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.  

Case in Point

July 1, 1995

Twenty-five years ago today, July 1, 1995, Kraig and I got married. We looked at each other this morning and said, “A quarter of a century? Really?”

When we sat down to breakfast this morning, I thought I’d get nostalgic. 

“Someday,” I said to Kraig and the kids, “we should pull out the DVD of our wedding and watch it.” 

“You have a recording?” the kids asked, jaws dropped.

“Of course!” Then I paused. “Well, yes, there’s a video recording, and I’m pretty sure we’ve got it on DVD….”

“Yep, that was before digital recording,” Kraig said. “It was analog.”

“What’s the difference between digital and analog?” Clare asked.

That was all it took to desert nostalgia. For the rest of breakfast we had an in-depth discussion and analysis of how digital recording works vs. analog. Kraig, of course, did most of the technical breakdown. I added a few examples (“This is why vinyl recordings are becoming more popular again—seamless sound.”), but for the most part I listened and mentally sat back and pondered how I could translate this breakfast discussion into a blogpost celebrating Kraig and my twenty-five years of marriage. It was a perfect example of one of the things I love about being married to Kraig, but in a way it’s a picture of our married life—lots of unexpected twists.

When Kraig and I married, we had plans—naturally! We were missionary kids who had loved that experience, and we wanted to go overseas ourselves. Kraig wanted to teach overseas and was in the process of getting his degree in civil engineering. I had a degree in secondary education and planned to get a master’s in teaching English to speakers of other languages. For the first years of our marriage we worked on those degrees, with Kraig moving into a master’s and then a doctorate. I taught secondary education for a few years, and then tutored international professionals in the Detroit area.

About five years into married life we thought it’d be great to start having kids. Despite experiencing plenty of shifts in our lives growing up, I think this was the first time we came face-to-face with the truth that life doesn’t always go the way you plan.  We had two miscarriages in 2001, and suddenly parenthood took on a greater significance. We realized we didn’t just want to have kids, we wanted to be parents and to raise kids and create a family. When we got pregnant with Keren in 2002, we were thrilled…only to have our world shaken again when we learned prenatally that she might not survive birth. But God had prepared us. Her life had significance and worth it might not have had if we hadn’t miscarried before. Keren was born with Trisomy 18, but she was ours, and God had given her to us for as long as he planned, and that was all that mattered. 

Summer 2008

With Keren in our life and all of the doctors, therapists, and special education needs her life required, our life-plan changed. We no longer planned to head overseas. My life shifted into being a mom, even more-so when Clare and Evie joined our family in the following years. Kraig completed his doctorate, and did some teaching locally, but moved into a consulting firm. He saw the need to get practical experience in his field; the health insurance package didn’t hurt, either. We grew together, learned together. We watched how our family, church, and school friends came alongside us and loved all of us. As we lived with Keren and saw her love us, we discovered new depths to what God means by unconditional love. 

And then January 28, 2009 dawned, and Keren left us, and our world shifted again. In the midst of our grief, God gave us joy. I was about thirteen weeks along with Jon when Keren died, and my doctor, looking at that early ultrasound, predicted he was a boy. It was as if God said, “I’m not replacing Keren—she will always be unique in your lives. I am giving you something new.” Again family and friends surrounded us and loved us. We moved with the shifting, grieved, and laughed, and changed.

With Keren’s death, Kraig and I were faced with another question: Did this mean we should look at the possibility of going overseas again? It was a hard question, because in some ways it was as if we were setting aside our life that we’d had with Keren. It’s extremely strange to be a parent of a special needs child for six-and-a-half years and then suddenly have a “regular” family with no outside indication that we’d ever been different. By leaving our home and roots in Michigan, we left everyone who had known Keren and us when we had her. That was a tough choice.

Yet God opened the doors, and in July of 2014 we stepped off the plane with our family in Guadalajara, Mexico, into a new life and a whole new career for Kraig. The initial one-year visiting professor contract was extended to two, with hope of more years. Our first year was difficult, to say the least. I’ve written about some of that before—Kraig was exhausted with new work, the kids struggled with culture shock and change, and I struggled with, well, wanting to love what we were experiencing, but actually hating much of it. By the second year, though, we found our stride and as friendships grew and work life and home life settled, we looked forward to a longer time…only for the university to upend its hiring plan and structure, which meant it was impossible for us to continue there….

What we knew clearly by the end of those two years was that Kraig wanted to continue teaching. What we didn’t know was where. Would we move to another country? Would we be back in the United States? It was fascinating to watch as God opened the doors for Kraig to teach at LeTourneau, and in the fall of 2016 we settled into life in Longview, Texas. 

I remember our second year here we got some estimates for new windows in our home. One of the assessors asked, “So, you’re planning on living here for a long time?” I cocked my head, puzzling how to answer. We needed new windows. How was this a decision that meant we’d be here longterm? I liked being here. All of us settled into life in East Texas extremely smoothly. I knew I didn’t want to leave. 

But in the years Kraig and I have been married, and in my life in general, being settled in one place has never been the key to our happiness and security. We haven’t even celebrated life events like anniversaries in particularly special ways—anniversaries typically fit around other momentous events. 

On our tenth anniversary we stayed close to home—we had Keren and expected Clare any day.  

On our fifteenth we chose shingles for our new roof. 

On our twentieth anniversary we left Mexico and headed to Michigan for the summer.  

This year, our 25th, we were supposed to go on a cruise to the Baltic with my parents and sisters to celebrate my parents’ 50th, and our 25th and my sister and her husband’s 20th by default. Instead, thanks to the coronavirus, we headed to a quiet family cabin in Pennsylvania to be together. 

To say the least, life hasn’t gone as planned. Everything from children, to career changes, to breakfast conversations has taken detours we haven’t expected. But I wouldn’t change it for the world. I’ll never be fond of change or dramatic, life-changing events, yet I can look forward to the years God has in store for Kraig and me and our family. I will trust God with his plan because every time I look back I can see he has been with us and has helped us grow in him, which is what we want most. 

And I will say, as I said to the window assessor in answer to his question about our living here longterm: “As the Lord wills!”

March 2020

The Truth of the Matter

They exchanged the truth of God for a lie...

~Romans 1:25a

"What is truth?" Pilate asked Jesus. It's a question that has echoed down through the ages, and still confounds people today. My high school English teacher often challenged us to ask ourselves, "Is it truth with a capital 'T' or lowercase?" Is it absolute truth, or is it relative? That's an even more difficult question in our culture now where absolutes are shouted down absolutely. We are encouraged to be tolerant toward all...unless someone's conviction doesn't permit acceptance of all views. It's an impossible weight to carry, and at times it seems like the world is fracturing under the stress of it. This past year has been the worst I've seen, and I've found myself shaken when I've discovered many of my truths are at odds with friends and family whose beliefs and values I've trusted. I do believe there is Truth with a capital 'T', God's Truth, but I have to be careful to define it on His terms and not my own. 

Recently Kraig and I started watching the series The Man in the High Castle. Its premise is an alternate history 1962 in a world where Germany under Hitler won World War II. The eastern United States is now part of the Reich, and the Pacific States have been ceded to Japan; an uneasy alliance exists between Japan and the Reich, and a stranger relationship has developed between the former Americans and their captors. The story is intriguing and unnerving, obviously because the thought of the United States under an ideology like the Reich is horrible to imagine, but also because there are so many plot points that reflect realities that are in our own world today.

One of the most disturbing characters is Obergruppenführer John Smith, an American-born high-ranking official of the Reich in New York. Though he was born before the war he is, at least as far as we've gotten, completely loyal to the aging Hitler and the ideology of the Reich with its fierce anti-semitism and annihilation of anyone who doesn't fit the Aryan model. He is ruthless, and would be impossible to sympathize with in any way if he did not have a family which he obviously loves, particularly his teenage son, Thomas. 

(For those who haven't seen the show and hope to, the following bit is something of a spoiler, though I have no idea how it's going to play out as the seasons continue. I'll leave the decision to go on up to you.)

In an episode 8 of the first season, Smith takes his son to the doctor to check out a strained wrist. After the appointment, the doctor privately pulls Smith into his office and reveals that Thomas is in the early stages of a terminal congenital disorder. In the scene, Smith is visibly shaken, and I remember thinking, Whoa, this will make him more human! Smith asks the doctor if they can get a second opinion.

"You have that option" the doctor replies. "But you should be aware that if he is submitted to others for examination this would become an institutional issue."

"Oh, I see. Yes, of course," Smith responds, flustered out of his typical reserve. 

What? I thought. That's not an option! And it hit me that under a totalitarian system, there wouldn't be the freedom to privately seek other opinions, particularly in a system where illness was seen as imperfection to be eradicated.

But the scene didn't end there. The doctor counsels Smith that he and his wife can treat their son at home (quietly and behind the scenes, I thought, to get around regulations). Then the doctor pushes a syringe and ampule across his desk to the dazed father. 

"As for medical assistance..." he says, describing the ingredients: morphine, scopolamine, and prussic acid. 

And finally the full truth of what was going on in the scene sank in. The "medical assistance" was death. In the Reich, there was no room for disabilities or long-term care for anyone terminally ill. They had to be terminated. They were a drag on society, or worse, a blight. Later that evening in the same episode, Smith flips through an old photo album of he and his brother. His wife looks over his shoulder reminiscing and speaks of how she wished she had had siblings and the great relationship like what he had had with his brother. "Seeing your brother like that, it must of broken your father's heart," she says, revealing to the audience that Smith's brother must have died of the same disease Thomas has. Then, in complete contradiction to her own logic regarding the joy of siblings, and in oblivion to the truth she says, "Well at least now, when someone is terribly ill, they're not allowed to suffer. That's a blessing."

I was still mentally reeling over the sight of that bottle and ampule. This was not an alternate history. Oregon already has its doctor-prescribed death-in-a-bottle for terminal patients. Colorado and California passed similar laws in their November votes. It's not our policy-makers who voted in these laws, it is "we the people." We don't have the excuse of a dictator with a hit-list against anyone who doesn't fit his ideal of humanity. In our country, the arguments seem to run along the lines that these prescribed suicides are for overall "health" in a  way--family health, society's health, the removal of an individual's suffering. We should not allow suffering. We should not create an economic drag on society. All the while we move blindly into a new Reich where prescribed death is acceptable and cheap, while actively researching potential cures and caring for those who are weak and suffering, and learning from them in the process, is seen as an impediment to cultural advancement.

Eight years ago today, our daughter Keren died. During the course of her life, from before she was born to the day she died, and since, she had purpose and significance. This wasn't just because we loved her, but because we saw that every piece of her Trisomy 18, genetically-flawed, body had been given to us by a God we loved and trusted. She was not a curse; she was not an object of suffering; we were not heart-broken by her brokenness. We were transformed by her existence. We grieve her death, but it is not grief without hope.

In addition to our own walk, throughout her life we were surrounded by family, friends, doctors, and teachers who were there for us and for her. They sought ways for her to reach her full potential. No doctor or teacher could really state her full potential with "facts" because in this world where we can help the sick, people are continually seeking to discover things about our bodies and about diseases. There is always the possibility of a cure. It is only in a world where suffering is considered unacceptable, life expendable, and death preferable that nothing will be done to improve it. 

We have a choice. We can go with the current flow and accept the "truth" that suffering is unacceptable and that there are certain people who disrupt things by their flawed existence, or we can stand against it by holding those who are suffering and learning together what true love really is. Yes, the world is broken, but it is God's Truth that it will be made new, and in a small, faithful way, we can be a part of that restoration.

The Bane of Popcorn Ceilings

I wrote this out by hand yesterday but didn't have time to post it:

Kraig has Fall Break today and tomorrow so we're on a holiday of sorts. Of course, for us right now that mostly means more time for house projects, but the kids had fun riding their bikes and we had a bonfire tonight. I've been able to concentrate more on one of the rooms we're trying to get painted and Kraig fixed two leaky faucets amid a multitude of other projects.

I know I've mentioned that I'm thankful for the projects--I do love the satisfaction of a job well done, but today I've felt rather curmudgeonly. I'm not totally sure why. Maybe it's because that room we're trying to paint is the first of a few rooms and we're now way off our intended schedule because the prep process has taken forever. I finally thought it was good enough to move forward and paint the ceiling, only to discover (once I'd put a layer of paint over it) that the spots I'd patched to hide old tape lines now show as a couple of snaky lumps. And I'm so fed up with it.

All of the ceilings in this home have popcorn finishes. Our home in Michigan had them and they were the first thing to go, and as we're picking our way through he room improvements here we're eliminating them. Thankfully they haven't been painted over so the popcorn comes off easily. We hate popcorn ceilings. The dirt and dust clings to the crevices and they're impossible to really clean. But they sure do cover a multitude of flaws. I'm sure when they're first sprayed on they're a refreshing change--white stipples hiding all of those tape lines or divots that can mar a flat ceiling. But they're just a cover, not a true fix, and like any temporary cover they don't resolve the root issue. I guess that's one reason why I'm so disappointed with our recovered ceiling. I wanted so much for it to be nice and clean, a fresh slate from the bottom up, and it's still flawed.

And I'm wondering about my angst. I feel like I've had some cover scraped off, a nice popcorn ceiling of vacation time, and I'm still all messy underneath. I've been sniping at the kids, and they've been sniping at each other. Even during some great one-on-one time with Clare today I had a difficult time tuning in and cheerfully responding to her chatter. I'm praying that tomorrow will be better or that God will show me clearly what's going on. In other words, I need him to work on getting my popcorn ceiling off and cleaning up the flaws underneath.

Or something like that....

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Mondays...

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Mondays are abominable.

I completely agree that the degree of abomination is mostly in relation to one's attitude. But the attitude isn't always mine, and there is only so much I can do about another's. My eldest was in rare form today and she blamed it on the day of the week.

"I never like Mondays," she declared, glower fully engaged. "Mondays are always awful!"

And it was pretty awful, thanks, in a good way to the foul attitude. Middle and youngest child did their fair bit of whining and snipping, too, and everything took about three times as long as it should have. Naturally I was calm and noble throughout, gently leading my fractious young to see that their behavior indicated something hard in their hearts. And they responded with warmth and affection and peace was restored.

Um...
Excuse me a minute....
I can't seem to see what I'm writing over the length of my nose....

Okay. No. The truth is I lost it a few times. I try to turn the issue to the heart of the matter rather than just reacting, but I did react badly. There are so many times, particularly with our eldest, that we wonder when and if she'll be willing to let God soften her.

"You need to look at why you're feeling this way and behaving like this," I pled with her at one point. "Write it down and do a little self-analysis. Pray about it."

"I'm self-analyzing myself all the time!" she shot back. And knowing her, I don't doubt it. There's a battle that often goes on inside that head and heart of hers and all Kraig and I can do is pray that she'll surrender it at some point and stop trying to always be the one in charge.

Meanwhile, Kraig and I keep analyzing ourselves, her, how we're dealing with things, and praying that we're taking the right steps. I was reminded again today by an article my mom sent me that transitions are tough. And while (or because) our eldest has always been stubborn, passionate, too-smart-for-her-own-good, these transitions have often been more difficult for her than her siblings.

For me right now, I'm just thankful that today is over. Onward to Tuesday!

Reminders of Hutchmoot

This weekend was Hutchmoot, that most beloved of conferences I've been to that celebrates truth and beauty and how God works these out through all the craziness in our world. The conference emphasizes the arts, including meals--the past two times I've gone I actually went to help in the kitchen (and learn a little in the process).

Two years ago when we first moved to Guadalajara and I first did this challenge, I wrote about missing Hutchmoot and friends there. Last year I was able to go and work in the kitchen again thanks to my in-laws who lovingly timed their visit to Guadalajara so it would overlap my trip to Nashville. But when this year rolled around we knew it wouldn't be an option.

I was okay with that, and most of the weekend has been great despite the missing. There have been plenty of reminder moments. The topic of our Sunday school lesson was one of Jesus' parables about a banquet and I thought immediately of Andrew Peterson's introduction to this year's conference that thankfully he posted in The Rabbit Room. Every time I opened Facebook this weekend I saw pictures posted by friends who are there and "last year at this time" photos. My sister Carrie is there this weekend and co-led one of the sessions and I couldn't help but remember how great it's been to go with her. I listened to Andrew Osenga's Leonard the Lonely Astronaut after dropping the kids off at their Awana program, and of course we had Andrew Peterson playing over the weekend. The message this morning was about putting Christ at the center of your life so that everything flows out from Him, and I thought of how that idea is at the heart of The Rabbit Room and Hutchmoot.

The good news is I am not a basket case. I miss it--I have missed Hutchmoot 2016--but it's not the end of the world. It's been a good weekend with my family and satisfying in many ways. I can seek truth and beauty here in Longview just as much as I can in Nashville.

Leftovers

Leftovers
   Remade
   Reformed
   Redeemed
   Repurposed
   Resurrected 

There's something miraculous that happens
When something old is made new. 

Have you ever seen
   What God does
      With the world's leftovers?

Hutchmoot 2013, a mural created by conference attendees. We each had a separate piece
and we didn't know what the whole looked like until it was assembled.

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving Day today
   But not in Mexico--
   Kraig had work,
   The kids had school,
   And I struggled
      to be thankful.
I missed bare trees,
   And rich brown turkey,
   And cranberry jewels,
   And spiced pumpkin pie,
   And our kids going to Grandmother's house
     even if not through drifting snow.
It's understandable
   But silly, really,
   Because in reality
   We have been given an indescribable luxury
      of life,
And Someone
    We can thank for it
      every day.

Giving thanks for ice cream at the end of November

Forgiven, forgiving

I am wrung dry tonight
   Exhausted
   Worn from a morning
   Where I lost my temper
      again....
I can excuse it as righteous anger
   My point stands
   But that's just it
      --it's an excuse....
Apologies were made
   Forgiveness extended
      both ways....
But still I beat my head
   Against the wall
      Hanging
         Onto
            my failure....
How is God able to forgive me so freely?
   I long to learn this
   So I can forgive myself.

Danza de los Voladores~Dance of the Flyers

Tlaquepaque, Mexico

There are days I feel like I'm twirling dizzily like this!

The Shape of Me

I'm taking a break from writing something new today, and I found this poem in one of my files. I wrote it for an online creative writing class I took hosted by the talented Jennifer Trafton. Typically she only does classes for kids, so I lucked out with this one. If your kids love to write, check out her classes here: Sleeping Giant. Our Clare has taken a couple of them and had a great experience.

The Shape of Me

In all moods, I am a broken circle.

In joy I am a hawk, 

Wheeling and wheeling, 

Higher and higher,

Ragged circles in the sky.

In anger I am a wheel of fire—

Sparks fly outward and

I roll here and there,

Burning all I touch.

In peace I am a hidden lake;

A round pond of stillness.

The birds and beasts find refreshment 

In the cool shadows.

In anxiety I am an iron sphere,

Weighty and hard,

Impenetrable and dull,

No break in the cloudy metal.

In fear I am a hedgehog

Rolling into a ball,

Spines pointing outward,

Trying to protect my soft center.

In love I am a hug,

Arms wrapped round,

Pulling others close

And stretching outside of myself.

In Christ I am complete.

He resolves the endless wheeling,

And soothes the burning touch.

He is the spring of my pond,

And brings light into my heavy sphere.

He holds my soft center

And wraps His arms around me.

He brings all things full circle.

Artwork by Kate Hinson, original photo by Africa Schaumann

Covered

A man whitewashed the wall
   along the court below our balcony.
I grimaced as dirt from plants I potted
   drifted over the edge and down.
The wall won't stay white long.

I am like that wall, always collecting
   an array of dirty specks.
They stick and hold; I cannot wash them off.
   They must be covered by Another.

We read this morning
   about the holy mountain and the tabernacle
   and the need for sacrifice to cover sin.
      But it was only so good.
"Why did people die when they touched something
   where God is?" Evie asked.
And I realized that our speckled selves
   can't touch God's purity
      without incineration
         ...unless we are covered.

And only one Cover can make us pure enough
   to touch a holy God.

Communion

The bread and wine
Passed down through time,
A chance to look behind
At great love for mankind,
A moment to seek and find
The future release from grind,
This ritual most kind--
Clear sight for the blind.

Masks

In the theater of the ancient Greeks
They declaimed and proclaimed upon the stage
With masks portraying their joy and rage
To tell their stories of the strong and weak. 

We still see these masks in modern days
On those who wish to play a part,
Who fear exposure of the heart,
Because it might force a change of ways. 

And yet it is only the mask removal
That reveals the truth of the broken soul
And provides the way to make it whole--
The mask must drop to allow retrieval.

In Need

(This is off-prompt today. I had no desire to write something pro- or anti-technology. Didn't I just write about GPS systems last Friday? And after all, today was, well, it was.)

The saying goes:
   "If you pray for patience
       expect to be tried."
So I avoid that prayer
   at all costs,
Tiptoeing around the need
   with wary superstition.
I am a mother after all.
   Why ask for more testing?
Each day is a training ground,
   and not just for my children.
My soul is raised before me
   in the mirror of their eyes
      again and
         again and
            again....
Each day I am aware
   of my desperate need for
      God's patience
         and mercy.

Anchor for the Soul

"What is the fixed point in your life that holds you?" 

~Pastor Larry Trotter, Church of the Redeemer

Hebrews 6:16-20

November 8, 2015

Submerged and lost--
At least it feels that way
When storms hurl rain
And waves toss. 

My deck's awash
And dark of night floods in,
Light quenched, all dim.
This, the cost 

Of forgetting, neglecting,
The anchor for my soul--
Hope that keeps me whole,
Not foundering. 

Hurricanes will lash
But my fixed point will hold
This anchor for my soul
Has sustained every blast.

Surrender

Yesterday
   I realized (again)
   That I had not put You first.  

You were stuck, tucked, shoved
   Behind my late nights
      browsing endless links to words wise, funny, and stupid;
   Behind mornings
      busy with breakfast for the family and daily details;
   Behind the siren call of "time for me, me me!" 

There's always an excuse. 

But yesterday
   You nudged me from behind
   And I took the hint.
So this morning
   I put You first
   And You gave me a sunrise.  

Please keep nudging.

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"

 

 

 

Ways to Look at a Day

There are days, and then there are crazy days, and this one certainly fit into the latter category. If one could epitomize reality, or life as I live it, this day would be the prime example.

I've been in hyper-awareness mode most of today for a rather large reason: It is the sixth anniversary of the death of our daughter Keren. Usually I hate January because most of the month is a time of dreaded anticipation. The Day is approaching and there is nothing I can do about it. In Michigan this is compounded with short, dark days and cold, cold weather, or worse, murky, cold-ish weather. 

This year I could see the date approaching on the calendar, but it always took me a little by surprise. I guess there are advantages to sunshine and short-sleeve weather. On top of that, Jon had a stomach bug and was out of school Monday and Tuesday, so my mind was preoccupied with him. And there have been more shifts this January in our already crazy shifting season of life. So, yeah, all that to say, I wasn't depressed about the imminence of January 28.

And today was not depressing. Insane, but not depressing. It was one of those days where half the time I was looking at God and saying, "So, can we just stop and go on to something else?" At the same time, because I was paying close attention to everything today I saw God there in the midst, working in amazing ways.

Here are some of the details:

Con: We got out the door late to drop Jon and Ev off at school. This is not unusual, but it was worse than the norm. Breakfast took longer than expected to make, etc., etc.... I was frazzled as a result, mostly because this was Wednesday and I go straight to Bible Study after drop-off, so there was even more pressure to get out the door in good time. 

And yet, even though we got to school late, we still managed to miss a tardy.

Con: Jon was in tears because he didn't want to go to school after two days off. Yesterday he had an awesome day because he was past the sick point, so of course the idea of school today was anathema. 

And yet, he had a good day and even ate extra at lunch.

Con: Traffic was extra-awful today, and on one of the roads I grated the car over a huge pothole I couldn't see due to the sun being directly in my eyes.

And yet, the car was fine, we got everywhere we needed to go, and one of the main roads that's been under construction is fixed now and actually had much less traffic than usual.

Con: I had to make a Costco run after Bible Study and when I went to check out I discovered I had left my membership card in my other purse.

And yet I was able to get a new card made at the store within fifteen minutes for no cost.

Con: When everything was rung up, my bank card wouldn't go through even though I knew we had more than enough money in the account and I just used it yesterday. Not only that, my credit card was also in my other purse, so I couldn't use that. The lady told me that I needed to call the bank and I could only stare at all the stuff I'd just bought, try to decipher her stream of Spanish, and look around helplessly wishing someone would materialize who could speak English.

And yet God took my panicked wishing as prayer and in my daze I turned to see one of my acquaintances from church saying hi to me. She saw the panic in my face and not only stepped in to speak Spanish but offered to use her card for the order so I didn't have to try to make phone calls right there. This was the huge neon-light point in the day where I suddenly saw that God was right in the midst of it with our family. This perspective changer helped immensely considering the day was only half over....

Con: Back home, when I lifted one of my bags off the counter the strap caught our butter crock and sent it with a smash to the floor.

And yet I just looked at it and laughed instead of blowing up because I couldn't help but see that the craziness, by this point, was inevitable. It was also fun to watch Clare pick up the broken pieces and spend time trying to fit the "puzzle" together. 

Con: I tried to call the bank to figure out what had happened with our card and couldn't get through on any of the numbers. Everything looked okay online, but I needed to make sure the card was okay, so I had to go over to the bank on campus to solve the issue.

And yet this meant some extra exercise, and it turned out that nothing was wrong with the card. I also now know the correct phone number to call and should be able to get a person who speaks English.

Con: I managed to send Evie into tears when I reprimanded her for doing part of Jon's homework (tracing patterns). According to her I yelled at her, and she had no idea that what she did was wrong. She thought they were just trading off with him.

And yet she forgave me and we were able to talk through strategies for how she an let me know I misunderstood something, rather than her running off in tears. We also had time to sit down together and read a book which she's been wanting for a few days now.

What else? Oh, the list goes on. Ev announced when I picked her up today that her class is having a party tomorrow and she needed to bring food to share. Thankfully I had a new bag of chips in the cupboard. Jon has to take lunch for his class and we almost didn't get the tote bag that the school provides, but thankfully we realized it before we left the school. I am writing this now at 10:30 because I spent the past couple hours putting the pieces together for the class lunch. And yet, I am sitting here with a working computer, with Kraig across the room busy on lesson prep, and three kids sound asleep. Tomorrow, as Anne Shirley would say, is a new day with no mistakes in it yet. I'm not so silly to assume there won't be mistakes, but I pray that I am wise enough to know that no matter what tomorrow brings, God is in it with me, and He's got it covered. 

Tomorrow is in His hands just as much as was that Wednesday six years ago.

Complicated Decisions: When to Accept or Reject Cultural Traditions

When we moved to Mexico, we knew that one of its main celebrations is Día de Muertos, the Day of the Dead. It covers a few days, actually: Halloween on October 31, the Day of the Innocents (for children and infants who have died) on November 1, and the actual Day of the Dead on November 2 for adults who have died. You can get a good overview of it here in Wikipedia. The basic gist of the holiday is to honor those who have died, to remember them, and, for some, to create a way for the souls of those who have died to come visit.

Catrinas decorate buildings and a sculpture in Tlaquepaque

I've always been uncomfortable with the concept; I have vague childhood memories of All Soul's Day in the Philippines which involved people taking picnics to cemeteries on November 2, or even sleeping there. It is something very foreign to my biblical worldview, and in some ways it's repulsive. For me, the dead are gone. Those who were Christ-followers I believe I will see again someday. We honor them in stories we tell, and special things we have that belonged to them, but our stories and things we retain aren't held in order to try to bring them back. Rather, I am looking forward to a reunion. Because of this worldview, I don't believe souls return. However, also because of this worldview, I believe there are fallen angels, demons, who are alive and active and ready to deceive in whatever way works. That, to me, brings a dangerous element into honoring and celebrating the dead.

All that aside, one part of Día de Muertos we weren't familiar with or prepared for were the Altars de Muertos (altars for the dead). We learned about them a couple months ago when another American prof from the university was telling us about the wonderful altar displays that the university put up for the Day of the Dead, and how we would really love to go and see them all. "So elaborate and beautiful," she said. Altars? Kraig and I looked at each other puzzled. We asked a few questions, but didn't get much information. Then at the beginning of this month, Jon's kindergarten newsletter mentioned that his class would be making an altar for Día de Muertos. I thought at the time I should ask more about it, but I let it go until the other week when the teachers started to talk about the Halloween celebration and the altars. Suddenly it was something we had to really think about.

A sugar calavera

Talk about complicated. From what we can gather, the altars are shrines set up in honor of loved ones who have died, or famous people, or whomever. Ev's class is doing one dedicated to Walt Disney (which, to tell the truth, made me laugh since Disney was a proponent of cryogenics and didn't think he was really going to die permanently....). Some have these altars primarily to remember and honor someone. But the altars are also steeped in traditions that lend to a desire to bring souls of departed loved ones near. The altars are decorated with marigolds (cempasuchil) which are thought to welcome spirits. Sugar candy skulls, calaveras, are used for decorations, and a special bread is made that will help nourish the souls. While the school is totally secular, and the purpose of its altars is an excuse to party and learn about Mexico's cultural history, we realized that we had to figure out where our line between honoring and worshiping was--and quickly. The kids had notes sent home requesting different pieces for the altars, and parents were invited to come tour on Thursday.

Jon & Ev's skeletal creation today

Not only was there the question of how we honor the dead, we needed to know how we live with a biblical worldview in a postmodern world and in a country with heavy superstitions. What stand do we take, and how do we do it without offending the relationships we have started to build? I've grown to appreciate the teachers at the kids' school, and they are more and more welcoming of my help. I didn't want to throw a monkey wrench into the works by announcing that we couldn't in good conscience have the kids take part in the celebration. And what about the kids? Clare, in her true fashion, has eschewed the whole thing. She hates the skeletons with religious fervor--too zealous, as usual. We're constantly trying to help her understand the difference between standing up for what she believes while tempering it with love and grace. Evie and Jon ask questions, but they're more focused on what they will miss. Ev wants to see Ms. Mariana's surprise, and Jon has taken to drawing catrinas and skulls for his teachers. To him, it's an art project. What effect would all of this have on them?

Kraig has seen it more in black and white. An altar is an altar is an altar in his mind, and that means worship or sacrifice whether one believes it or not. We don't even have altars for God under the New Covenant. The fact that the root of these altars is the Aztec human sacrifices hasn't help the case either. We've gone back and forth on it. I don't like them, but I have been more torn by the question of how to bow out graciously without creating huge barriers. We were able to talk with other believers who have lived here a good bit longer than us, and they confirmed some of our concerns, which helped. I agreed I would talk with Ms. Mariana and see what parts of the celebration revolved around the altars so we would know what the kids would have to miss.

cempasuchil

The good news is, I did get to talk to Ms. Mariana today and she was very understanding and gracious. She was also able to explain more of the details of the celebration to me, which solidified my resolve that this isn't the best holiday for our family to participate in. I want to learn more about it, but mostly because I hate to hold a view without fully understanding where another is coming from and I like to be able to discuss things. For now, though, we need to step back and watch from a distance. We'll see what more we learn in the coming year.

Heritage

My Grandma Givens celebrated her 96th birthday today. Yes, you saw that correctly. Ninety-six. Four years shy of a century.

She has slowed considerably in the past ten years. A number of years ago she moved into an assisted living apartment from the old farmhouse where she and Grandpa had raised six boys and housed their sons' bursting families from time to time. After some severe health issues a couple years ago she transferred from the apartment to a connected facility that provides much more care. She has taken each transfer with the graciousness and patience and peace that have marked her life.

I think I can honestly say that if it were not for who Grandma is, our family would not be in Guadalajara. My other grandparents also marked my life significantly through the years I was able to enjoy them, and my parents and Kraig's family and grandparents have certainly had their impact, too. There's no end to the people who have touched our life and molded us. But Grandma is an integral component.

I always loved Grandma, no question. Who couldn't love the grandmother who opened her home to roiling masses of grandchildren and provided great Pennsylvania Dutch feasts? How could one not love the grandmother who always had the right kinds of ice cream on hand for ice cream cones, and had the tree in the back yard perfect for climbing and dreaming? This is the grandmother who, years ago when we were in the Philippines, sent amazing care packages with huge swaths of nylon-type fabric in blue, green and pink that my sister and I draped around us as fabulous gowns or tied up through our room to make tents that rivaled those in Arabian Nights. And when she visited, she could take any clothes that needed help and mend them in a flash. This was a grandmother easy to love.

But the older I've gotten, the more I have realized her depth. I've always known her love for Christ is part of what makes her who she is. As I've gotten older, though, I've see her shine more. She's the classic Christian, reading her Daily Bread and her Bible, her home full of Bible pictures and verses and sermon notes, watching Day of Discovery and listening to classic radio programs. If you saw only this, she would seem to be a stereotype of Christianity. Get to know her, though, and the reality shines through. She doesn't just take all this stuff in. She internalizes it and lets it transform her. And the older she gets, the more she glows.

It's not like she hasn't had anything hard in her life. She was in her early sixties when my grandfather was diagnosed with ALS, and she nursed him till he passed away in a brief span of years. Barely any time had passed after Grandpa died that Grandma took her mother in and nursed her for a number of years as well. After her mother's death, there were a few years of looking after her brother. Her sons have been there for her through all of this--I've always loved to watch them shower love back on her. They've had their ups and downs, too, and Grandma has always been there, not imposing, but a steady presence.

She is full of prayer. Sometimes we laugh and say that the reason Grandma has lived so long is because God still wants her praying for all of us. The other summer when I last saw her she told us about a friend who had called her a prayer warrior. "I'm not a prayer warrior," she exclaimed in complete innocence. "Why would she call me that?" "Grandma!" one of the family said, "of course you are! When you wake up in the middle of the night what's the first thing you do until you get back to sleep? You start praying through your list of your family!" She didn't buy it, and we love her all the more because of that.

So yes, there is no question in my mind that our family is here in part because of the woman my grandmother is. Her character and faith have had an eternal impact on how we approach life, and her prayer has carried us through more than I can see. I am always encouraged when I think of that. And when I look at her, I hope that I will age with the grace she has, with her patience and with her peace. I am thankful that I know her Source, because I wouldn't have a hope if she got it all on her own strength. And she'll make sure anyone who asks knows that.