Let's Get Real
A Friend of Jesus Living in the Real World
Let's Get Real
Journey-Marks of Friends Gone By
"There is an appointed time for everything. And there is a time for every event under heaven..and...a time to tear down."- The Teacher (Ecclesiastes 3:1,3 NAS)
"We need to learn to set our course by the stars, not the lights of every passing ship."- General Omar N. Bradley
Like the steamer trunks of time gone by, my luggage bears reminders of travels past. Oh sure, they may look like scars from the baggage carousel at Denver International; but just like my soul, my bags bear the journey-marks of friendships maintained. By road trip and plane trip, by ship and by thumb, I've traveled the world to see my friends. But my oldest bag, one of my favorites, suffered a rip in the fabric and was damaged beyond repair. Though I no longer use it I can't seem to discard it. A piece of my heart got caught in the tear, and I've never been able to pull it entirely free.
In the summer of '73, Trailways Bus Line offered a cheap, all-you-can-ride pass around the United States, good for thirty days. With my newly printed high-school diploma safely stashed at home, I boarded the late-afternoon northbound out of Miami, headed to see my friend Wendy. She had landed a summer job as a camp counselor in the cool, fragrant Blue Ridge Mountains. I couldn't wait to see her. I idolized Wendy.
Together we had endured an interminably boring social studies class, side-by-side in the season of senioritis. She was funny and smart, popular without being snotty and for some reason, she liked me. Because I had no clue who I was or what I wanted to do with my life, I was fantastically impressed by this friend who seemed to know exactly who she was and what she wanted. While patiently enduring my pot-smoking habits and boy-crazy rants, she herself was an upstanding model of fine young American womanhood, not given to using drugs or professions of passion for the geek-of-the-week. In short, she was everything I wanted to be but couldn't seem to pull off.
Our friendship lasted decades. Even though we never lived in the same city after high school, we kept in touch and visited one another in the years that followed. Unfortunately, Wendy married a man who exhibited the same illicit behaviors she tolerated in me, but this time she joined the party. Just as she was beginning to lose her footing on alcohol's slippery slope, I was pleading with Jesus to reach down His hand and pull me free from my addictions. She and I passed each other on the spiral staircase. With every rise I saw a little more clearly, and my perspective changed. The friendship I thought would last forever would not survive the climb.
I was desperate not to leave her behind, and I begged her to come with me. While she didn't begrudge my new-found faith or understand my addiction recovery, she laughed at the prospect of becoming a clean-and-sober Jesus freak. Had the stakes not been so high, we could have tapered off like a candle burning down to the nub. But three little kids stood in the way. Buffeted by the winds of full-blown alcoholism, Wendy went off the deep end, pulling her kids along into a vodka-soaked vortex. I had to make a decision: turn a blind eye to the carnage and salvage the friendship, or intercede for the kids and lose her forever.
To this day, I still miss her. Occasionally I still dream about her. She was a true friend, but I lost her to the bottle long before I lost her in battle. When push came to shove, I had to choose between the hero she had once been and the integrity of my own soul- to do what I could to defend the defenseless. The "time to tear down" had arrived.
In the corner of my closet rests a canvas duffle bag with a rip in the fabric from stem to stern. Its contents include some old photographs of a couple of teenage girls, laughing and traveling and having some fun. They are faded by time and dated by years, but the memories still tug at my heart like a rip in the fabric of my soul.
Then Jesus said to His disciples, "If anyone would come after Me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for Me will find it. What good will it be for a man if he gains the whole world, yet forfeits his soul? Or what can a man give in exchange for his soul?" -Jesus Christ (Matthew 16:24-26 NIV)
©Rachel Ophoff, Coconut Mountain Communications LLC 2010. All Rights Reserved.
"We need to learn to set our course by the stars, not the lights of every passing ship."- General Omar N. Bradley
Like the steamer trunks of time gone by, my luggage bears reminders of travels past. Oh sure, they may look like scars from the baggage carousel at Denver International; but just like my soul, my bags bear the journey-marks of friendships maintained. By road trip and plane trip, by ship and by thumb, I've traveled the world to see my friends. But my oldest bag, one of my favorites, suffered a rip in the fabric and was damaged beyond repair. Though I no longer use it I can't seem to discard it. A piece of my heart got caught in the tear, and I've never been able to pull it entirely free.
In the summer of '73, Trailways Bus Line offered a cheap, all-you-can-ride pass around the United States, good for thirty days. With my newly printed high-school diploma safely stashed at home, I boarded the late-afternoon northbound out of Miami, headed to see my friend Wendy. She had landed a summer job as a camp counselor in the cool, fragrant Blue Ridge Mountains. I couldn't wait to see her. I idolized Wendy.
Together we had endured an interminably boring social studies class, side-by-side in the season of senioritis. She was funny and smart, popular without being snotty and for some reason, she liked me. Because I had no clue who I was or what I wanted to do with my life, I was fantastically impressed by this friend who seemed to know exactly who she was and what she wanted. While patiently enduring my pot-smoking habits and boy-crazy rants, she herself was an upstanding model of fine young American womanhood, not given to using drugs or professions of passion for the geek-of-the-week. In short, she was everything I wanted to be but couldn't seem to pull off.
Our friendship lasted decades. Even though we never lived in the same city after high school, we kept in touch and visited one another in the years that followed. Unfortunately, Wendy married a man who exhibited the same illicit behaviors she tolerated in me, but this time she joined the party. Just as she was beginning to lose her footing on alcohol's slippery slope, I was pleading with Jesus to reach down His hand and pull me free from my addictions. She and I passed each other on the spiral staircase. With every rise I saw a little more clearly, and my perspective changed. The friendship I thought would last forever would not survive the climb.
I was desperate not to leave her behind, and I begged her to come with me. While she didn't begrudge my new-found faith or understand my addiction recovery, she laughed at the prospect of becoming a clean-and-sober Jesus freak. Had the stakes not been so high, we could have tapered off like a candle burning down to the nub. But three little kids stood in the way. Buffeted by the winds of full-blown alcoholism, Wendy went off the deep end, pulling her kids along into a vodka-soaked vortex. I had to make a decision: turn a blind eye to the carnage and salvage the friendship, or intercede for the kids and lose her forever.
To this day, I still miss her. Occasionally I still dream about her. She was a true friend, but I lost her to the bottle long before I lost her in battle. When push came to shove, I had to choose between the hero she had once been and the integrity of my own soul- to do what I could to defend the defenseless. The "time to tear down" had arrived.
In the corner of my closet rests a canvas duffle bag with a rip in the fabric from stem to stern. Its contents include some old photographs of a couple of teenage girls, laughing and traveling and having some fun. They are faded by time and dated by years, but the memories still tug at my heart like a rip in the fabric of my soul.
Then Jesus said to His disciples, "If anyone would come after Me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for Me will find it. What good will it be for a man if he gains the whole world, yet forfeits his soul? Or what can a man give in exchange for his soul?" -Jesus Christ (Matthew 16:24-26 NIV)
©Rachel Ophoff, Coconut Mountain Communications LLC 2010. All Rights Reserved.
Bittersweet Blessings and Late-Summer Bouquets
"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven; ..and a time to heal."- The Teacher (Ecclesiastes 3:1,3 NIV)
"Some people are always grumbling that roses have thorns; I am thankful that thorns have roses."- Alphonse Karr
Dear Catherine,
Happy birthday, honey. I wish you were here.
Your gift this year is a late-summer bouquet. The bittersweet blessing of cooler nights and shorter days seems to have spurred the neighborhood flowers into furious bloom, a last-gasp effort that shouts, "We're not done yet!" Even the butterflies appear to have launched an August campaign to pollinate the planet, one bush at a time. As the sun moves south, the turquoise skies of summer are deepening to that autumn shade of azure, the postcard-perfect backdrop of a Rocky Mountain fall. You loved every season of your Colorado home, but this last week of August still belongs to you. God lent you to us as a late-summer gift.
You would be twenty-five today. To us, you will be forever fourteen. For several years your friends kept in touch with us; we joined the throngs of celebrants as they graduated, married, and moved on with their lives. Understandably a little gun-shy in crowds, your dad and I always grabbed a corner table for four; it seemed we could not attend any event without including our constant companions, bitter and sweet. Tears burned my throat as I hugged every bride, threatening to escape as even as I gushed over her dress. Finally we'd throw the rice and wish them well; off they would drive for their honeymoon as I cried all the way home in the car. I would have loved to have seen you get married.
Sorry, sweetie, I get caught up. On a brighter note, what's your birthday like in Heaven? Do you celebrate birthdays there? Does Jesus hug you tightly for me, laughing at your goofy sense of humor and tickling your funny bone? Oh, how I wish I could be there! As it is, I'm afraid I might have to call Him away from the party. Missing you on your birthday is so hard I can't stop the tears from coming. I need Jesus down here with me. He knows what it's like to feel sad.
"My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with Me."-Jesus Christ (Matthew 26:38 NIV)
Jesus knows about suffering, both His and ours. To His disciples He said, "In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." (John 16:33b NIV) Did He know you would leave us so soon? Of course. Did He build you a nice home in Heaven? He promised He would, so I'm sure that He did. (John 14:1-4) I guess my real question for Him is: What does "taking heart" look like? How do I overcome a world full of brides and grandbabies and birthdays every year?
And He whispers, "Remember. Remember My gifts as well as My commands."
"Remember the friends I sent you? They give you their hugs, their presence, their prayers."
"Remember the Word I sent you? It's your invitation to the Party, and the promise of My love."
"Also remember I have work for you to do. Reaching out to others will rescue you from the pool of self-pity. Keep your eyes open for My assignments."
"Remember the Colorado skies you are so fond of? The 'someday' of eternity is coming. On that day, your azure skies will drop the act and run for cover. Even the splendor of the Milky Way at midnight cannot begin to compare with the glory of Heaven. Catherine is safe and happy and busy. To her, time has a different meaning. You will be here almost before she knows it, and almost before you know it, too. Be patient and wait for Me. On your 'someday' I will come and take you Home. In the meantime, I will help you through the hard days and rejoice with you on the good ones. And you still have good days to come. Trust Me."
Okay, Lord. Who can argue with that?
Catherine, here's your birthday bouquet, made of the flowers that bloom in late summer. The colorful ribbons that weave their way through it are my precious memories of your laughter, your kindness, and the strength of your will. The crystals that bounce back those sparkles of sunshine are the tears that have watered the growth of my soul. I send my love, I wish you the best, and with all my heart I look forward to the day I will see you again.
Happy birthday, honey.
Love, Mom
Be strong and take heart, all you who hope in the Lord. (Psalm 31;24 NIV)
"The hope of heaven under troubles is like wind and sails to the soul."- Samuel Rutherford.
"Some people are always grumbling that roses have thorns; I am thankful that thorns have roses."- Alphonse Karr
Dear Catherine,
Happy birthday, honey. I wish you were here.
Your gift this year is a late-summer bouquet. The bittersweet blessing of cooler nights and shorter days seems to have spurred the neighborhood flowers into furious bloom, a last-gasp effort that shouts, "We're not done yet!" Even the butterflies appear to have launched an August campaign to pollinate the planet, one bush at a time. As the sun moves south, the turquoise skies of summer are deepening to that autumn shade of azure, the postcard-perfect backdrop of a Rocky Mountain fall. You loved every season of your Colorado home, but this last week of August still belongs to you. God lent you to us as a late-summer gift.
You would be twenty-five today. To us, you will be forever fourteen. For several years your friends kept in touch with us; we joined the throngs of celebrants as they graduated, married, and moved on with their lives. Understandably a little gun-shy in crowds, your dad and I always grabbed a corner table for four; it seemed we could not attend any event without including our constant companions, bitter and sweet. Tears burned my throat as I hugged every bride, threatening to escape as even as I gushed over her dress. Finally we'd throw the rice and wish them well; off they would drive for their honeymoon as I cried all the way home in the car. I would have loved to have seen you get married.
Sorry, sweetie, I get caught up. On a brighter note, what's your birthday like in Heaven? Do you celebrate birthdays there? Does Jesus hug you tightly for me, laughing at your goofy sense of humor and tickling your funny bone? Oh, how I wish I could be there! As it is, I'm afraid I might have to call Him away from the party. Missing you on your birthday is so hard I can't stop the tears from coming. I need Jesus down here with me. He knows what it's like to feel sad.
"My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with Me."-Jesus Christ (Matthew 26:38 NIV)
Jesus knows about suffering, both His and ours. To His disciples He said, "In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." (John 16:33b NIV) Did He know you would leave us so soon? Of course. Did He build you a nice home in Heaven? He promised He would, so I'm sure that He did. (John 14:1-4) I guess my real question for Him is: What does "taking heart" look like? How do I overcome a world full of brides and grandbabies and birthdays every year?
And He whispers, "Remember. Remember My gifts as well as My commands."
"Remember the friends I sent you? They give you their hugs, their presence, their prayers."
"Remember the Word I sent you? It's your invitation to the Party, and the promise of My love."
"Also remember I have work for you to do. Reaching out to others will rescue you from the pool of self-pity. Keep your eyes open for My assignments."
"Remember the Colorado skies you are so fond of? The 'someday' of eternity is coming. On that day, your azure skies will drop the act and run for cover. Even the splendor of the Milky Way at midnight cannot begin to compare with the glory of Heaven. Catherine is safe and happy and busy. To her, time has a different meaning. You will be here almost before she knows it, and almost before you know it, too. Be patient and wait for Me. On your 'someday' I will come and take you Home. In the meantime, I will help you through the hard days and rejoice with you on the good ones. And you still have good days to come. Trust Me."
Okay, Lord. Who can argue with that?
Catherine, here's your birthday bouquet, made of the flowers that bloom in late summer. The colorful ribbons that weave their way through it are my precious memories of your laughter, your kindness, and the strength of your will. The crystals that bounce back those sparkles of sunshine are the tears that have watered the growth of my soul. I send my love, I wish you the best, and with all my heart I look forward to the day I will see you again.
Happy birthday, honey.
Love, Mom
Be strong and take heart, all you who hope in the Lord. (Psalm 31;24 NIV)
"The hope of heaven under troubles is like wind and sails to the soul."- Samuel Rutherford.
The Road to San Miguel
"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven..and...a time to kill."-The Teacher (Ecclesiastes 3:1, 3 NIV)
"The hardest thing to learn in life is which bridge to cross and which to burn."- Laurence J. Peter
"You have heard that it was said, 'Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you."- Jesus Christ (Matthew 5:43-44 NIV)
The island of Cozumel, Mexico lies twelve miles out to sea, almost within eyeshot of the Yucatan Peninsula. The bright lights of Cancun are visible as a glow from just below the horizon on a clear night. I once vacationed close to the southern tip of the island, far from the lone city of San Miguel. To access civilization, we risked our lives on the only road that runs the western length of the island, hacked out of the jungle and dotted with construction zones that demanded our undivided attention.
In the States, our detours are clearly marked by flashing signs, orange cones, and workers in reflective vests. On Cozumel, road closures are denoted by smudge pots: 55 gallon drums of burning refuse that signal a detour by smoke and fire. No second chances, no "merge in one mile." If you barrel past the barricade, brace yourself for a world of hurt: a broken axle, a flat tire, or a headfirst plunge into a sinkhole. Better to skid to a stop and go slowly around than tackle the smudge pot head-on. As much as I like the beaches in Mexico, I'll take my Colorado highways any day.
Just a few weeks ago, I was navigating a reasonably smooth road with Jesus when, out of the darkness, a barrel of burning refuse appeared on the bridge between me and my family in Florida. If you read my post on July 24 (One Fell Out of the Cuckoo's Nest), you know my family basket has more nuts than fruit. In the years since my childhood, since my father died, even since my brother Matt died, I've prayed with all my heart for more than an uneasy peace; I've hoped for a healthy reunion of the three remaining adults. Now the news of a family betrayal has rendered that hope impossible. I skidded to a stop at the barricade, heartbroken that the other two made a pact that would turn their backs on me forever.
Needless to say, my first impulse was to kick over smudge pot at the base of the bridge, igniting the pylons and illuminating the night sky with my outrage and grief. I wanted to see it go up in flames. I wanted to sever the connection once and for all. Killing any chance at reconciliation would prevent them from ever breaking my heart again. Only one obstacle stood in the way. For years I've asked Jesus to walk ahead of me on the span between here and Florida. Now He won't leave.
"I'm crossing this bridge for you. Just pray and wait. Here's a list of things to do until you hear from Me. This should keep you busy."
"In your anger do not sin. Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry, and do not give the devil a foothold." (Ephesians 4:26-27 NIV)
"Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus." (Philippians 4:4-7 NIV)
"Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors." (Matthew 6:12 NIV)
"Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight." (Proverbs 3:5-6 NIV)
Well isn't that just like Jesus! My heart is broken, and the bond is severed. Jesus, get off the bridge! The flames are burning on my end and that's the way I want it. I've had enough. Please come over to this side and help me move on with my life. I need You.
"Do you not remember pleading with Me on your family's behalf? Besides, look where you are standing. Like it or not, they are still your family. You are still on the bridge. I'm not asking you to do anything but pray and wait. Acting in haste and anger will only fuel the flames even as you set your own feet on fire. You prayed that I would work this out for their good and My glory. Do you trust Me enough to let go of them and allow Me to work? Do you love Me enough to surrender your hurt? I know how it feels to be betrayed. I love you and have your best interests at heart. This will probably take a while, but trust Me."
With that, He turned and walked into the darkness on His way to Florida.
With the sunrise came on onshore breeze, scattering the ashes from last night's blaze. I've decided to wait and pray, one day at a time. After all, I'd hate to set my feet on fire.
And Then He Said Goodbye
"Snatching the eternal out of the desperately fleeting is the great magic trick of human existence." -Tennessee Williams in The New York Times.
He's packing his truck again, but this year is different. Rather than living on campus, he and a buddy are renting an apartment for their junior year. All summer he's been rescuing furniture the neighbors naively left on the curb as garbage, lovingly restoring an old desk and converting a wooden crate into a coffee table. The opportunity to turn trash into treasure appeals to the inborn thriftiness from his father's side of the family.
I'd like to think that from my side, the crazy side, he hasn't been saddled with anything, but his curly hair is a dead giveaway. I can only hope my legacy to him is an honesty that keeps him true to himself and mindful of Jesus every moment of every day.
He's actually been leaving for years; on missions to Europe and Africa and Central America, to school and to life and away from us. This is how it should be. It's the natural order of things. And yet...and yet. Every time he drives away, it breaks my heart.
"There is an appointed time for everything. And there is a time for every event under heaven...a time to uproot what is planted."- The Teacher (Ecclesiastes 3:1,2 NAS)
Ten years ago his sister left us by accident, in an instant; perhaps saying a silent goodbye in her last fifteen minutes between heaven and earth. Her brother comes and goes with purpose, increasingly more going than coming. They were, and still are, my treasures; by far the greatest gifts God lent me, with the operative word being 'lent.'
I hate that. Don't get me wrong. I appreciate the gifts, the wonder and miracle of raising my children. But I hate the goodbye, or at least the 'goodbye for now.' I want the happily ever after. Someday I will get it. But for now, I must live in my fifteen minutes or months or years between heaven and earth; and in the time ahead I will lose more than my children. Already my youth and some of my teeth have hit the road, with more than a few of my marbles rolling merrily along behind them.
So how do I live between here and there? How can I fill the hole where this particular plant was rudely uprooted? This void is a sad, lonely, hollow spot; dark and misshapen, obviously missing its purpose and host. Nothing I own or hope to achieve can replace his presence. The tears dripping from my chin trickle down the sides and pool at the bottom, but even they are absorbed by the dirt and fade from view. As I wallow in the mud at the depths of the pit, I cry out to the Lord: "How do I survive this?"
And He whispers: "Remember."
"Remember you were slaves in Egypt and the LORD your God redeemed you. That is why I give you this command today." (Deuteronomy 15:15 NIV)
I remember how the Lord called me out of addiction and gave me the strength to stay clean and sober, for thousands of 'one day at a times."
"Remember how the LORD your God led you all the way in the desert these forty years, to humble you and test you in order to know what was in your heart, whether or not you would keep His commands." (Deuteronomy 8:2 NIV)
I remember how the Lord helped me recover from the hurts of my past and gives me the grace and strength to live in peace and freedom today.
"Remember the wonders He has done, His miracles, the judgments He pronounced." (1 Chronicles 16:12 NIV)
I remember countless prayers answered with a 'yes,' saving my marriage and providing for our every need.
"Remember to extol His work, which men have praised in song." (Job 36:24 NIV)
I reflect on the character of my husband, my daughter, and my son. I am grateful beyond measure that they extended the love of Jesus to a hurting world, and I'm thankful for these precious souls He lent me for a time.
"On my bed I remember You; I think of You through the watches of the night. Because You are my help, I sing in the shadow of Your wings." (Psalm 63:6-7 NIV)
At the very worst time, when Catherine died, the Lord sent provision through His people, promise through His Word, and comfort through His Holy Spirit.
"Because of the LORD's great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness. I say to myself, 'The LORD is my portion; therefore I will wait for Him" (Lamentations 3:22-24 NIV)
In our bedroom we keep a small cabinet with the treasures Catherine held dear. Alongside her baseball caps, Miami Dolphins jersey, and her music box are her Bible (dog-eared and underlined), letters sent to us by people whose lives she touched and with whom she shared her faith; and her poetry, hinting that she knew her time here would be short.
The cabinet doesn't exactly fit the hole she left behind, so I pour in hope around the edges: the promise Jesus gave me in John 14:1-4 that got me through the early years; the gift of twenty-five souls who gave their lives to Christ at her memorial service; the kindnesses she shared that spread out like ripples on a pond.
I still miss her, sometimes so much that I cry even today. But somehow I've survived the last ten years, and I've come to know Jesus better as a result. So what will fill the hole my son leaves behind?
The Lord says, "My compassions are new every morning. Take one day at a time and trust Me. Remember."
So he packs his reclaimed furniture into the ancient Ford Bronco, this curly-headed boy/man I love with all my heart. I can't yet imagine how God will fill the hole, but I trust He will and I cling to Him with all my strength. It's worked every day so far.
"I am still confident of this: I will see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living. Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD." (Psalm 27:13-14 NIV)
He's packing his truck again, but this year is different. Rather than living on campus, he and a buddy are renting an apartment for their junior year. All summer he's been rescuing furniture the neighbors naively left on the curb as garbage, lovingly restoring an old desk and converting a wooden crate into a coffee table. The opportunity to turn trash into treasure appeals to the inborn thriftiness from his father's side of the family.
I'd like to think that from my side, the crazy side, he hasn't been saddled with anything, but his curly hair is a dead giveaway. I can only hope my legacy to him is an honesty that keeps him true to himself and mindful of Jesus every moment of every day.
He's actually been leaving for years; on missions to Europe and Africa and Central America, to school and to life and away from us. This is how it should be. It's the natural order of things. And yet...and yet. Every time he drives away, it breaks my heart.
"There is an appointed time for everything. And there is a time for every event under heaven...a time to uproot what is planted."- The Teacher (Ecclesiastes 3:1,2 NAS)
Ten years ago his sister left us by accident, in an instant; perhaps saying a silent goodbye in her last fifteen minutes between heaven and earth. Her brother comes and goes with purpose, increasingly more going than coming. They were, and still are, my treasures; by far the greatest gifts God lent me, with the operative word being 'lent.'
I hate that. Don't get me wrong. I appreciate the gifts, the wonder and miracle of raising my children. But I hate the goodbye, or at least the 'goodbye for now.' I want the happily ever after. Someday I will get it. But for now, I must live in my fifteen minutes or months or years between heaven and earth; and in the time ahead I will lose more than my children. Already my youth and some of my teeth have hit the road, with more than a few of my marbles rolling merrily along behind them.
So how do I live between here and there? How can I fill the hole where this particular plant was rudely uprooted? This void is a sad, lonely, hollow spot; dark and misshapen, obviously missing its purpose and host. Nothing I own or hope to achieve can replace his presence. The tears dripping from my chin trickle down the sides and pool at the bottom, but even they are absorbed by the dirt and fade from view. As I wallow in the mud at the depths of the pit, I cry out to the Lord: "How do I survive this?"
And He whispers: "Remember."
"Remember you were slaves in Egypt and the LORD your God redeemed you. That is why I give you this command today." (Deuteronomy 15:15 NIV)
I remember how the Lord called me out of addiction and gave me the strength to stay clean and sober, for thousands of 'one day at a times."
"Remember how the LORD your God led you all the way in the desert these forty years, to humble you and test you in order to know what was in your heart, whether or not you would keep His commands." (Deuteronomy 8:2 NIV)
I remember how the Lord helped me recover from the hurts of my past and gives me the grace and strength to live in peace and freedom today.
"Remember the wonders He has done, His miracles, the judgments He pronounced." (1 Chronicles 16:12 NIV)
I remember countless prayers answered with a 'yes,' saving my marriage and providing for our every need.
"Remember to extol His work, which men have praised in song." (Job 36:24 NIV)
I reflect on the character of my husband, my daughter, and my son. I am grateful beyond measure that they extended the love of Jesus to a hurting world, and I'm thankful for these precious souls He lent me for a time.
"On my bed I remember You; I think of You through the watches of the night. Because You are my help, I sing in the shadow of Your wings." (Psalm 63:6-7 NIV)
At the very worst time, when Catherine died, the Lord sent provision through His people, promise through His Word, and comfort through His Holy Spirit.
"Because of the LORD's great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness. I say to myself, 'The LORD is my portion; therefore I will wait for Him" (Lamentations 3:22-24 NIV)
In our bedroom we keep a small cabinet with the treasures Catherine held dear. Alongside her baseball caps, Miami Dolphins jersey, and her music box are her Bible (dog-eared and underlined), letters sent to us by people whose lives she touched and with whom she shared her faith; and her poetry, hinting that she knew her time here would be short.
The cabinet doesn't exactly fit the hole she left behind, so I pour in hope around the edges: the promise Jesus gave me in John 14:1-4 that got me through the early years; the gift of twenty-five souls who gave their lives to Christ at her memorial service; the kindnesses she shared that spread out like ripples on a pond.
I still miss her, sometimes so much that I cry even today. But somehow I've survived the last ten years, and I've come to know Jesus better as a result. So what will fill the hole my son leaves behind?
The Lord says, "My compassions are new every morning. Take one day at a time and trust Me. Remember."
So he packs his reclaimed furniture into the ancient Ford Bronco, this curly-headed boy/man I love with all my heart. I can't yet imagine how God will fill the hole, but I trust He will and I cling to Him with all my strength. It's worked every day so far.
"I am still confident of this: I will see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living. Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD." (Psalm 27:13-14 NIV)
Soaring Skyward With a Face Only a Mother Could Love
"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven...a time to plant."- The Teacher (Ecclesiastes 3:1-2 NIV)
"Aim at Heaven and you will get Earth thrown in. Aim at Earth and you will get neither."- CS Lewis
For a short season in late winter, bald eagles return to the tall trees along the rivers of western Colorado. Living about a half-mile from the rushing water, my sightings are few and far between. I can count on my fingers the number of times I've seen a mature bald eagle fly directly overhead, but it always stops me dead in my tracks. Majestic is the only word for it. I never even see them flapping like the commoners of the bird world; they just seem to stretch their wingtips toward the sky and soar on currents of air. Their sole focus is finding lunch; they only dazzle me by accident.
Back in the nest, baby bald eagles are waiting for Mom to deliver the catch of the day. Unlike the cute offspring of cats, dogs, and most humans, baby birds are the opposite of majestic. They're fuzzy and gangly and awkward and they don't even know how to fly. 'A face only a mother could love,' comes to mind. Three short years from now, their head and tail feathers will grow in white. They'll return here to western Colorado to hatch babies and snatch rainbow trout from the river. Who but God could reveal His glory through the mechanics and miracle of perpetuating a species?
Meanwhile, back on Earth, I struggle with the simplest of tasks. What is effortless for God requires backbreaking labor from me. He carpets the forests with flowers and firs. I swing a pickaxe for an hour to plant to sapling. His warmth melts the winter snows, watering the forest and bringing the Earth back to life every spring. I drag the hose around the yard all summer lest my little pine shrivel up into a stick. I won't even be able to coax the smallest bird into its spindly branches for years.
Yet, God wants me to try. He lent me a yard that needs some love. Sure, it's His land, His tree, His water, and His sun. He doesn't need my help, as evidenced by the forests surrounding our valley. But He invites me to partner with Him in His work for the same reason He invites me to prayer.
"The point of prayer is not to get answers from God, but to have perfect and complete oneness with Him."- Oswald Chambers*
In His infinite brilliance God created trees and the cycle of life that surrounds them. While I can't recreate the physics of photosynthesis, I can plant a tree in my backyard and participate in the process. It's so like God to explain Himself and His purposes in ways I can understand, because His ultimate goal for my life is to win the love of my heart that I might share that love with others.
In the Teacher's Day, life revolved around the seasons of planting and harvest. Their daily sustenance came from their own gardens and local farmers and fishermen. The phrase 'a time to plant' carried a literal connotation that was familiar to all; the balance of planting and uprooting was woven into the fabric of their lives. In the Teacher's Day and throughout the centuries to come, God intended His Word to be understood by even the least of His children. I'm grateful He kept it simple enough for me.
Next spring, the eagles will return to nest by the river. If I'm lucky, I'll be out walking the dog and one will fly overhead. I have no idea how God created the eagle, but I know one thing about God: He doesn't dazzle me by accident. I'm a lot like the eaglet; all fuzzy and gangly and awkward, just learning how to fly, and possessing a heart that sometimes only my Father can love. For reasons known only to Him, He sometimes reveals Himself and His purposes to me. Occasionally He even lets me walk beside a friend. One day next spring, when an eagle flies overhead, I'll put my arm around her shoulder and point towards the heavens. We'll watch the eagle soar skyward together.
He told them this parable: "The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed, which a man took and planted in his field. Though it is the smallest of all your seeds, yet when it grows, it is the largest of garden plants and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and perch in its branches." -Jesus Christ (Matthew 13:31-32, NIV)
*My Utmost for His Highest, August 6
"Aim at Heaven and you will get Earth thrown in. Aim at Earth and you will get neither."- CS Lewis
For a short season in late winter, bald eagles return to the tall trees along the rivers of western Colorado. Living about a half-mile from the rushing water, my sightings are few and far between. I can count on my fingers the number of times I've seen a mature bald eagle fly directly overhead, but it always stops me dead in my tracks. Majestic is the only word for it. I never even see them flapping like the commoners of the bird world; they just seem to stretch their wingtips toward the sky and soar on currents of air. Their sole focus is finding lunch; they only dazzle me by accident.
Back in the nest, baby bald eagles are waiting for Mom to deliver the catch of the day. Unlike the cute offspring of cats, dogs, and most humans, baby birds are the opposite of majestic. They're fuzzy and gangly and awkward and they don't even know how to fly. 'A face only a mother could love,' comes to mind. Three short years from now, their head and tail feathers will grow in white. They'll return here to western Colorado to hatch babies and snatch rainbow trout from the river. Who but God could reveal His glory through the mechanics and miracle of perpetuating a species?
Meanwhile, back on Earth, I struggle with the simplest of tasks. What is effortless for God requires backbreaking labor from me. He carpets the forests with flowers and firs. I swing a pickaxe for an hour to plant to sapling. His warmth melts the winter snows, watering the forest and bringing the Earth back to life every spring. I drag the hose around the yard all summer lest my little pine shrivel up into a stick. I won't even be able to coax the smallest bird into its spindly branches for years.
Yet, God wants me to try. He lent me a yard that needs some love. Sure, it's His land, His tree, His water, and His sun. He doesn't need my help, as evidenced by the forests surrounding our valley. But He invites me to partner with Him in His work for the same reason He invites me to prayer.
"The point of prayer is not to get answers from God, but to have perfect and complete oneness with Him."- Oswald Chambers*
In His infinite brilliance God created trees and the cycle of life that surrounds them. While I can't recreate the physics of photosynthesis, I can plant a tree in my backyard and participate in the process. It's so like God to explain Himself and His purposes in ways I can understand, because His ultimate goal for my life is to win the love of my heart that I might share that love with others.
In the Teacher's Day, life revolved around the seasons of planting and harvest. Their daily sustenance came from their own gardens and local farmers and fishermen. The phrase 'a time to plant' carried a literal connotation that was familiar to all; the balance of planting and uprooting was woven into the fabric of their lives. In the Teacher's Day and throughout the centuries to come, God intended His Word to be understood by even the least of His children. I'm grateful He kept it simple enough for me.
Next spring, the eagles will return to nest by the river. If I'm lucky, I'll be out walking the dog and one will fly overhead. I have no idea how God created the eagle, but I know one thing about God: He doesn't dazzle me by accident. I'm a lot like the eaglet; all fuzzy and gangly and awkward, just learning how to fly, and possessing a heart that sometimes only my Father can love. For reasons known only to Him, He sometimes reveals Himself and His purposes to me. Occasionally He even lets me walk beside a friend. One day next spring, when an eagle flies overhead, I'll put my arm around her shoulder and point towards the heavens. We'll watch the eagle soar skyward together.
He told them this parable: "The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed, which a man took and planted in his field. Though it is the smallest of all your seeds, yet when it grows, it is the largest of garden plants and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and perch in its branches." -Jesus Christ (Matthew 13:31-32, NIV)
*My Utmost for His Highest, August 6
Saddle Up, Bifocals in Place, Lock and Load
There is a time for everything, and a season for everything under heaven..and a time to die.- The Teacher (Ecclesiastes 3:2 NIV)
"Courage is being scared to death...and saddling up anyway."- John Wayne
I'm thinking of turning my phone off on Sundays. I never expect bad news on Sunday; for me, it's a day of peace and relaxation, of family and friends. Having a home-based business, I expect phone solicitors and campaign calls during the week, so I gird my loins with FCC regulations and prepare to spout the bad news in their direction. But on Sunday my guard is down, which makes the blow even tougher to absorb.
"Catherine has been badly hurt, and we've called Flight For Life." (Sunday, January 23, 2000)
"Someone you trusted bullied your elderly mother out of her life savings; she is now destitute, infirm, ineligible for Medicaid, and has nowhere to go." (Sunday, July 25, 2010)
My mouth goes dry and stays that way. My mind spins as I ask all the questions I can think of: Where is she? Where should I go? What should I do? Is she going to be okay? How could this happen?"
Shock overcomes me as I get off the phone, and I shake even as I spring into action. I feel like I'm going to throw up. I can't stop saying, "Oh God help me, help me, help me God, please help me."
Obviously, the death of my daughter was by far the most traumatic. It altered the fabric of my being down to the molecular level. After church, Catherine went snowmobiling with her youth group. She drove off the trail by mistake and into a drift. Gunning the engine for speed to escape, she got tangled in a barbed-wire fence buried under the snow. As she plowed forward, it stretched taut across the front of the sled, tighter still, until it snapped over the top and hit her in the face. The force broke her neck, shattered her skull, and destroyed her head below the nose. Thank God she never knew what hit her. She died about fifteen minutes later in the arms of her youth leader, drowning in her own blood on a sunny January afternoon. The day before my birthday, in fact.
For three or four days my mouth was so dry I just couldn't bear it. Nothing helped. I had to make sure I always had a water bottle and some hard candy with me lest I puke my guts out everywhere I turned.
This past Sunday, the phone rang as I was getting dressed to go to church.
"Rachel, your mama told us not to call you, but things have gotten bad, so we decided to go against her wishes even though she'll be mad at us."
Your mama. That's how they talk down south, in central Florida. If you've only been to the beach or the Mouse, you haven't seen the real Sunshine State. However, if you're out to lunch and the waitress says, "you wont sweet tae or unsweet tae with thay-at?" you've been to Florida. If you flick on your bedroom light and cockroaches the size of your thumb come "a flyin' atchya," you've been to Florida. That's where my mama lives.
Last week I told you all (okay, y'all) about Crazy Town. I feel Florida's oppressive heat and humidity already. Less than twenty-four hours after posting about hurricanes and child abuse, twenty-two hundred miles from the scene of the crime, my guts are back in my throat and I'm frantically searching for bottled water and hard candy. Oh God please help me, please help me.
This is the other kind of death.
We all have them. The little deaths. The realization that a relationship will never be reconciled. A betrayal. The loss of a marriage, or a job, or our health. A reversal of fortune. The death of a dream. Just as no one escapes the final exit, no one is exempt from the little deaths.
We all have ways of coping with our losses.
In Ecclesiastes, the fatalistic Teacher pretty much admonishes the reader to eat dirt and die.
As a man comes, so he departs, and what does he gain since he toils for the wind?
All his days he eats in darkness, with great frustration, affliction and anger. (Ecclesiastes 5:16b-17 NIV)
As we've studied Ecclesiastes, we've seen the hopeless attitude of a man, even a privileged man, as he looks through the lens of a finite life. Sorrows, joys, privilege, and squalor- all looked the same to him, because he had no hope. He lived in a world that hadn't seen Jesus.
As I have stated before, we do not live in a pre-Messiah world. We have a choice of eyewear. We can view our lives through the narrow lens of our little deaths, or we can don the bifocals of faith. Our eyes downcast, we still see our lives as they really are, acknowledging the difficulties and mourning our griefs. But the top lens on a pair of bifocals is for distance vision. We lift our eyes to heaven for the promise of the joy set before us. The apostle Paul wrote these words in his second letter to the Corinthians:
Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.
So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. (II Corinthians 4:16-18 NIV)
I'm looking forward to this Sunday. The first thing I did last week when the bad news came was to call my pastor. He prayed for me over the phone. Then he went to work and led the congregation in praying for me and my family in our time of need. All week I've been receiving phone calls and emails of encouragement. The saints are praying for me. Their intercession doesn't bounce off the clouds; it storms the gates of heaven on our behalf. I trust and believe that God is working out these circumstances for our good and His glory. I know that my Redeemer lives.
Come back next week for "a time to plant." I'll let you know how this is working out.
May God bless and keep you.
"Courage is being scared to death...and saddling up anyway."- John Wayne
I'm thinking of turning my phone off on Sundays. I never expect bad news on Sunday; for me, it's a day of peace and relaxation, of family and friends. Having a home-based business, I expect phone solicitors and campaign calls during the week, so I gird my loins with FCC regulations and prepare to spout the bad news in their direction. But on Sunday my guard is down, which makes the blow even tougher to absorb.
"Catherine has been badly hurt, and we've called Flight For Life." (Sunday, January 23, 2000)
"Someone you trusted bullied your elderly mother out of her life savings; she is now destitute, infirm, ineligible for Medicaid, and has nowhere to go." (Sunday, July 25, 2010)
My mouth goes dry and stays that way. My mind spins as I ask all the questions I can think of: Where is she? Where should I go? What should I do? Is she going to be okay? How could this happen?"
Shock overcomes me as I get off the phone, and I shake even as I spring into action. I feel like I'm going to throw up. I can't stop saying, "Oh God help me, help me, help me God, please help me."
Obviously, the death of my daughter was by far the most traumatic. It altered the fabric of my being down to the molecular level. After church, Catherine went snowmobiling with her youth group. She drove off the trail by mistake and into a drift. Gunning the engine for speed to escape, she got tangled in a barbed-wire fence buried under the snow. As she plowed forward, it stretched taut across the front of the sled, tighter still, until it snapped over the top and hit her in the face. The force broke her neck, shattered her skull, and destroyed her head below the nose. Thank God she never knew what hit her. She died about fifteen minutes later in the arms of her youth leader, drowning in her own blood on a sunny January afternoon. The day before my birthday, in fact.
For three or four days my mouth was so dry I just couldn't bear it. Nothing helped. I had to make sure I always had a water bottle and some hard candy with me lest I puke my guts out everywhere I turned.
This past Sunday, the phone rang as I was getting dressed to go to church.
"Rachel, your mama told us not to call you, but things have gotten bad, so we decided to go against her wishes even though she'll be mad at us."
Your mama. That's how they talk down south, in central Florida. If you've only been to the beach or the Mouse, you haven't seen the real Sunshine State. However, if you're out to lunch and the waitress says, "you wont sweet tae or unsweet tae with thay-at?" you've been to Florida. If you flick on your bedroom light and cockroaches the size of your thumb come "a flyin' atchya," you've been to Florida. That's where my mama lives.
Last week I told you all (okay, y'all) about Crazy Town. I feel Florida's oppressive heat and humidity already. Less than twenty-four hours after posting about hurricanes and child abuse, twenty-two hundred miles from the scene of the crime, my guts are back in my throat and I'm frantically searching for bottled water and hard candy. Oh God please help me, please help me.
This is the other kind of death.
We all have them. The little deaths. The realization that a relationship will never be reconciled. A betrayal. The loss of a marriage, or a job, or our health. A reversal of fortune. The death of a dream. Just as no one escapes the final exit, no one is exempt from the little deaths.
We all have ways of coping with our losses.
In Ecclesiastes, the fatalistic Teacher pretty much admonishes the reader to eat dirt and die.
As a man comes, so he departs, and what does he gain since he toils for the wind?
All his days he eats in darkness, with great frustration, affliction and anger. (Ecclesiastes 5:16b-17 NIV)
As we've studied Ecclesiastes, we've seen the hopeless attitude of a man, even a privileged man, as he looks through the lens of a finite life. Sorrows, joys, privilege, and squalor- all looked the same to him, because he had no hope. He lived in a world that hadn't seen Jesus.
As I have stated before, we do not live in a pre-Messiah world. We have a choice of eyewear. We can view our lives through the narrow lens of our little deaths, or we can don the bifocals of faith. Our eyes downcast, we still see our lives as they really are, acknowledging the difficulties and mourning our griefs. But the top lens on a pair of bifocals is for distance vision. We lift our eyes to heaven for the promise of the joy set before us. The apostle Paul wrote these words in his second letter to the Corinthians:
Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.
So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. (II Corinthians 4:16-18 NIV)
I'm looking forward to this Sunday. The first thing I did last week when the bad news came was to call my pastor. He prayed for me over the phone. Then he went to work and led the congregation in praying for me and my family in our time of need. All week I've been receiving phone calls and emails of encouragement. The saints are praying for me. Their intercession doesn't bounce off the clouds; it storms the gates of heaven on our behalf. I trust and believe that God is working out these circumstances for our good and His glory. I know that my Redeemer lives.
Come back next week for "a time to plant." I'll let you know how this is working out.
May God bless and keep you.
One Fell Out of the Cuckoo's Nest
"There is a time for everything..A time to be born"- The Teacher*
"It's time to close the shutters, it's time to go inside."- Jimmy Buffett**
Hurricane Betsy began to rattle the windows of South Florida as daylight faded on September 8, 1965. The morning dawned breezy but the wind picked up steadily over the course of the day. Squalls lined up from home to horizon, blowing in short but intense torrents of rain as we gathered every possible projectile from the yard. By late afternoon, the breeze gave way to a stiff, unrelenting wind. We kids leaned diagonally into the steady blow, laughing until it was too hard to stay on our feet. Nobody said it was scary, but it was. Nobody wanted to go inside, either, but we did.
The power went out just after it got dark. By the flickering light of kerosene lamps we bedded down in the living room, listening to our tiny transistor radio. News crackled across the airwaves. We turned the dial as the radio stations went out across Miami, one by one. Finally, the roar of the wind drowned out the last voice on the air. We trimmed our wicks and hunkered down for a long night.
As a child, I loved hurricanes. The endless monotony of one hot day after another was broken by the thrill of the storm. School was canceled. I loved the smell of kerosene and the soft flame of the lanterns. I later learned my parents were scared, but I wasn't. I didn't know that tornadoes sometimes spin off within the cyclone itself. While the house rocks to and fro at the height of the storm, a twister can come out of nowhere and blast a house to bits. You don't hear it coming over the wind. You can't see it coming with the shutters closed. The roof shears off and pieces of your house fly up into a mix of tree branches, mangoes, garbage cans, lawn chairs, signs, avocados, and coconuts. If it's not tied down, it's flyin'.
Eventually, the roar of the wind begins to subside. The rain slowly changes from a horizontal slant to a vertical fall. The tempest passes. The carnage remains.
Hot power lines thread through tree limbs in the street. Roads are impassable. Branches and fences and shrubbery and street signs seem too lazy to get their mess off your lawn; after all, now it's hot AND muggy. Windshields are smashed. Roofs come in three conditions: missing shingles, missing pieces, or missing entirely. The steamy cleanup begins, for those who are lucky enough to have survived. Life begins anew amid the wreckage of the past.
"In reply Jesus declared, 'I tell you the truth, no one can see the Kingdom of God unless he is born again'." (John 3:3 NIV)
I was conceived the first time in the cuckoo's nest, and born into a swirling storm: the first child and only daughter of a badly damaged man and a little girl who never grew up. The marriage provided them both a shelter from the storm. His hurricane had been World War II: the roof blew off, and flying debris damaged his psyche beyond repair. She was an only child of the Depression. Poverty staked its claim on her self-worth, causing her to huddle in her tiny house with her broken husband. Fiercely protective of her shot at a normal life, she would never allow the sunlight of truth to shine through the windows. The shutters of her soul sheltered the tempest within.
My first birth dropped me straight into Crazy Town, known for its unpredictable winds. With a hurricane, you are given at least some warning. Crazy Town was famous for the tornadoes that spun off at the height of the storm. I couldn't hear them coming until they were right down the hall. By that time it was too late to run, and there was nowhere to hide. I would listen to the Voice, trying to gauge the mood. When I heard the rage rising, I tried to make myself invisible. The rage had to go somewhere, to vent on someone, and it was either me or my little brother Matt. Sometimes it was both. The vortex spun down the hall and exploded through the house, its low pressure sucking at the walls until until everything fell inward and the disaster collapsed upon itself. The roar of the wind subsided into shuddering, hiccuping cries after the beatings; broken little hearts, frightened little souls. No comfort, no mercy. The tempest passed, the carnage remained.
After a hurricane, those who have insurance rebuild. The more they lose, the more they have to reconstruct. Frequently their new house is better than their old one. It's cleaner, safer, and probably more to their liking. It may take some time, but it's worth the effort.
Those without insurance flounder. They were probably struggling to begin with. Without assistance, they go under.
"How can a man be born when he is old?" Nicodemus asked. "Surely he cannot enter a second time into his mother's womb to be born!" (John 3:4 NIV)
I stepped over the Crazy Town city limits when I was eighteen, smacking the sign with a baseball bat on my way out of town. My roof leaked and the windows were broken. Pieces of my soul had been hauled off to the landfill when they fell through the holes in my heart. The yard was a dumping ground for emotional baggage and my savings was stashed in a whiskey bottle. The whole package was tied together with a wicked drug addiction and a one-way ticket to Colorado.
Never in a million years did I guess that the insurance adjuster was waiting for me in Aspen. I never paid a premium but He came looking for me anyway. Rather than gratefully accepting assistance, I ran from Him for years. I preferred my broken-down hovel to an all-expense paid palace. I didn't deserve it, and we both knew it. Accepting the gift and movin' on up is the story I'll be telling in the weeks to come.
Jesus answered, "I tell you the truth, no one can enter the Kingdom of God unless he is born of water and the Spirit. Flesh gives birth to flesh, but the Spirit gives birth to spirit. You should not be surprised at my saying, 'you must be born again'." (John 3:5-7 NIV)
Hurricane Betsy finally blew herself out in New Orleans after wreaking havoc on the Windward Islands, the Bahamas, South Florida, the Florida Keys, and Louisiana. She became known as 'Billion-Dollar Betsy,' the first hurricane to inflict over a billion dollars in damage, in 1965 dollars. She killed seventy-six people outright, without a backward glance. Her name was permanently retired from the Atlantic Basic roster of hurricane labels. Betsy was a bad one, for sure.
Crazy Town lived on, and lives on still, but now I have insurance.
"The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit."- Jesus Christ (John 3:8 NIV)
* Ecclesiastes 3: 1, 2
** Trying to Reason With Hurricane Season from A1A, Jimmy Buffett
"It's time to close the shutters, it's time to go inside."- Jimmy Buffett**
Hurricane Betsy began to rattle the windows of South Florida as daylight faded on September 8, 1965. The morning dawned breezy but the wind picked up steadily over the course of the day. Squalls lined up from home to horizon, blowing in short but intense torrents of rain as we gathered every possible projectile from the yard. By late afternoon, the breeze gave way to a stiff, unrelenting wind. We kids leaned diagonally into the steady blow, laughing until it was too hard to stay on our feet. Nobody said it was scary, but it was. Nobody wanted to go inside, either, but we did.
The power went out just after it got dark. By the flickering light of kerosene lamps we bedded down in the living room, listening to our tiny transistor radio. News crackled across the airwaves. We turned the dial as the radio stations went out across Miami, one by one. Finally, the roar of the wind drowned out the last voice on the air. We trimmed our wicks and hunkered down for a long night.
As a child, I loved hurricanes. The endless monotony of one hot day after another was broken by the thrill of the storm. School was canceled. I loved the smell of kerosene and the soft flame of the lanterns. I later learned my parents were scared, but I wasn't. I didn't know that tornadoes sometimes spin off within the cyclone itself. While the house rocks to and fro at the height of the storm, a twister can come out of nowhere and blast a house to bits. You don't hear it coming over the wind. You can't see it coming with the shutters closed. The roof shears off and pieces of your house fly up into a mix of tree branches, mangoes, garbage cans, lawn chairs, signs, avocados, and coconuts. If it's not tied down, it's flyin'.
Eventually, the roar of the wind begins to subside. The rain slowly changes from a horizontal slant to a vertical fall. The tempest passes. The carnage remains.
Hot power lines thread through tree limbs in the street. Roads are impassable. Branches and fences and shrubbery and street signs seem too lazy to get their mess off your lawn; after all, now it's hot AND muggy. Windshields are smashed. Roofs come in three conditions: missing shingles, missing pieces, or missing entirely. The steamy cleanup begins, for those who are lucky enough to have survived. Life begins anew amid the wreckage of the past.
"In reply Jesus declared, 'I tell you the truth, no one can see the Kingdom of God unless he is born again'." (John 3:3 NIV)
I was conceived the first time in the cuckoo's nest, and born into a swirling storm: the first child and only daughter of a badly damaged man and a little girl who never grew up. The marriage provided them both a shelter from the storm. His hurricane had been World War II: the roof blew off, and flying debris damaged his psyche beyond repair. She was an only child of the Depression. Poverty staked its claim on her self-worth, causing her to huddle in her tiny house with her broken husband. Fiercely protective of her shot at a normal life, she would never allow the sunlight of truth to shine through the windows. The shutters of her soul sheltered the tempest within.
My first birth dropped me straight into Crazy Town, known for its unpredictable winds. With a hurricane, you are given at least some warning. Crazy Town was famous for the tornadoes that spun off at the height of the storm. I couldn't hear them coming until they were right down the hall. By that time it was too late to run, and there was nowhere to hide. I would listen to the Voice, trying to gauge the mood. When I heard the rage rising, I tried to make myself invisible. The rage had to go somewhere, to vent on someone, and it was either me or my little brother Matt. Sometimes it was both. The vortex spun down the hall and exploded through the house, its low pressure sucking at the walls until until everything fell inward and the disaster collapsed upon itself. The roar of the wind subsided into shuddering, hiccuping cries after the beatings; broken little hearts, frightened little souls. No comfort, no mercy. The tempest passed, the carnage remained.
After a hurricane, those who have insurance rebuild. The more they lose, the more they have to reconstruct. Frequently their new house is better than their old one. It's cleaner, safer, and probably more to their liking. It may take some time, but it's worth the effort.
Those without insurance flounder. They were probably struggling to begin with. Without assistance, they go under.
"How can a man be born when he is old?" Nicodemus asked. "Surely he cannot enter a second time into his mother's womb to be born!" (John 3:4 NIV)
I stepped over the Crazy Town city limits when I was eighteen, smacking the sign with a baseball bat on my way out of town. My roof leaked and the windows were broken. Pieces of my soul had been hauled off to the landfill when they fell through the holes in my heart. The yard was a dumping ground for emotional baggage and my savings was stashed in a whiskey bottle. The whole package was tied together with a wicked drug addiction and a one-way ticket to Colorado.
Never in a million years did I guess that the insurance adjuster was waiting for me in Aspen. I never paid a premium but He came looking for me anyway. Rather than gratefully accepting assistance, I ran from Him for years. I preferred my broken-down hovel to an all-expense paid palace. I didn't deserve it, and we both knew it. Accepting the gift and movin' on up is the story I'll be telling in the weeks to come.
Jesus answered, "I tell you the truth, no one can enter the Kingdom of God unless he is born of water and the Spirit. Flesh gives birth to flesh, but the Spirit gives birth to spirit. You should not be surprised at my saying, 'you must be born again'." (John 3:5-7 NIV)
Hurricane Betsy finally blew herself out in New Orleans after wreaking havoc on the Windward Islands, the Bahamas, South Florida, the Florida Keys, and Louisiana. She became known as 'Billion-Dollar Betsy,' the first hurricane to inflict over a billion dollars in damage, in 1965 dollars. She killed seventy-six people outright, without a backward glance. Her name was permanently retired from the Atlantic Basic roster of hurricane labels. Betsy was a bad one, for sure.
Crazy Town lived on, and lives on still, but now I have insurance.
"The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit."- Jesus Christ (John 3:8 NIV)
* Ecclesiastes 3: 1, 2
** Trying to Reason With Hurricane Season from A1A, Jimmy Buffett
God May Be Holding the Clipboard, But Jesus is Helping Me Move
Turn! Turn! Turn!- Pete Seeger, 1959
"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven."- The Teacher (Ecclesiastes 3:1 NIV)
As if it was last week, I remember sitting on the floor with my little boy. Together we rolled out a colorful neighborhood, bordered by the stitching of its area-rug foundation but limited only by our imaginations. Diminutive dollops of green paint stood in for real trees, providing shade for the tiny houses. Dotted yellow lines defined the friendly streets. Downtown, the police station faced the elementary school, a sensible precaution. The town exuded order and peace, promising residents a quiet and carefree life. Only the bold red stripes of the hospital's Emergency Entrance hinted of excitement and attitude: "No Parking Here!" they shouted. However, chances were slim that anyone in this perfect little burg would require their services.
Digging through our toys, we selected a moving van and some dinky plastic people who were ready for the cross-town trip to a bigger house. Everything was going smoothly until the ponderous truck tipped over and dumped its imaginary load onto the courthouse steps. Oh no! If that's not good for a trip to the ER, I don't know what is. Thankfully, no harm was done- we just shoved those folks right back into the cab and off they went. Within minutes the happy family was safely ensconced in their new home. Far and away, this was the easiest move I ever made.
In real life, I hate moving.
I hate the packing, the cleaning, the paperwork, and the back-breaking labor of carrying an endless parade of boxes up and down the stairs. I hate being unable to locate my frying pan and my spatula on the same day. I hate having my mail disappear into the Postal Service's Never-Never Land, not knowing if the new residents in my old abode tossed it or it ended up in the aptly-named Terminal Annex. Though it's been six years since we moved, I'm holding out hope for a missing invitation. Or two.
Sometimes, I hate saying goodbye to the life I lived in that residence. Six years ago, we left behind the house where our daughter Catherine lived most of her life. She died in an accident just a few days into the new millennium at the age of fourteen. That season of my life passed with a quiet beauty and sorrow, reminiscent of leaves dropping silently in the soft light of late September. Inevitable, but sad just the same.
On the other hand, there are things I love about moving.
I love de-cluttering my life and throwing stuff away as I pack. I love the adventure of searching for a new residence with its myriad of mysteries. What are the neighbors like? What kind of birds fly in for the summer? Does the wind blow like a bad day in Wyoming ALL the time? How much snow will we get? What kind of flowers will come up in the spring? What time does the mail come? (Yoo-hoo: I'm over here now!)
What kind of memories will be build in our new home?
Is there any comfort to be had in the midst of upheaval?
What would The Teacher have to say about that great constant of earthly life, Change?
Due to its timeless popularity, I've hesitated to launch a discussion on this well-known passage of Ecclesiastes. What can I say that hasn't been said? Children of the 1950's and 60's unknowingly memorized Scripture by singing along with a rock band called The Byrds. Millions of words over the last 2500 years have been devoted to this single section of text, with good reason. Its popularity stems from a truth that resonates in every human heart. In our earthly existence, change is inevitable. Though we have limited control over some of our transitions, we are at the mercy of God.
The Teacher used his considerable resources to explore the meaning of life. His tears, toil, and pain spilled out across the pages as a gift to all who were still to come. He left this earth to meet the God he viewed as inscrutable and slightly detached, and was no doubt astonished to meet Jesus Christ, who is neither.
The best of both worlds is ours for the taking. We can suck into our souls the ancient wisdom of this timeless poem, use it to understand our earthly circumstances, and allow it to serve as the springboard from which we leap with our fear and futility, anger and angst, into the arms of Jesus. We are not stuck in a pre-Messiah world with no hope for the future. We are invited onto the grounds of the Kingdom of Heaven. Come with me as we explore the dichotomies endemic to all humanity, and exercise the magnificent privilege of viewing our "light and momentary troubles" through the eternal perspective of Jesus Christ. He is our comfort today and our hope for tomorrow.
As God looks down on me from heaven, my life bears little resemblance to that tiny town of perfect plastic people, manipulated by a young mom on the floor with her toddler son. My life is just like everyone else's: a messy mix of beginnings and endings, sorrows and joys, triumphs and tribulations. But unlike The Teacher, my understanding of God comes from looking into the face of Jesus Christ, who says these words:
"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." -Jesus Christ (Matthew 11:28-30 NIV)
The Letter Is From Larry But The Message Is From God
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
7:00 AM
7:00 AM
Still in bed, eyes open, brain slowly turning over.
"Set a guard over my mouth, O Lord; keep watch over the door of my lips." * Father, please guide my words and my actions today. Everything I have, and everything I am, belongs to You.
Feet hit the floor.
8:00 AM
Breakfast down, paper read, coffee kicking in, morning devotion.
My Utmost for His Highest, Oswald Chambers, July 6
We always have a vision of something before it actually becomes real to us. When we realize that the vision is real, but is not yet real in us, Satan comes to us with his temptations, and we are inclined to say that there is no point in even trying to continue. Instead of the vision becoming real to us, we have entered the valley of humiliation.**
Father, there's a whirling in my chest like a blender full of ice cubes stuck on high. Even though I'm third in line for a single job, I know I'm going to get an offer from that interview in Aspen. For weeks now I've been looking for a second job, so this should be good news. Instead, it's breaking my heart. I know you've called me to write, and I can't work two jobs and write as well. I have to make a decision today. Please help me know what to do.
God gives us a vision, and then He takes us down to the valley to batter us into the shape of that vision. It is in the valley that so many of us give up and faint. Every God-given vision will become real if we only have the patience.**
Arghh. I'm going to walk the dog. Father, will you please come with me?
10:00 AM
Lord, how can I tell Kevin I'm going to pursue a career with no immediate benefit and no measurable income in the foreseeable future? Am I not responsible to him, as well as to You? He knows You, and he trusts You. He trusts me. But I'm just doing the bookkeeping- he's the one out there knocking on doors and beating the bushes for jobs. Between the effects of the recession on our company and the skyrocketing cost of health insurance, what business do I have scribbling away even a few hours a week?
God has to take us into the valley and put us through fires and floods to batter us into shape, until we get to the point where He can trust us with the reality of the vision. Ever since God gave us the vision, He has been at work. He is getting us into the shape of the goal He has for us, and yet over and over again we try to escape from the Sculptor's hand in an effort to batter ourselves into the shape of our own goal.**
Noon
Peace. I can't live without peace in my heart. I asked You for guidance, You told me what to do, and I keep asking for proof that I'm doing the right thing. Thank you, Lord, for the gift of the Holy Spirit, who keeps bringing these words to mind:
"If any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to him. But when he asks, he must believe and not doubt, because he who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind. That man should not think he will receive anything from the Lord; he is a double-minded man, unstable in all he does." (James 1:5-8 NIV)
I get it. I surrender. Even though I'm scared to death, I will do as You say. Please give me the courage to give up my job search and tell Kevin I'm going to follow your instructions and write. Please prepare his heart for the news and help us both to trust You.
The vision that God gives is not some unattainable castle in the sky, but a vision of what God wants you to be down here. Allow the Potter to put you on His wheel and whirl you around as He desires. Then sure as God is God and you are you, you will turn out as an exact likeness of the vision. But don't lose heart in the process.**
2:00 PM- The Arrival of the Mail
Lord, this is unbelievable. Thank you so, so much. I love you, too.
5:00 PM- The Arrival of My Spouse
"Hello, Dear."
"Hello!"
And so begins our evening ritual. As I'm preparing dinner, he unloads his truck and his mind, telling me the details of the jobs he worked on today, the problems he encountered, and the people he dealt with. Today was a good day because the problems were easily solved and he picked up a deposit check for next week's work. Now it's my turn.
"So, remember I told you I know what I'm supposed to do- that I'm not to look for a second job, but to write?"
A look, no words.
"I'm going to do it. I have to."
Such a carefully chosen look, such carefully chosen words.
"What brought you to this decision?"
After twenty-seven years of marriage, I'm so grateful for the care he puts into his response. Even across the kitchen table I can feel the fear of seemingly insurmountable financial challenges. His body is weary from hard labor all day long. His back hurts all the time. He's getting too old for this business, and my decision to work for God instead of bookkeeping for a living probably just locked him into a few additional years of installing home electronics.
"Well, I decided today through prayer. After that, something came in the mail that sealed the deal."
His face brightened. "Did we win the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes?"
"Not exactly. But we hit the jackpot just the same." I handed him two letters that arrived together. The top letter was printed on fine letterhead. The second letter was hand-printed on notebook paper. Excerpts follow, spelling and punctuation corrected:
The Upper Room
PO Box 340004
Nashville, TN 37203-0004
Dear Rachel,
I am enclosing a copy of a letter we recently received. Since it relates directly to your meditation on May 28, I wanted to make sure you got a copy of the letter.
I can only hope this letter will find its way into the hand of the person who saved my life, at least for tonight.
My name is Larry. I am a forty-five year-old man on my way to prison for the second time, this time is for 17 years. My crimes are theft crimes because of a drug addiction I've had since my late teens. As a child I was physically abused by my alcoholic father. I left home when I was 15. My life has never held much of anything important.
I don't know how a copy of The Upper Room got in here as we are not allowed stuff like this.
When I read Rachel Ophoff's story , her strength touched me. Could God really be trying to talk to me? I had planned to hang myself from the sprinkler system at lockdown but here I am writing this letter. Dear Sarah will you please be sure Mrs. Ophoff knows her story touched someone with no hope?
Sincerely,
Larry.
I know this letter will bless you as it has blessed us. Thank you for letting us tell your story and being part of the ministry of The Upper Room.
Yours in Christ,
Chris McCormick, Director
The Fellowship of The Upper Room
If you have ever had a vision from God, you may try as you will to be satisfied on a lower level, but God will never allow it.**
"As you do not know the path of the wind, or how the body is formed in a mother's womb, so you cannot understand the work of God, the Maker of all things." -the Teacher (Ecclesiastes 11:5 NIV)
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
9:00 AM
Just as I thought, the call came this morning. They wanted me. I thought it would be easier to say no.
So, I invite you to come along with me as we see where God takes us. I have no clue how He will provide for us; I have no idea if, when, or where I will ever be published again. I do know what He wants me to say. He just wants me to tell what I know about Him. I can do that.
So, I invite you to come along with me as we see where God takes us. I have no clue how He will provide for us; I have no idea if, when, or where I will ever be published again. I do know what He wants me to say. He just wants me to tell what I know about Him. I can do that.
* Psalm 141:3 NIV
** My Utmost for His Highest, Oswald Chambers, July 6
Flunking The Personality Test
"The end of a matter is better than its beginning, and patience is better than pride.
Do not be quickly provoked in your spirit, for anger resides in the lap of fools."
-The Teacher (Ecclesiastes 7:8-9 NIV)
"I get no respect." - Rodney Dangerfield·
Thank you for your interest in the bookkeeping position. Although we are impressed with your qualifications, we are pursuing a candidate who more closely fits our requirements. Please watch for future job openings with our company that might be applicable to your skills.
Best of luck in your job search,
Amanda
Translation:
Rachel,
Nothing beats the internet for weeding out the misfits. Oh sure, you're probably good at crunching numbers, as your resume' suggests. But remember the second page of our application? Those cute little boxes you checked off told us all we needed to know about your personality. After the laughter subsided, we revised our help-wanted ad so as not to attract your type. Based on your profile, we predict you'll soon be living under a picnic table in the park. You should fit right as most of your neighbors will also be over fifty. Good luck, honey. You'll need it.
Amanda
Dear Amanda,
Thank you for your timely response. Since your help-wanted ad has been running online for several weeks, I can only assume I am but one of many to flunk your personality test. Fortunately, the God who created me has the perfect plan for my life. He will gently plunk me down in just the right job at just the right time. Meanwhile, I'll keep praying and doing what's in front of me each day. Rather than stressing over my identity quirks and advancing age, I will focus on what God has to say about me. Please see the attached document.
Rachel
Attached document:
"For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well" -King David (Psalm 139:13-14 NIV)
"The Lord will fulfill his purpose for me; your love, O Lord, endures forever- do not abandon the work of your hands." -King David (Psalm 138:8 NIV)
PS: What do you mean, who is Rodney Dangerfield?
Do not be quickly provoked in your spirit, for anger resides in the lap of fools."
-The Teacher (Ecclesiastes 7:8-9 NIV)
"I get no respect." - Rodney Dangerfield·
**********
Received by email June 29:
Rachel,Thank you for your interest in the bookkeeping position. Although we are impressed with your qualifications, we are pursuing a candidate who more closely fits our requirements. Please watch for future job openings with our company that might be applicable to your skills.
Best of luck in your job search,
Amanda
Translation:
Rachel,
Nothing beats the internet for weeding out the misfits. Oh sure, you're probably good at crunching numbers, as your resume' suggests. But remember the second page of our application? Those cute little boxes you checked off told us all we needed to know about your personality. After the laughter subsided, we revised our help-wanted ad so as not to attract your type. Based on your profile, we predict you'll soon be living under a picnic table in the park. You should fit right as most of your neighbors will also be over fifty. Good luck, honey. You'll need it.
Amanda
**********
Dear Amanda,
Thank you for your timely response. Since your help-wanted ad has been running online for several weeks, I can only assume I am but one of many to flunk your personality test. Fortunately, the God who created me has the perfect plan for my life. He will gently plunk me down in just the right job at just the right time. Meanwhile, I'll keep praying and doing what's in front of me each day. Rather than stressing over my identity quirks and advancing age, I will focus on what God has to say about me. Please see the attached document.
Rachel
Attached document:
"For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well" -King David (Psalm 139:13-14 NIV)
"The Lord will fulfill his purpose for me; your love, O Lord, endures forever- do not abandon the work of your hands." -King David (Psalm 138:8 NIV)
**********
PS: What do you mean, who is Rodney Dangerfield?