Seasons of the Soul

A couple weeks ago the boys and I propped waist-high scarecrows wearing burlap clothes and painted smiles on the front steps of our town home, and we picked out orange mini-pumpkins at the grocery store and dug out last year’s thrift-store-décor from underneath the basement stairs—six inch scarecrows with yellow straw poking out of orange-checked shirt sleeves—and I let Josiah arrange (and re-arrange and re-arrange) the mini-pumpkins and scarecrows on our china buffet.

Josiah's Final Arrangement:)

And this week I tripped on acorns hidden in our brown carpet and watched the oak tree out front shed curly leaves while squirrels scampered up and down the trunk with bulging cheeks. And in the late afternoon sun, I watered browning petunias in flipflops, crisp leaves tickling my bare toes.

It’s fall again.

Fall is my favorite time of year. I savor snuggling in bed under warm blankets in early morning, long runs in crisp air over leaf-strewn trails, and the promise of Thanksgiving and Christmas in cool breezes and 5pm sunsets. And last Fall I learned from an expert gardener that oak leaves make great compost for Spring plants, so I scooped up crunchy leaves and buried them in moist dirt, hoping for richer earth and stronger plants in Spring.

This year, as oak leaves pile round my front door and fill empty pots on my front steps, I ponder the reminder that fall brings: death—loss—births new life.  Just as fall precedes winter and winter, spring, so death precedes redemption: “Because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, ⁵ made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions” (Ephesians 2:4-5).

When we were dead—consumed with Self—God, who is merciful, made us alive in Him!

In recent years the winter winds of trial stripped me bare—the loss of three babies, not yet named, the loss of my Grandpa, 95 years old, the loss of family relationships, the loss of expectations for what life should be, and in this bare-naked state—stripped of Self—I finally looked to Christ.  

“Not until self dies can Christ live in us; not until self dies can we possess the faith that works by love and purifies the soul.” (ST, October 11, 1899, emphasis mine.)

When Self dies (and continues, daily, to die) a willingness to risk all for Christ—relationships, material possessions, career, reputation—fills the soul, and you live FREE!

 "The deepest death to self lies in the motives and intentions, hence this all-consuming motive to want to be nothing but a capacity for Christ to live in, lies at the foundation of the death of self and the highest life of Christ.” (G.D. Watson, emphasis mine).

In other words, the deepest death to self is a genuine—all consuming—desire to let Christ be all. When Christ is all, my soul rests in the knowledge that the difficult seasons of this life are birthing new life in my heart—a deeper reliance on Christ and true, lasting Joy.

So, when the trials of this life strip you bare, when the winter winds of difficulty seem to last forever, remember that death births new life, that God is fertilizing your soul so that your reliance on him is deep, rich and true, and just when you think winter will never end, Spring blooms in your heart.

"Be not afraid, though every stay [foundation]
Should fail, or be removed away,
And thou be stript of all;
But lose thyself in that vast sea,
The ocean of the Deity,
And all thy cares shall fall.

In death which is the most profound,
The purest life is always found;
Then, blindly, all forego!
He ne’re shall find, who will not lose;
Who sinks from self, shall gain repose,
Which none but he can know."

(Gerhard Tersteegen, emphasis mine)

When Death Comes, Then Comes JOY

Grandpa with 1-year-old Micah in Chicago

My Grandpa W. died last Saturday.

On Tuesday afternoon Jon pulled me close and whispered soft: “Your Grandpa died. Your dad forwarded his obituary today and the funeral’s tomorrow . . .  in Chicago . . .”

It wasn’t a shock, this bitter-sweet news of the passing of my 95-year-old Grandpa, my step-Grandpa, but the only real Grandparent I’ve ever known.

This passing of old life felt bitter because I’ll never hear Grandpa tell his joke about the salesman with the toothbrush for the 100^th time, I’ll never listen to him share what he learned from This Daily Bread in the early AM, never see him hobble-walk into his kitchen at 6am to eat his orange, grapefruit, and toast, and never go bowling with him and his white-haired friends who always got better bowling scores than us 30-somethings.

I’ll never hear him tremble-tell stories about his first wife, Jean, and my Grandma Irma, and his daughter Judy, who all saw Jesus’ face years ago  . . .

But this passing of Grandpa is also sweet, sweet because this I know for sure: my Grandpa W. loved Jesus with his life.

I’ll never forget when Jon and I were young and dating and drove from Minneapolis to Chicago to see Grandpa and my college-going sisters. And that weekend while I slept on my sisters’ apartment floor in Wheaton, Jon stayed up late in Grandpa’s condo, playing him in chess, and getting beat over and over again while he “waited for your Grandpa to have a senior moment! He never had one!” And Jon woke up at 5am and rolled out of that creaky sofa bed and sat with Grandpa as he opened his Bible and read Our Daily Bread and talked about his Savior-God, talked about how he couldn’t wait to go to heaven and see Him face-to-face.

I’ll never forget the letters Grandpa sent over the years, one-after-another, writing in his wobbly script that he was “praying every day for you and your family, and I love you very much.”

When he finally lost his driver’s license, and he moved out of his West Chicago condo and into his son’s house, he left nothing behind because he’d given it all away. At the end of life, Grandpa’s treasure was in the unseen, the eternal, not the temporal, where moth and rust destroy and thieves break in and steal.

That’s what I remember most about my Grandpa: Christ was his treasure, his life, his Everything.

And the older he got, the more he breathed Jesus.

And this is my prayer: that I may follow in the foot-steps of my Grandpa, knowing and loving Jesus more than Life.

And this is my hope: “Truly, truly, I say to you, whoever hears my word and believes him who sent me has eternal life. He does not come into judgment, but has passed from death to life.”

And this is my peace: “You have sorrow now, but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you.”



How Trials Become Blessing

So my sister Rachel  and I spent a week living life  in the same state—drinking early morning coffee, breaking up cousin-sibling spats, sliding in back-yard mud in misty rain, and planning outings—like the trip to the bouncy house, which ended with Isaiah getting his first shiner (head-on collision with another kid’s cheekbone.)

And Uncle E. watched six kiddos so Rachel and I could go out for scones and coffee and browse through West coast antiques. And one night we stayed up till the AM paging through old scrapbooks and doing what family does—remember . . . .

As we paged through old family snapshots of Christmases and birthdays and college graduations, we laughed and remembered the good times, and as one story led to another, we drifted into remembering the not-so-good times, the ones you’d rather forget, but can’t and probably never will.  

But we’ve  learned—dwelling on the pain of the Past doesn’t bring hope in the Now.

As scripture says: “Remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old. Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. “(Isaiah 43: 18-19)

And this is Amazing Grace---God grows new things in the barren wilderness of trials.

It’s only when our eyes drift from Him to Self, that we are blinded by cynicism—This family is so delusional, so messed up, there is no hope—or impatience—Lord, can’t you heal our family right now?

But when we fix our eyes on He who can do ANYTHING—we find hope and peace and strength—new things!—in the wilderness of difficulty.  

As Dietrich Bonheoffer says: “When God imposes a burden, those who are patient bend their hands and believe it is good to be humbled thus . . . God’s peace is found among the patient . . . . We lose God’s peace when we prefer an earthly peace with the world to peace with God, when we love the security of our lives more than we love God. Then must tribulation become our ruin.”  

When we bend our hearts to the trials in our lives, trusting that God is growing new things in us like peace and patience and humility—then tribulation becomes blessing. 

But when, like Lot’s wife—we look back at former things, longing for security and comfort in what we already know —then tribulation becomes our ruin.

And yes, there are times Rachel and I wish God would hurry up and heal our family right now!, and we look through scrapbooks and see our parent’s faces and wonder if we’ll ever hear their voices again  . . .

But we thank God for the beautiful trial of a broken family—because through this trial God has grown new things  in our hearts: peace that passes all understanding and joy in the Savior-God who loves us and loves our family more than we can comprehend.

So this morning: let’s fix our eyes on Him in the midst of life’s difficulties, so he can grow new things in our hearts.

Yes I will rise

Out of these ashes rise

From this trouble I have found

And this rubble on the ground

I will rise

Cause He who is in me

Is greater than I will ever be

 And I will rise

By Shawn Macdonald

Related Post: Little House in the Hood

Does It Make You Cry?

This time last year we mourned the early homecoming of our little nephew, Augustav. He was born at 24 weeks old and taken Home after one week of living, leaving his parents (Jon's brother and sister-in-law) with a hole in their hearts and hands. But as we remember this loss and others, we look to Him who sacrificed his life that we All may live. And we must ask ourselves: do our hearts swell with the beauty of Christ's sacrifice for us?

Thursday, March 24, 2011 (re-post)

3pm I hear kid fingers fumbling with the front door, and I nearly trip over myself reaching for the handle before the little guy on the other side rings the doorbell twenty times, announcing his red haired, freckle-faced presence, nearly waking the sleeping baby, and making me nuts because I missed my last thirty minutes of divine silence.

I open door, whisper, “Hey kiddo. Home from school?” He nods. “Want to play with Micah?” He nods, reddish curls blowing in the wind that rattles our flimsy black metal porch railing. “Ok, you can go down in the basement. Take off you shoes and be quiet—the baby’s sleeping.”

“I know. I know. I remember,” he says, pulling off his Pumas as Micah calls up the basement steps, “Is that Ben? He can come play Star Wars with me. Come on, Ben!”

And so begins another afternoon, neighborhood kids coming home to no one . . . come home to us, looking for a friend, a pat on the head, a “how was your day, kiddo?” They tell me our house is “heaven” because we don’t “scream at each other,” and we have “family time.” Their words make me sad and thankful and scared—sad for the pain of a five year old neighbor boy (and others), thankful for the gift of three boys, scared because I too hurt my boys with wild words.

Boy words drift up as I stand at kitchen sink, sudsing lunch dishes.

“Ben, are you thankful I let you play with Darth Vader? If you’re not, you’re not gracious.”

I smile. The blunt words of a five year old, tact not yet learned.

“Ben, do you want to be like Dietrich Bonhoeffer or Satan?”

What? Holding yellow plate with painted blue flowers, suds floating down into water. I pause.

“Cuse Dietrich Bonhoeffer died for Jesus. Do you know ‘bout Jesus?”

“Yeah. I know. I know.”

“You know he died for you?” pressing . . . pressing. (I wonder where he gets that, the pressing?) I smile.

“Duh! I know! I saw a movie ‘bout it. He died and went up in the air,” tone harsh, saying “get off my back,” without actually saying it, and the kid’s only five. Only five.

Micah won’t let up: “Did it make you cry? When Jesus died? Did it?”

Silence.

 

Voice of red haired, freckle-faced five year old Ben, “Are you gonna let me play with your Star Wars legos or what?”

Deflection. Avoidance. My soul swells—with joy that my Micah sees, with sorrow that Ben does not . . . then I think . . .

Does it make me cry? That Jesus died? . . . .

Does it make me cry?

When Loss is Gain . . .

I woke up before my 5am alarm this morning and lay coverless in the dark of a warmer-than-usual winter morning. It had been another one of those my-brain-won’t-turn-off kind of sleepless nights. So I rolled out of bed, pulled on my Nikes, and drove to the gym in Jon’s little green Geo.

As I pulled my sixteen week preggo body onto the treadmill between college girl running six minute intervals on my right and 85 year old Dick hunch-walking on my left, I pressed buttons and started moving my feet. As my feet flew faster, I looked down at my baby-belly, remembered my OB appt. in a few hours, and I wondered, as I’d been wondering all night long:

 Will God-grace keep little heart beating, or does He have other plans?

Over eight years ago, when I was preggo with #1, I never wondered if God would take un-named baby Home. Back then I didn’t fear loss because, for the most part, life had gone as I thought it should.

Then REAL life happened and I learned the hard way: life doesn’t always follow my plans because God’s ways are not my ways and His thoughts are not my thoughts. And in the midst of real-life-sorrow I asked myself for the first time: Is God good when he allows loss and pain? How on earth can I live God is Good when I don’t see any good?!

And as I ran this morning I asked myself—What if good is taking baby #7 Home at sixteen weeks? Will I know this loss as God-grace, God-goodness?

 In morning light, I realized this: my sleepless night revealed my heart’s struggle to rest in God is Good—all the time!

 And in morning light God whispered soft: in moments of doubt, of fear—remember.

 Remember how I showed mercy, turning loss into gain—

♦giving you and Jon mentors—Dawn and Mike—when you’d lost family and church and reputation and thought the weight was too heavy to bear;

♦blessing you with Shari—that rare kindred-spirit friend—who listens and loves with her life;
♦freeing BOTH you and your sister Rachel from the pain of the past, freeing you to love each other unconditionally as blood-sisters.
♦protecting you and Jon—just last September—from hell-bent-on-hurting-you family members.
♦blessing you and Jon with three wild, healthy boys.
♦revealing to you—again and again—the true nature of your wandering heart so you can turn to Me.

And so much more . . .

So when dark clouds gather in my brain—when self-pitying what if’s and if only’s  threaten to drown God is Good I echo the Psalmist’s words:

Will the Lord cast off forever? And will He be favourable no more?  Has His mercy ceased forever? Has His promise failed forevermore?  Has God forgotten to be gracious? Has He in anger shut up His tender mercies?  And I said, "This is my anguish; but I will remember the years of the right hand of the Most High."  I will remember the works of the Lord; surely I will remember Your wonders of old. (Psalm 77: 7-12)

And I claim this promise as my own: “I remain confident of this--I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the Living.” (Psalm 27:13).

And this afternoon, as Jon and I and our three blond-headed boys sat still in tiny Dr’s office, praying for the swoosh-swoosh of baby #4’s heart beat, we heard the goodness of the Lord in the land of the Living:

 Swoosh-swoosh, swoosh-swoosh, swoosh-swoosh.

Only 14 and 1/2 weeks here--need a new photo! But you can see the belly!

And we sang out loud: Praise the Lord! He is good!

Loss

Baby at 9 weeks

We lost our second baby, not-yet-named.

Tiny head, hands, feet floated,

in gentle waters—life blood still, heart silent.

And little voices asked: “Why did baby

want to play with Jesus in heaven?”

Why?

But this time why dies on lips because I’ve learned:

Loss is Life.

Others weep deep losses

I may never know:

Mothers bury sons-with-names,

Children bury fathers, mothers,

Bodies twist with sickness,

Bringing death of dreams—

Bringing sorrow to living,

Life is Loss.

Families splinter.

Relationships with those not-yet-dead

shrivel-die before blooming.

Mothers reject daughters

Fathers hate sons

Selfish hearts corrupt what should have been,

what ought to be . . .

Life is Loss.

But now, as second baby

rises to “play with Jesus,” this I know:

Loss is gain.

Loss is hope.

Loss is joy. 

Loss opens blind eyes to blessing:

Three blond boys, named and growing,

Husband of ten years, love unconditional, thriving,

Sister-love deepening within family fracturing,

Holy Spirit family—forever flourishing

In our Father of Life.

Loss shatters delusion, the mirage of control,

Loss turns hearts to

He who holds all things in the

Palm of his hand,

Who knows the hairs on my head,

Who formed me in my mother’s womb

Who loves me in spite of me.

“I consider everything a loss compared

 to the surpassing greatness of knowing

 Christ Jesus my Lord,

for whose sake I have lost all things.”*

Becca

Death is a dialogue between

The spirit and the dust.

“Dissolve,” says Death. The Spirit, “Sir,

I have another trust.”

Death doubts it, argues from the ground

The Spirit turns away,

Just laying off, for evidence,

An overcoat of clay.

Emily Dickinson

Psalm 71:20-21
Though you have made me see troubles, many and bitter, you will restore my life again; from the depths of the earth you will again bring me up. You will increase my honor and comfort me once again.

Psalm 73:26
My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.

Lamentations 3:31-33
For men are not cast off by the Lord forever. Though he brings grief, he will show compassion, so great is his unfailing love. For he does not willingly bring affliction or grief to the children of men.

* Philippians 3:8

Daddy and Father-God

I’m one. Bald

and chubby, sitting

on your shoulders,

in pink jumper,

yanking tufts of

Beatles-like brown hair

as you slouch

against 70’s sunflowers

pasted to the kitchen wall,

your pebble-grey eyes winking

at woman behind camera.

And I don’t know God—You

are God.

To me. 

I’m four. Strapped beside

You in cockpit,

flying over Texas,

thinking I’m the real pilot

floating below heaven,

wondering if I can see through

cloud ceiling to God. I know

about God now. You told

me he’s up there.
Somewhere.

But I’m rolling through

lower heaven,

can’t catch Your

slate-eyes to ask

if I can touch God.

I’m seven. Cuddled

with sisters in

flannel nightgowns,

lulled by husky hum of Your

voice reading Little House

and I’m dreaming of Laura, of

Ma and Pa

in prairie grass.

They’re praying

to Father-God

for life.

I curl naked toes

under pink nightgown,

wondering if I know God.

Does he know me?

But your ash-eyes don’t look UP

So I don’t ask You. . . .

I’m nine and it’s Christmas Eve.

You’re sitting next to snapping fire

cracking nuts,

fingering guitar strings,

singing about

“That Marvelous Toy” that went

"Zip" when it moved and

 "Pop" when it stopped, and

"Whirrr" when it stood still!”

And I’m wishing I could

snatch the moment into

my pocket and pull

it out in the dark night

to savor the forever-family

feeling.

And I’m wondering why

Jesus-God birthed to death

for Me,

yet I can’t feel Him close.

Your granite-eyes are

fixed

on strings,

So I don’t ask You. . . .

I’m twelve. Sitting in the

den with all Five kids,

listening to the voices of  

Tom Sawyer and

Huck Finn,

imagining the death of

Ann and Dan

as the red fern of

love grows

between death.

And I’m wondering again:

Where is this God who

lives in my heart?

Who is this Father-God?

Does he love me?

But Your lead-eyes

stare at black words marching.  

So I don’t ask You.

And I’m thirteen.

And you’re working.

Working.

Stopping  

to preach how

God-girls

dress nice and Beauty

is fleeting.

I just need GOD-LOVE.

And I want GOD-LOVE.

But where is GOD?

And I’m eighteen

Leaving for Northwestern,

so happy

to be

leaving

the family,

leaving You.

but Not.

Cause you are still God.

To me.

15 years later,

4 miles close yet

FAR as East from West

I remember your

granite-eyes,

stone-eyes,

lead-eyes,

and I know You

are not God,

never were

God.

And I see

how I made one-flesh—

You and Father-God—

twisting God-flesh

into granite-cold

Man flesh,

making Father-God

untouchable

in upper heaven.

But, You, Daddy,

Aren’t Father-God.

And I’ve asked God—

“Come down from

upper heaven

so Far.

Come
skin-close,

scent-close,

breath-close.”

And Father-God says

To me.

“Because she* holds fast

To me

In love

I will deliver her*,

protect her,

because she knows my

Name.

When she calls, I will answer.

I will be with her in trouble.

I will rescue her and honor her.

With long life I will satisfy her

And show her my salvation.”

*Psalm 91 and male pronouns switched to female.

Loss and Life

My husband’s Grandpa, 92 years old, breathed his last breath Easter Sunday. Fitting, I thought, when Jon told me the news, to die the day Jesus rose and gave eternal life to his own.

Grandpa was alone that Easter morning, in a nursing home that smelled of urine, cafeteria food, and bleach. We’d been expecting that last breath for months, and now it had come and gone, like a whisper in the wind. So we packed our bags and blue cooler to travel North for a funeral—to honor Jon’s memories of fishing and camping and cards with a Northwoodsman who’d survived a depression, war and hard labor.

And as we drove up North we told the boys: “Your Great-Grandpa died.”

And Micah asked: “Did he love God?”

And Jon answered, “I think so. He said he loved God.”

And I thought: I think so. . . .

And I wondered: How can you know so ? . . .

Standing with Jon and the boys in the funeral home, piano music playing over the intercom, boxes of white tissue on every end table, plush pink flowered couches scattered about the foyer, the brown casket open—Grandpa’s body displayed on white satin—skin translucent, blue-veined; eyelashes mashed together under unseeing bifocals smudged still; hands folded across blue tie (I’d never seen him in a tie), and the neck, thinner than I remembered, disappearing into blue dress shirt--and I wondered:

Where is the 92 year old soul that breathed inside this body?

I wrestled a squirmy Isaiah in my arms, as Micah stood solemnly beside the casket, as Josiah clung to my dress pants.  Jon reached down and lifted Josiah’s warm three year old body over the side of brown casket. Josiah’s warm brown eyes gazed on cold 92 year old body. Josiah talk-whispered: “Grandpa’s dead? He died? He’s dead!” Grey-headed relatives near casket smiled—thankful for the distraction of young life from old death.

Micah talk-whispered: “Yeah. He’s dead. He’s in heaven, with God, . . . I think.”

I think. . . .

I wandered away from casket, set Isaiah's flailing feet on carpet--he squealed and ran towards plush pink couches. Grey-headed relatives smiled again at new life, fresh life, innocent life. And as my son wandered free, chubby fingers exploring floor vents, knocking over tissue boxes,  I pondered: 

When I die, will people say, "I know she loved God more than life!" ? 

And I asked myself:  Do I love God more than life? When my body lies cold in a casket will my boys say: "My mama loved God, this I know!"? 

Does my life love my God? 

"They will know we are Christians by our love, by our love, yes they'll know we are Christians by our love."

"Let us not love in word or with tongue, but in deed and truth. We shall know by this that we are of the truth and shall assure our heart before Him." (1 John 3)