Hard Ground

 That July day in the Panhandle town was hot.  It was the day we had her funeral and then drove out to the cemetery.  Some of the day lives in a fog – but there is a part that is in painfully clear focus. 

 The green awning on the poles was stretched over the gravesite we had chosen.  The tall elm beside it gave shade, too.  Mama’s family sat in the chairs and we listened again to the pastor who had been her friend for over 30 years.  He spoke of the comfort that the Lord gives to those who grieve.  I knew it must be all so real—but still I kept thinking I would wake from the dream and go back to see Mama at her little house—just the two of us. 

 We would sit and talk and drink her sweet ice tea and laugh and just sit together.  I would be me with her—the me that was safe with her.  I wanted that reality—not the rose colored casket with the beautiful, yet ugly, rose spray draped over a forever-closed lid. 

 When all had been said by the pastor—and the prayer of finality was spoken—I had to move and talk.  Many had come to this final place for Mama—and I had to face their tears. 

 Before long there were only a few of us still unable to walk away.  If my memory is right—I was standing beside the casket alone.  I reached out and laid my hand on it and it felt oddly cool.  I didn’t want to move, even though it was the worst place I could ever imagine standing that day. 

 Next to Mama’s grave I stood on hard ground and thought of the empty tomb of Jesus.  The truth of the moment held me.  The pastor had said the Lord is our comfort –especially, I thought, on the hardest ground we will ever stand on.  Because if I truly believed that Jesus’ tomb was empty—then I must believe that Mama’s grave would be empty, too—someday.

 The wonder and hope of the resurrection released me to walk away that day—knowing there is no ground so hard that I cannot stand in that hope.

Trial’s Value

This is a quote I just saw on Facebook, posted by a friend.

“Endurance is not just the ability to bear a hard thing, but to turn it into glory.” –William Barclay

So many in my life circle are going through difficult, even heart-wrenching, trials. I have had my share over the years–as has everyone else. It is the way of this old world. We are aptly warned of this in God’s Word. Jesus affirmed it in John 16:33.

I am not surprised by the fact of trials–more dismayed at them–but not surprised. The thing that has amazed me, though, is the peace that can happen when I face the “junk attacks” of being a human being on planet earth. At some of the most critical moments I feel peace fall over me like a perfect down comforter–warm and soothing to my frigid soul. The wonder of this distracts me from the trial long enough to acknowledge the Giver of that peace.  It seems to become a pattern for facing whatever comes next.

Viewing trials through this pattern helps me understand what James was proposing in James 1:2-4. Count it all joy–(because I will experience peace as I never have before)–let patience have its perfect work (so I will get whatever it is that I desperately need as a believer in Christ). And when that is accomplished–I get none of the glory for surviving/enduring some hard thing. Instead–the glory belongs to the Peace Giver, the Sustainer, The Teacher of my life.

So a trial’s value is never measured by me making it through–but by all glory to the Lord for His presence and provision.

 

Time Ago

There are photos stored in so many places here. Some are in albums and others boxed or framed here and there. Just now I noticed one album I had not opened in a long time. It holds the pictures of our oldest–our girl–when she was newborn upto about 2 years old.

Memories of the young couple with this precious new life met my eyes.. We were so young and unafraid of most things. The Navy owned us for a couple more years after she was born and Vietnam soon beckoned my hero. We faced major things like most that are young. We would get through it and then life would really begin for us.

And it did happen that we survived long separations and that my love missed so much of the “firsts” our little girl had. But we did make it and then we were free to go and do and live and love.

The moments captured in those photos bring me back to a time ago that was “life” while we were waiting to “live.” They were the moments of our beginning–our time ago.

Clutter

Clutter, clutter everywhere it seems. It always strikes this time of year–as I am putting away Christmas decorations. And it seems to be more oppressive this year for some reason.

Closets, drawers, cabinets, the attic, under beds–oh my. In my weak defense, I have been married over 40 years now. That is where any reasonable defense ends–because I am a nostalgic pack rat. There, I said it, but please don’t quote me. I might deny it at any point from here on.

Here are my hoarded favorites: books, dishes, glassware, teddy bears (collectibles, not hoarded), clothes I will never wear, all the castoffs from older family generations, photos, back issues of Country magazine, and the myriad of things that “I might just need later”–read “junk.” Do real people have only one junk drawer? Really?

We haven’t even covered the clutter in my mind and soul. This task is especially daunting–because I want to be ready for a pick-up Trivial Pursuit game. I have lived enough history that I can have a fair showing.

I think what is most burdensome is the clutter in my soul. It gives a haunting effect. Old thoughts unworthy to repeat that keep cropping up, doubts of past decisions and paths, weary hope, irrational expectations, unmet goals from long ago–hovering, diving for my core, wrestling with each other for prominence. Soul fatigue can happen at the hap–happiest time of the year.

I am the clutterer–me alone. The house clutter will have to be dealt with –but in the proper time. You can’t eat an elephant in one bite.

But the soul clutter is another matter. It is imperative to go at it as soon as it is recognized. I know how to do this. I have done it before at other post Yule times and springs, and summers, etc. I am on no particular schedule for this recurring task.

First there must be a place of silence for my soul to hear what to toss, what to conquer, and what to slay. It won’t be my voice giving direction. It will be the voice of the One who is rightful owner of my soul. I will again be tutored in stewardship of what makes me who I am. It is that time again.

Sweet Baby Breath

There is the cry and the baby breathes. Soon he is in her arms and she brushes his velvet cheek with her lips. He is here at last. In the dim light she looks at this tiny one–her first born and her mind goes to the moment she was chosen. Now she is holding the Eternal –the time has come. He is with her.

The baby of promise and prophecy is now sleeping in her arms. She raises his little face to hers and smells his sweet baby breath. The breath of God, the sweet aroma of Life.

Epic Victories

Yesterday I saw epic victories in a child’s life–in the recess soccer game. The second-grade boy has challenges to face each and every day that most of us cannot fathom. These challenges  play out in erratic behavior and fits of anger at times–often leading to defeated remorse.  He had already had a difficult day in his class time, and now he was in our after-school program.

Our soccer games include lots of kids from K-5th grades, so it is a special hybrid of soccer at best. Some play in leagues and some are very new to the game. Somehow it works for the 45 minute recess. And it seems to be a great stage for epic victories.

After each team was chosen and play began–up walks the 2nd grader wanting to play. “Miss Margie, can I play soccer?”

“Of course, you can!”

“Who’s team am I on?”

I call timeout and get him enlisted with his captain–and off he runs–free of his hard day. I watch him run into the mix and see him focus on our sad faded yellow soccer ball.

Then somehow the ball is right at his feet and he kicks it–hard. He turns to me smiling and shouting, “Miss Margie, I kicked the ball.”

There I am smiling and shouting back, “I saw it!! Yay for you!!”

For the rest of the game there were more fiercely jubilant moments of his kicking the ball, looking to me, and hearing me shout for him from the sidelines. It may have been the game of his life, so far. I believe there will be more smiles and shouts along the way for him.  I just hope someone stands on his sideline shouting for him. No one should want to miss his epic victories. These victories don’t have to be epic to a crowd–but epic to two will work just fine.

A Christmas Memory

My Santa Claus request must have been for a babydoll for most of my little years. One year I got my very favorite doll and she looked exactly like a real baby to me. There she was on Christmas morning–waiting for me to love her–and love her I did. Hours came and went while I bathed, rocked and cuddled that doll.

I remember how she smelled when she was new–you know–that Christmas plastic babydoll smell. All these years later that very aroma can transport me through time to a place of most everything being bigger than me. Everything, that is, except that babydoll. I was bigger and I was supposed to take care of her all by myself. I was definitely needed.

And. of course, I couldn’t take care of her if I didn’t have a baby bottle or all the other little things a babydoll needs. And good ole Santa thought of everything that year. He must have told the elves how good I had been and how well I helped my Mama take care of my baby sister. Why else would they have entrusted such a perfect babydoll into my care?