Light in the dark

A few Sundays ago we sang Christina Rossetti’s classic carol:

In the bleak mid-winter

Frosty wind made moan;

Earth stood hard as iron,

Water like a stone;

Snow had fallen, snow on snow,

Snow on snow,

In the bleak mid-winter

Long ago.

This year those words fell more solidly than usual.  Even though we live in Texas where snow doesn’t fall on snow, water isn’t like stone, and the earth isn’t as hard as iron, I know what that kind of winter is like.  Rossetti’s words capture the bitterness of it.  

Of course, even as we sang the niggle of Real History nipped at me.

“You do realize Jesus probably wasn’t born in the midst of winter,” said Real History.  “And even if he was, the weather of a Judean countryside isn’t exactly like England in December where Rossetti penned these words.”

This year, though, Real History didn’t hang around long.  The words and the images of the song were too strong, especially as I looked toward the front of the sanctuary where the Advent candles flickered, beating back the dark of 2020.  

After all, there’s a reason why early believers decided to place Christ’s birth at the darkest point of the year.  There are times when metaphor is necessary to convey truth.

This year Kraig, the kids, and I created our own advent wreath.  It’s nothing fancy, and we didn’t go by a traditional color scheme.  We lit each of the candles at the right points in the Advent season, but we didn’t do traditional readings.  Instead, we simply lit them with the word reminders for each week:  Hope.  Peace.  Joy.  Love.  Christ.

It turned out those words were what I needed this year.  I could focus on those single words without the paraphernalia and busyness of the Christmas season.  I’ve returned to them as more and more of the world seems to unravel in this dark year of 2020.  They have been lights in the dark.

I keep hearing talk about how 2020 is almost over.  It’s as if something magical is expected to happen on the stroke of midnight January 1, 2021.  As a result, I’ve found I’m mentally preparing for what I know to be true:  There won’t be a big change.  We’ll still be dealing with the fallout of 2020 and working to move forward.  I’m not trying to be cynical, just realistic.  

The problem is, despite my realistic take I have to fight my tendency to live in anticipation of the next thing to come crashing down, because bad things keep happening.  On the Sunday before Christmas another unexpected piece broke when our church leadership announced that a beloved pastor in the church had resigned due to moral failing.  In the midst of the shock and grief, the quiet disillusioned voice whispered, “Of course.  You didn’t expect everything to keep going well in your church, did you?”

But it’s already not been “well.”  The thing is, I thought the “not well” was only the upheaval of 2020 with diverse responses to Covid.  That has been upsetting enough.  It’s hard to come week after week and not know if acquaintances have disappeared because they’re attending online, or if they’ve pulled up and moved somewhere else.  When I know someone is gone I wonder why, and I wonder how I will talk to them when I see them, or if I should ask them about their decision.  I thought that was the extent of the navigating.  

With this latest blow, I’ve realized we’ll be entering 2021 with even more to work through.  There will be much deeper wounds that need care and more healing needed than dealing with losing friends.  Kraig and I have been through turbulence before in other churches, and we aren’t going anywhere now.  Our default response to upheaval is to latch on as tightly as we can and navigate through it.  We’re praying that we can do that alongside our church and our pastor who’s resigned and his family.  

So yeah, no magic solution to the darkness of 2020 will occur as we slip into 2021.  Rather, the way seems to get murkier and crazier.  The earth is as hard as iron, the frosty wind moans.  The snow is pretty at first, but as it piles, and the skies turn to lead, and the paths grow crusted and icy, it’s hard to keep trekking.  

This is the point when I look at the candle flame:

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” ~John 1:5 ESV

Christ is the light.  He has come.  He is here.  He will come again.  

The darkness will not overcome him.  

A lament for home and humanity

When we put our house in Michigan up for sale last week the one thing I didn't anticipate was the bitter sting of rejection. We would never say that our home was perfect, but there is no denying that it is lovely, even after three years of a rental occupancy. Apparently, though, the majority of prospective buyers have no "scope for the imagination," as Anne of Green Gables would say, and can only see what is before them. They see the scuffs and marks in paint (which may not be a color they like), the kitchen floor that needs repair because of a dishwasher leak we've just discovered, the few loose outlets and missing towel racks, the massive furniture of the tenant that dwarfs each room, the scum left in a sink that hasn't been scrubbed down, and the carpets that need to be cleaned. To the uninspired buyer, it doesn't make any difference that as soon as the tenant moves out, all of these defects will be fixed. Prospective buyers also see the cracks in the walls of our unfinished basement and unfortunately they don't have a civil engineer with them (reason #152 why I married Kraig) to let them know this is typical for Michigan basements, and that there are no structural issues, nor are there leaks or mold. Little consideration is given to the solid roof, the energy-saving windows, three-year-old sink faucet and dishwasher, or the two-year-old microwave and stove. New water heater? Who cares? The furniture takes up too much space and the tenant's packing boxes are beside the front door. This house "does not show well."

I feel like crying a bit--or fuming.

I think of the home we bought in Texas last year, and all of its idiosyncrasies. It has a lot more work that needs to be done than our Michigan home will ever need, but I love it. We are friends with the woman who grew up in that house, and I learned about her parents building it, and a little about their lives there. Neighbors speak of the previous owners with fondness, and we reap the pecans from the trees planted by them. There are so many stories we will never know, but it is a home that was consecrated by love. It is also full to the brim with potential, and in our first year there we have already stocked it with new stories. Rooms are slowly given a fresh coat of paint, windows will be replaced, kitchens and bathrooms updated. It will take time, but in the process we will live and love and work, and sometimes pull our hair out with frustration. This is life. Homes require work.

When I look at our home in Michigan, I see its lovely qualities and all of the layers of memories.

I see the way the light pours through the many windows even on gray January days.

I admire the sunset through the kitchen window, and the view of my neighbor Barb's gorgeous perennial garden through the bay window in the dining area.

I remember Keren and Ev playing on the floor in the kitchen while we worked to get the house move-in ready in the winter of 2008. The only room in the house that didn't need paint and carpet was the kitchen, so that became the safe zone while we worked. Clare, at two, helped paint...a little! I remember writing Philippians 4:6-8 on our plywood floors before the new carpet was laid and believing every word of it even in the struggles. I still hold those words close.

I remember family parties.

I remember our final Christmas there with Keren, when Jon was just beginning to be a new family dream.

I remember the cold, snowy January day when my sister Carrie watched Clare and Ev and I rushed Keren to the hospital, not knowing she would never come back to that home. I remember the house full of family and friends surrounding us with so much love in those months that followed, and the dance between pain and joy as we grieved Keren, but laughed over Clare and Ev's antics, and looked forward to Jon's arrival.

Keren's dogwood

I remember bringing Jon home and the joy of watching him grow and seeing the new shape that our family took with all of its complexity.

I remember the pleasure we had in forming our vegetable garden, and how each spring our neighbor, Barb, would hand me some perennials and say, "I'm splitting these, so feel free to plant them. They bloom at such-and-such point in the summer."

I remember the first days of school for each kid, the playdates with friends, and the neighborhood tribe of kids that played around our court and through our backyards.

I remember the slow process God took Kraig and I through toward a new life, a life that would take our family from this dear home to a sunny apartment and new friends in Guadalajara, Mexico, and then two years later, to a shady, rambling ranch house in Longview, Texas. I know now the hope and prayer that we will be in Texas for a long time.

Our new home in Texas

Life is an adventure, and our houses are a part of that. They are integral to our lives, whether we live alone or have big, crazy families that fill spaces to the limit. But houses are what we make of them; they are not simply what they appear on the surface. They are so much more than a limited first impression. They are homes.

We're praying that a family will walk into our home and realize that, not just because we want to sell the house, but because we want others to have the chance to build beauty there.

Death and Life Don't Mix

Today, technically, I became the mother of a teenager.

I have to qualify it with "technically" because Keren has been dead for six-and-a-half years. Her next sibling recently turned ten, and while we often feel that hormones have hit us, there is an awful lot we don't know about living with a teen. Even if Keren were here we wouldn't really know. She would probably still be giving us bone-cracking hugs and squealing excitedly in our ears. It's quite likely we would have added dealing with periods, but with diapers. And food would still go down a tube. Our lives would be a blend of doctor visits and therapy, all juggled around the crazy schedules of three younger siblings. We'd be in Michigan and Kraig would still be at his consulting job, and I'd be fully integrated with a thriving Trisomy community, discussing scoliosis and feeding and special education with friends I've known for thirteen years, and new acquaintances added each year.

At least, I suppose this is what our world would be like if Keren were still here on earth instead of celebrating her thirteenth birthday in Heaven. How does one celebrate a heavenly birthday? I have no idea. I doubt it's important when one is living in eternity. It's only here that the years tick by with significance.

I'm sure some who read this will feel guilty that they didn't remember it was Keren's birthday or remember to reach out and let us know they remembered. Trust me, we don't hold it against you. I'll be more annoyed that you feel guilty about it. It's hard enough to remember the birthdays of family members and friends who are living than the date of one who is no longer here. I remembered because it's etched in my body and brain, it's part of me...and Keren's picture is on this date on our family calendar. But I don't remember all of the time. My remembering comes in moments.

I remembered this past week as those September dates in the twenties ticked by.

I remembered last night when a friend asked if today was Keren's birthday.

I remembered this morning when Jon ran out to show me that his top front tooth finally fell out. We did a happy dance and I told him it was pretty cool it had fallen out on Keren's thirteenth birthday.

I remembered when we were driving home from church and the kids were talking about snow. I remembered a day full of sunlight and snow-bright air a year after Keren died when friends and teachers and family came together to remember. It's not a sad memory because it's so infused with light.

I remembered when I felt a bit depressed riding home today, Kraig and I silent in separate thoughts, and I wondered if it was because it was Keren's birthday.

I remembered when my Mom sent a note to say she was thinking of us and thanking the Lord for the gift Keren was.

I remembered when Jon and I made a chocolate birthday cake and we all enjoyed it and sang "Happy Birthday!" It was good cake. Keren might have deigned to taste a crumb.

There was a moment this week when I focused and thought about Keren. Really thought. But I wasn't thinking about her living self. I was thinking of the loss of her and the other losses that came because we lost her. I thought of the teachers whom we loved so much. We tried to keep connected, but life and time distanced us (not all on our side). I thought of the Trisomy friends whom I still "see" in Facebook posts. Some still have living kids, and I love to see their posts. But I don't get excited about discussions on feedings and doctors; it's not my world any more. I thought of the pain of losing Keren--that awful day. But I didn't stay on that thought for long. I can dredge it up and the grief will surge up with it, and to what purpose? To feel grief? I know it's there and I can tap into it as needed. I don't need to go looking for it.

And I guess that's the point I've come to. My life is full of life right now. I am continuing to learn and grow. God is stretching our family in completely new ways in our life here in Guadalajara and Kraig's new work of teaching. I am busy each day with kids who ask questions, test boundaries, throw tantrums, giggle uncontrollably, and lose teeth every time we turn around. If I spend my days refreshing the grief that death brought us it will paralyze me and I'll be of no use to the living. Life moves on, and I am moving with it. God has brought us to a new place. Death and Life don't mix, and "I am still confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living" (Psalm 27:13).

Above all this, death is not the end. For that truth, I'll keep living.

I believe in the holy shores of uncreated light
I believe there is power in the blood
And all of the death that ever was,
If you set it next to life
I believe it would barely fill a cup
'Cause I believe there's power in the blood.
            ~Andrew Peterson, "Lay Me Down"

 

 

 

Bedtime Routine

One of the most valuable lessons I learned growing up is that a bedtime routine is vital to the overall contentment of kids, and that when you travel it's important to keep that routine as closely as possible. In addition to the contentment factor, it helps make any new place home. So to say the least, we've kept to our routine as closely as possible here in Guadalajara.

Jon, do you know the verse yet?

For us, the routine evolved about the time our eldest daughter Keren was five. She'd received The Jesus Storybook Bible for her birthday, and I started reading it to her and Clare (who was two, so maybe didn't get much out of it!) just before bedtime. A few nights after we had started, I had to do something else at bedtime, so Kraig took over. From that point on, he was the main bedtime reader, and I think our lives have been richer as a result. It has become a whole-family event.

We've continued the pattern of some sort of devotional book, but as the kids got older we added in chapter books so we could introduce them to old favorites of ours. Our first series was Little House on the Prairie followed by The Chronicles of Narnia. Since then we've explored everything from The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett to Three Go Searching by Patricia St. John. Last spring we enjoyed Jonathan Rogers' The Wilderking Trilogy and before coming to Guadalajara we started into The Chronicles of Narnia again since Ev and Jon were old enough to enjoy those. Devotionals have ranged from our staple Jesus Storybook, to Ruth Bell Graham's Stepping Into the Bible and a couple others.

Ev realizes Peter, Lucy, Edmund & Susan
are in The Horse and His Boy.

After stories are read, the kids hop into bed, Kraig prays with them, and one of them chooses music. We have a calendar with the order of which kid gets prayed with first and who picks music. This is serious business, and great wailing and gnashing of teeth can result in not holding to this pattern. Then there are multiple hugs, at which point I'm called in, too. Final questions are asked. One or more of the kids emerge from their room with a tale of woe or a question: "My mosquito bite itches!" "I need a drink!" "Why did the so-and-so do such-and-such in the story?". But thankfully they're all usually out cold within half-an-hour of lights-out.

Cars! (And books)

I'd love to say my children sit and listen angelically to the devotional reading and story time. They do love the stories, this is true. But they are squirrelly human beings, so some nights go more smoothly than others. Kraig has a hard, fast rule that they need to sit and listen to the devotional reading, but things loosen up a bit for the chapter book and the kids sometimes color or play with cars or LEGO during that. This has been particularly helpful with Jon (can we say "boy"?). Some nights they are threatened with early endings when they get too wound up, and that typically results in cries of "No! We'll listen!" I usually want to add my voice, because I want to hear the stories. Thankfully, it's a rare occurrence for the routine to be disrupted, probably because Kraig wants to hear the stories himself, and none of us want the tears of anguish that result from interruption of the routine.

Each night is a gift. It is one more stroke on the canvas that is our family, and one more paint dob that makes each house we live in a home.

Distracting evening views....

Dry Lawns and Promises

I mowed the lawn today. It's that time of year when everything is slowing down; it's drier and the grass isn't shooting up every week. I get to the end of a row and turn, and second-guess. Did I mow that line already? Or is it the line left from a week ago? And so I mow it again, just in case, and by the time I decide the yard is finished, I am hot and sweaty, longing for refreshment...and I am not satisfied that I really succeeded in mowing the lawn.

Today I feel like death is becoming that way to me. I've seen it before. It's happened before. I'm tired of it; tired of the grief, tired of the pain, the ramifications. I am resigned. It is the same line mowed over and over, and it doesn't seem to benefit anyone or anything. There is no refreshment. I am apathetic. It is old and dry.

But then I think of Job who suffered death and grief beyond anything I can imagine, and I hear his words, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him," and I know I believe it. The words from a new song by Andy Gullahorn repeat over and over in my mind:

They say God listens to our prayers,
When you're suffering, He holds you.
I don't feel Him anywhere,
That doesn't make it any less true.

 I listened to those words earlier this week, and while I was hit by the stark truth I wondered, "How do I prove that to people? How do I say, 'Yes, this is the God I believe in, and I do not doubt Him'?"

My friend Joann died yesterday morning after a brief battle with cancer, a form of leukemia. Hers was a hopeful case, despite the shock of it to her and all of us who called her friend. The doctors caught it early, she started chemo and responded well. On top of that, her two brothers were a 100% match for a bone marrow transplant. Despite the hiccups, really, everything looked toward a healthy, hopeful recovery. We rejoiced with her, we prayed with her. We prayed for her husband and young son, for her extended family. She and her husband encouraged us with their trust in God's hand, no matter what.

And then a few weeks after the transplant, her husband sent out word that Joann was sick. And then we got the word that the cancer had returned and it was acute. Then a coma...then death. No miracle of healing. No grand stories. The same old, same old specter swept in and dried the field. One more notch on the death belt.

I'm writing this out of grief. I'm not angry or bitter. I'm tired, yes. I feel like I'm going over the same row that I've already mowed. I wish Joann's story had the ending of another young mom I heard about last week who had had stage 4 cancer, but has recently received a clean bill of health. The doctors can't find any trace of cancer in her body. I know that God can do that. I've believed it for Joann. I wonder if I needed to hear about this other mom last week so that I could remember God's sovereignty and omnipotence. Joann didn't die because He's not capable of miracles and of healing.

So why did she die? I don't know. But I know I trust God and that His promises are true:

"I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die," Jesus said to Martha after her brother Lazarus died. (John 11:25 & 26)

"Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you." (Deuteronomy 31:6)

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light. (Matthew 11:28-30)

"I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." (John 16:33)

"For everything that was written in the past was written to teach us, so that through endurance and the encouragement of the Scriptures we might have hope." (Romans 15:4)

As I've been writing this, I've glanced out my window at our vegetable garden. While the lawn may be dry and slow-growing at this point of the summer, the garden is lush with fruit. Ruby tomatoes weigh down emerald branches, waiting for me to reach out, pluck them and enjoy the burst of tangy sweetness. They will refresh my body as God's promises refresh my spirit.

In the midst of suffering, there is always hope. I know that if God's promises were only true when they played out the way I think they should, or when I feel them, they wouldn't be promises, and God wouldn't be God. I will trust Him and enjoy the fruit that He has for me.