our sister has been sick for a long time. She has been absent from our gatherings, weighed down by chemo and travel and endless uncertainty, and he has borne the weight with her.

I wonder, how often did Luther sing with a tremble? How often was the very act of singing, belting out words of faith, done in defiance of the darkness, the fear in his own heart?

When he sang the Lord’s prayer at the last funeral, , “Thy Kingdom come'' resonated strong in the sanctuary, and his song boldly declared the plea of all our hearts.

But when he sang “Thy Will be Done,” there was a catch, a voice crack.  It almost made me come undone as I thought of his wife and her creeping cancer. How hard it must be to sing and say and live those words.  

How hard it is. 

But we do not turn our eyes away from the hard, sharp edge of life. We bring his casket right into the sanctuary, and we gather around it together with our questions and our shattered hearts. And the white pall over it reminds us of our Baptisms, and of God who is making all things new.  This is true even when we do not understand His ways. 

God IS our refuge and strength. 

And the choir sings

And Dave’s trumpet blares out clear loud notes of stubborn joy.

So what if we need a minute to catch our breath?
We will not stop singing.

when the ache tries to suffocate

The pleasant smile, the patient voice-- it’s not all phony, of course, but sometimes it is.  

The heaviness of this place can suffocate.  

Sin-- our own, and that done to us-- presses down heavy on our chests.  

 

Conceal, don’t feel.

Distract yourself.

Don’t ask that question.

Hide it. Numb it.

Smother it with melted cheese and a huge smile.

“Where is God in all this?” we wonder to ourselves in the darkness.

And there, in the darkness, our enemy begs us to stay:

Don’t ask that question. Pretend you already know.  Pretend you’ve never wondered.

Pretend you’re just “too busy,” or you’re “fighting something,” or it’s “just a headache.”

Conceal, don’t feel.

Don’t let them in, don’t let them see, be the good girl you always have to be

Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them know…

The advice seems to make sense, when there is something to hide, something that might embarrass us, or hurt someone else. And yet it suffocates, and one can’t help but ache for Elsa and her secret.

For ourselves, and our secrets.

How often I am tempted to numb my own heart.

Surely there are circumstances when we must simply keep moving, and do the work in front of us, despite the way we feel, despite our Big Questions. And so I don’t try to discuss the issues of my own heart with children.  I may ache, but regardless, they still need to eat dinner.  I (try to) put on my pleasant voice and pray to be upheld until I can take off the mask, put on my PJs, and exhale.

But, oh, how I need to exhale.  I need to let it out.  We all do. The ache and the questions, the heaviness of this place, the way it weighs on us, the way the fog rolls in and it seems like the enemy is winning every battle.

Adults are supposed to have all the answers, and yet here we are, in grown-up bodies, with skinned knees, and heavy questions.  And we are still afraid of the dark.

And the enemy whispers:

Chin up.  Be tough.  Fake it till you make it.

Don’t ask for help. They’ll think you are weak.

Don’t be a wimp.

Don’t search His Word, call your pastor, or lean on your church family.  

Don’t run to God like a terrified, hurting child.  

Grow up already.

What if "growing up" means being hard and strong and cold? What if even that kind of "strength" is a not strong enough to weather any of this?  

What if the only real choice is to crumble in one way or another?

But where can we crumble?

Where can we find fellow weary sinners in need of grace? Blessed are you if you can name a fellow sinner right now, one who will hold your hand and bring your needs into the presence of a gracious God.

Where else can we go? We bring our aches and our big questions to God, where He promises to meet us.   In His church, in His Word, and in fellowship with his people.

And there, we hear others speak for us, those shocking words which we do not dare say,

words of grief, or anger, questions of the aching heart:

“Why have you forsaken me?” David cried aloud.

“Why have you forsaken me?” Jesus moaned from the cross.

The question lingers, but we are not the only ones asking it, and that is some comfort.

Others have breathed in the stale air of a dying world, and they, too, have gagged and choked.

Others have questioned like us, and hurt like us, and sinned like us.

And those others have been helped, forgiven, redeemed, rescued from this place.

God’s promises cut through the cold air, like a warm breeze carrying a hint of spring, and we breathe.  We inhale hope, and exhale pleas for more; for spring to hurry.

Free us from this place, Jesus.

Deliver us from evil.

-----

Deliverance is coming, because Jesus has come.

And again we pray, come, Lord Jesus.

----------
Today, I dare you to name the heaviness, and to ask your questions, out loud to other people and to God.

Goodbye, Copper

 “What's even the point of having pets if it just hurts this bad?”

“I KNOW Copper’s in heaven because dogs are WAY better than people and it only makes sense.”

Lymphoma is common in golden retrievers, but it was not common in this house. Though our dog was old, her death feels sudden, and the hole where she was seems huge. 

Our little dog is making it worse.

Skip keeps asking to go outside, pacing restlessly by the back of the van that took Copper away,

Whining indoors, sniffing the old blanket, finding no rest without her giant Copper pillow, without that large gentle heartbeat (and those snores) that he knew ever since he came to our home as a puppy.

How are the kids? 

Well, their innocence around death has been forever destroyed.

This is the first “big” loss for many of them, 

the first hole on the edge of eternity that is unavoidable even in our daily “normal” lives.

They are broken. 

Resilient.

Limping. 

Living.

We are doing the work of grieving. Yes, even schoolwork can be set aside as you need. Ask me your questions, join me on the sad couch, where anyone can just sit and be sad. Be sad as long as you need. I will stay in the sadness with you. 

---

We don’t want to go to co-op; what if people pray for us? What if they talk about it?
(What if the flood comes again and I can’t hold it back and everybody’s watching?)

Children this is what we DO- this is community. No, we can’t leave our wound at home, the hole in our hearts will be stuck to us for awhile even in public. But it’s OK that people know, that they see it. These are God’s people- they will just bring it to the Lord with us and for us, and be moved to compassion for us in this.

But what if I cry?
It’s OK to cry.

(Later I laughed with Josh a little- haven’t we as adults modeled for our kids 100 times that it’s ok to cry in public?)  

I didn’t really plan to cry myself, I was in teacher mode with my game face on, happy for the distraction and the piece of normal that is our homeschool community.

But then one of my students, one with art spilling out of her constantly, brought me this card (photo).

One glimpse at the picture, the hand drawn sketch that captured the spirit and life of both of our pets..

the blessing- seen

the hole in our hearts- seen

The seeing was too much for me for a minute; I put the card face down on my desk as the tears welled, and I excused myself. 

What a gift it is to be seen.

-------

Seeing is hard work, and the work continues in this house today.

The children who staggered into class yesterday came home buoyed by the love of friends and the distraction of a perfect fall day. 

I heard laughter, jokes, life continuing.

The bruise remains, 

but healing has begun.

“I don’t want to forget her,” said a child whose tears had dried last night.

We will help each other remember, son. 

We will miss her at the cabin,,

we will find tufts of dog hair in weird places,

we will print pictures and tell stories,

we will grieve;

and we will watch as grief melts into gratitude.

What a privilege it is to love.

Fragility

Aggie is in bed late tonight, after a day of disappointment and struggle. I marvel at how she can bounce back: she is resilient when she can be. But I cannot help but remember her days of epilepsy, when I laid there with her facing things too much for us to endure.  

My dear, fragile Aggie, how will it go with you?  I remember that you are dust. 

How fragile is this life.  How vulnerable we are to death, destruction, and so many things out of our control.  Devastation and brokenness seem to be everywhere, and they really are, aren't they? We just don't always see it.

I wish I could forget.  I wish it were not so.

I wish that there were no wildfires or hurricanes or cancers or tyr
annies.
Is that the way I will meet my end?  If not, how will it go for me?  I remember all too much that I am dust. 

And my son can't sleep because he's sad about a friend's pet, dying, as all things do. "I don't know why but I just don't feel safe. My thoughts are too big tonight."

It is easy to feel secure in this life when things are normal.  And then suddenly, one quick moment comes, and normal vanishes.  What, then, is left?

There is only one hope for we who are walking dust.  If we have a God, and if He is a forgiving God and a loving God, then all can never be lost.

In Christ, even sinners sleep secure, even dust breathes in life.

As a father has compassion on his children, 

   so the LORD has compassion on those who fear him; 

for he knows how we are formed, 

   he remembers that we are dust.

Psalm 103:13-14 

all is blanket tent

2014

The children are napping, and all is quiet except for the toll of the bell. Through my window I hear the slow, sad bell, and I know the people are leaving the church, and heading to the cemetery.

This is the third funeral this week for our church family. They gather, again, to give teary hugs, to feast, and to remember. They gather to lay a body to rest and pray for rest for their own souls.  Among them is the widow, walking wounded, upheld by her children and her God.

Earlier this week, with children upstairs, downstairs, and underfoot, I gathered with the women for our Bible study.  In this place so full of life it is hanging out the windows, we sat heavy under the weight of grief and death.

And the Scripture did what it does-- it forced us to zoom out, to trace the lines of the work of God from the beginning until now.  We saw the world made, and broken, and God broken for us to remake the world.  We sat together in my living room, in grief and questions, protected by God's faithfulness, nestled in the blood of Jesus, and sealed in the Spirit.

This world is passing away, but the Word of God will not pass away.
And with this Word He made us His own.
Let us cling to His Strong, Solid word,
even as all else crumbles.

By grace we have been saved, and by grace we draw near to God through Jesus,
when we are overwhelmed,
grief-stricken,
and heavy with life in this world-
we draw near.

Therefore, brethren, since we have confidence to enter the holy place by the blood of Jesus, by a new and living way which He inaugurated for us through the veil, that is, his flesh, and since we have a great high priest over the house of God, let us draw near with a sincere heart in full assurance of faith, having our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and our bodies washed with pure water. (Hebrews 10:19-22)

We are the baptized, drawn near.
We are washed, clean, and ready to see Him face to face.

But now, we must wait, and the waiting is hard.

All the world is an airport terminal,
and all the church in this world is waiting.

The little ones are restless, and I am restless, so we make a tent out of blankets.
We play while we wait, and we read and we eat and we love and are loved.

And we sleep in our blanket tent,
because in this place, everything is blanket tent.

In the meantime...
Let us hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, for He who promised is faithful;
and let us consider how to spur one another to love and good deeds, not forsaking our own assembling together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another; and all the more as you see the day drawing near. 
(Hebrews 10:23-25)

The bell has stopped tolling, for now,
but its music rings in my ears, full of tears and hope.

The day is drawing near, and even now our plane approaches the gate.
Let us hold fast to Jesus, and each other, here in the meantime.

(This seemed like a good repost for Easter Saturday. I am remembering when we laid dear Pastor Brandt to rest on this weekend many years ago, and all the other saints who rest in the Lord. It is dark, here, but the Lord is here with us, and He is leading us out.)

the grief of masks

I thrive in connection, comforting,  and fellowship

and I do not know how to do this thing with my face tied behind my back.

It would be arrogant to think that people need MY face

to reflect the love of God to them;

but faces? 

Don’t we need faces, isn’t it true that we are made in His image and told to reflect him?

Instead I see stifled rapport, teens at a distance, hiding in their phones,

elderly who have no lips to read give up trying to communicate

and i see a mother holding her newborn, looking down at her with masked face,

and I think, how can that baby be comforted?

How without funny faces and audible coos and connection and smiles?

If I had had to train my baby in church with my face tied behind my back,

I would have given up and just stayed home. 

Masks smother those micro expressions,

the little grimace or the tiny sigh that calls a friend to comfort, 

that communicates a cry for help:

“it’s been a hard week, i’m struggling here”

Words written in the way he holds his mouth

or seen in the subtle clench of her jaw.

i can’t see the cries for help- it’s all fabric and silence

And I can’t give a cry for help

the subtle eye contact with the sad smile to the friend who knows just what that means

or the fellow Christian who doesn’t know,

but would ask if she knew, if she could see my burden.

How does one ask for help in a pandemic, from behind a mask? 

How can we tell one glassy eyed stare from another?

Is someone going to get desperate enough to stand up in the pew

wave desperate hands and yell “I am not OK with any of this! Help me, i’m suffocating!”

but oh, the hand waving would take so much effort,

we think, as we rebreathe our air, and tiredness surrounds and oppresses, 

and we succumb again to the tired stare

and nobody can tell the difference.

We have this awful question forced upon us:

Which of our needs is greater? Connection, or safety from a virus?

Can we have both, or do we have to choose?

We cannot measure the cost of this safety measure.

But there is a cost. 

and I am carrying the question: is it worth it?

Will we go on forever with our faces tied behind our backs?

______________

If we have had the virus, or the vaccine, will we be allowed human connection again?

Why does it seem like the answer will be NO?

If it is, will we be ok with that? 

Is it worth the cost?

My intention is not to debate the usefulness of masks. I raise these questions because I think they need to be raised, and even if we knew masks guaranteed safety, I would still be asking these questions: What are the side effects? Is this “new normal” worth the price?