My blog takes its title from a song by Sarah Hart (Amy Grant also covered it). I find the song beautiful, and it truly captures my heart--sometimes, perhaps always, honesty is the best hallelujah we can offer. It's the strength and beauty of a crocus popping through the spring snow. It's the mother crying her baby back to sleep in the middle of the night. It's the husband laying his wife of 50 years to rest. It's broken. But it's honest, and it's beautiful. And that broken honesty is better than a hallelujah.
In January, my family was in the middle of that broken and beautiful hallelujah.
We were two months into a long journey that led to decisions we weren't ready to make. And our tears were better than a hallelujah.
We didn't like where we were, and we let God know that. But we still walked. One foot in front of the other. A deep breath and then a quavering one and then a sigh. And then a whispered prayer. And then a sob.
And then the phone rang.
My dad was a chaplain in the National Guard for nearly 23 years. One of those years took him to Iraq with a man named Zack. Zack was his assistant, and he was a bit younger than me. He was a bit immature and goofy, and he quickly became like the younger brother my sister and I never had. Among other things, Zack's job as my dad's assistant meant that he was tasked with protecting my father in Iraq. You see, chaplains don't carry weapons, but their assistants do. So Zack's job was to use his weapon and, if it came to that, his body to protect my dad. Now, I can tell you that something like that bonds you to someone for life. This immature, goofy kid was the guy who would save my dad . . . great. We'll take it. And we'll tuck Zack into a place in our hearts that no one could ever take away.
Zack suffered from PTSD after his time in Iraq. We didn't see him much after they came home, but we did keep in touch. For the past five years, there were ups and downs, but we all thought Zack was doing okay. He and my dad talked on Christmas--also Zack's birthday--and it seemed like things were going well. But that call in early January was to let my dad know that Zack had taken his own life.
We traveled to Detroit where my dad presided over the funeral service of a young man who was like his adopted son. A young man at one time tasked with protecting his own life--no matter what the cost. As my dad stood next to Zack's flag-draped casket, I thought about how this was yet one more war death. Combat didn't kill Zack, but the war did. And, fittingly, Zack's body was attended by many soldiers. There was a rifle salute and taps. The soldiers laid poppies and saluted his body. He is buried in a military cemetery where his body was accompanied by his brothers and sisters in uniform and his sisters, his dad and step-mother, his mom, and so, so many friends.
And, just before they played the taps in that chilly cemetery in early January, one of the men from his first company said words I hope to never forget: "We have carried our brother as far as we can." We did. We carried Zack as far as we could, and it was time to let his body go. Together we carried Zack's body to the cemetery, and we carried Zack to the feet of our Savior.
But the memories . . . we can carry those further. There's a Facebook group dedicated to remembering Zack. Every couple of days someone posts another picture they found or a memory they shared. None of us can eat Godiva chocolate without thinking about Zack, because when he and my dad were prepping to go to Iraq, Zack pronounced it Go Diva. And he made everyone laugh, and he laughed at himself. I also think of him every time certain songs come on the radio, and I tearfully remember the night we tested Zack's reflexes by throwing tennis balls at him. Tears and laughter mix together a lot for the people in that group.
Because that was Zack. He was beautiful, and he was broken. And, as the song says, he was a "dying man, giving up the fight." He was tired, so he went Home. And he was greeted with arms open to catch him. To hold him while he rests. And it is better than a hallelujah.
Showing posts with label Home. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Home. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Friday, December 14, 2012
In Response to Another Tragedy
On my way home from picking my daughter up from school this afternoon, I felt compelled to sit down when I got home and put some thoughts on paper. As I opened my computer, I came across something a friend had posted on his Facebook page. I have to say, Max really got it right with "A Christmas Prayer." It sort of took away everything that I even dreamed of writing. Because I just didn't think I could add anything.
So I was going to write, "What he said." I know some people who read this don't read Facebook links to articles that people post. I hope you'll read this one. Because he's dead on. We need Jesus to be born anew in us this Christmas. Our world is in desperate straights and needs Him.
But then I thought a bit more about it. I thought about how as I was watching the news this afternoon, while my little ones napped for the first time all week and my oldest was safe in her classroom in a community very similar to Sandy Hook, CT, my chest hurt, and I couldn't breathe well. I thought about how it felt like September 11, 2001, all over again. I thought about how the only thing I wanted was to hold my girls in my arms every day for the rest of my life. And I thought about how when my daughter was in Kindergarten two years ago, there were only 21 kids in her class. That would have left three survivors. And then I thought about the survivors in that Kindergarten class at Sandy Hook Elementary and wondered if they could really be called survivors. And I thought about that mom and how it felt to see her son walk into the classroom and open fire on her and the little ones in her care. I hope she didn't see him. I hope he caught her with her back turned.
So, in light of all of that, I wanted to share something after all. I wanted to beg, along with the Church and children of God way back in the time of Isaiah, God for something. Father God, send our salvation. Rescue us. Bring us Home.
And I'll conclude as Max Lucado did. Because it seems most fitting as long as we travel through this world.
Hopefully . . .
So I was going to write, "What he said." I know some people who read this don't read Facebook links to articles that people post. I hope you'll read this one. Because he's dead on. We need Jesus to be born anew in us this Christmas. Our world is in desperate straights and needs Him.
But then I thought a bit more about it. I thought about how as I was watching the news this afternoon, while my little ones napped for the first time all week and my oldest was safe in her classroom in a community very similar to Sandy Hook, CT, my chest hurt, and I couldn't breathe well. I thought about how it felt like September 11, 2001, all over again. I thought about how the only thing I wanted was to hold my girls in my arms every day for the rest of my life. And I thought about how when my daughter was in Kindergarten two years ago, there were only 21 kids in her class. That would have left three survivors. And then I thought about the survivors in that Kindergarten class at Sandy Hook Elementary and wondered if they could really be called survivors. And I thought about that mom and how it felt to see her son walk into the classroom and open fire on her and the little ones in her care. I hope she didn't see him. I hope he caught her with her back turned.
So, in light of all of that, I wanted to share something after all. I wanted to beg, along with the Church and children of God way back in the time of Isaiah, God for something. Father God, send our salvation. Rescue us. Bring us Home.
Come, Thou long expected Jesus"Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus" by Charles Wesley (arranged by Chris Tomlin)
Born to set Thy people free
From our fears and sins release us
Let us find our rest in Thee
Israel's strength and consolation
Hope of all the earth Thou art
Dear desire of every nation
Joy of every longing heart
Born Thy people to deliver
Born a child and yet a king
Born to reign in us forever
Now Thy gracious kingdom bring
By Thine own eternal Spirit
Rule in all our hearts alone
By Thine own sufficient merit
Raise us to Thy glorious throne
By Thine own sufficient merit
Raise us to Thy glorious throne
And I'll conclude as Max Lucado did. Because it seems most fitting as long as we travel through this world.
Hopefully . . .
Friday, June 08, 2012
Thoughts On Saying Goodbye
Bruce Coeling died this morning. He suffered a massive heart attack last Saturday and was never really responsive again after that. His children made the hard decision to remove him from the machines keeping his body alive on Thursday, and around 1:30 a.m. on Friday, June 8, 2012, he died. He was 67. He is a father and a grandfather and a friend.
I saw him on Wednesday night when a couple of friends and I went to the hospital after worship practice to visit him, but really to support his son who sings with us on the worship team and, with his wife and children, is in our Family Fellowship Group. Before that I saw Bruce at church at 8:30 a.m. a couple of weeks ago when I last sang on the worship team. I smiled when I saw him, and his son, Ken, and I talked about how Bruce always got there at 8:30 for the 9:30 service, because he didn't like to be late. The funny thing about death is that I didn't know that was the last time he would return my smile and tell me hello. Because most of the time you just don't know.
As I was falling asleep on Wednesday night, praying for Bruce and for his son and two daughters and their families, I wondered how we slipped into this stage of life. At Christmas of 2010, our dear friends lost their mother after years of living with a brain tumor and its effects. In January of 2007, we grieved with another good friend over the loss of her father in a car accident. In between, there have been other days of bearing the burden of grief as other friends and church family members have said goodbye to their fathers. How did we get here, to this place where we are starting to say goodbye to our parents? It's tricky, because many of us still have grandparents living . . . and yet somehow we have reached an age where our parents' days are truly numbered, and we are starting to count them.
There is a paradox for Christians around the world and throughout history. We know, with great certainty, where our loved ones have gone. We know, with great certainty, that God is holding them in His hands; they have reached their final Home, have heard the "Well done, my good and faithful servant," and have entered into the joy of our Lord. And yet, we also know, with great certainty, that we miss them. That life shouldn't have to include death, and that our lives are forever changed by this death. We are reminded that this world is not our Home, and that we are merely pilgrims on a sojourn in this land. So we grieve, even while we celebrate. When we grieve, we grieve with hope. But we still grieve. And it sucks.
I know that Bruce died this morning, but when I saw him Wednesday night, his son said, "He's there, but he's not there." I wonder when Bruce really did die. I wonder if he died on Saturday and spent a week in eternity asking Jesus to give his family peace as they said goodbye to him and as they held his dying body.
Many in my group of friends have said goodbye to our unborn babies who have slipped from our wombs into the arms of Jesus. I don't know well anyone who has buried a child, but I do know of fathers who have cradled the caskets containing their babies' bodies as they walked into the funeral service or released their children for burial. That is a pain that cannot be matched. Life shouldn't include death. But, as a daughter, I wonder if there is anything more heartbreaking than seeing a grown woman become again a little girl as she kisses her daddy goodbye for one of the final times. I saw that Wednesday night, and my heart broke, because I realized that one day that would be me.
Saying goodbye is a funny thing. We know that to live is Christ and to die is truly gain. I'm not afraid of it, but I don't know how I got to this stage where my friends and I are saying goodbye to our grandparents and our mommies and our daddies . . . and sometimes our children too. This is a tender time. And I imagine I'll cry at 8:30 Sunday morning when we're practicing our songs for the service and Bruce doesn't come in to sit in his normal seat an hour before the service starts.
Bruce Coeling died this morning. He was only 67 years old. But he liked to get there a little bit early, because he never wanted to be late.
I saw him on Wednesday night when a couple of friends and I went to the hospital after worship practice to visit him, but really to support his son who sings with us on the worship team and, with his wife and children, is in our Family Fellowship Group. Before that I saw Bruce at church at 8:30 a.m. a couple of weeks ago when I last sang on the worship team. I smiled when I saw him, and his son, Ken, and I talked about how Bruce always got there at 8:30 for the 9:30 service, because he didn't like to be late. The funny thing about death is that I didn't know that was the last time he would return my smile and tell me hello. Because most of the time you just don't know.
As I was falling asleep on Wednesday night, praying for Bruce and for his son and two daughters and their families, I wondered how we slipped into this stage of life. At Christmas of 2010, our dear friends lost their mother after years of living with a brain tumor and its effects. In January of 2007, we grieved with another good friend over the loss of her father in a car accident. In between, there have been other days of bearing the burden of grief as other friends and church family members have said goodbye to their fathers. How did we get here, to this place where we are starting to say goodbye to our parents? It's tricky, because many of us still have grandparents living . . . and yet somehow we have reached an age where our parents' days are truly numbered, and we are starting to count them.
There is a paradox for Christians around the world and throughout history. We know, with great certainty, where our loved ones have gone. We know, with great certainty, that God is holding them in His hands; they have reached their final Home, have heard the "Well done, my good and faithful servant," and have entered into the joy of our Lord. And yet, we also know, with great certainty, that we miss them. That life shouldn't have to include death, and that our lives are forever changed by this death. We are reminded that this world is not our Home, and that we are merely pilgrims on a sojourn in this land. So we grieve, even while we celebrate. When we grieve, we grieve with hope. But we still grieve. And it sucks.
I know that Bruce died this morning, but when I saw him Wednesday night, his son said, "He's there, but he's not there." I wonder when Bruce really did die. I wonder if he died on Saturday and spent a week in eternity asking Jesus to give his family peace as they said goodbye to him and as they held his dying body.
Many in my group of friends have said goodbye to our unborn babies who have slipped from our wombs into the arms of Jesus. I don't know well anyone who has buried a child, but I do know of fathers who have cradled the caskets containing their babies' bodies as they walked into the funeral service or released their children for burial. That is a pain that cannot be matched. Life shouldn't include death. But, as a daughter, I wonder if there is anything more heartbreaking than seeing a grown woman become again a little girl as she kisses her daddy goodbye for one of the final times. I saw that Wednesday night, and my heart broke, because I realized that one day that would be me.
Saying goodbye is a funny thing. We know that to live is Christ and to die is truly gain. I'm not afraid of it, but I don't know how I got to this stage where my friends and I are saying goodbye to our grandparents and our mommies and our daddies . . . and sometimes our children too. This is a tender time. And I imagine I'll cry at 8:30 Sunday morning when we're practicing our songs for the service and Bruce doesn't come in to sit in his normal seat an hour before the service starts.
Bruce Coeling died this morning. He was only 67 years old. But he liked to get there a little bit early, because he never wanted to be late.
Friday, May 04, 2012
Arriving Home
I recently had a conversation with some teenagers and young adults about heaven. Even more than heaven, we were talking about one of the final parts of The Apostles' Creed: "From there he will come to judge the living and the dead."
We talked about that judgement, and what it might mean. (Because they're teenagers, we also talked about whether "judgement" is spelled "judgement" or "judgment." And, because they're teenagers, we had plenty of smart phones to use to determine that it is considered correct either way. We all liked it better with the "e.") We talked about how for Christians, when we arrive at the Judgement Day, we will be judged based on Christ's actions and His sacrifice for us. We also talked briefly about how nonChristians will be judged by their own actions when they stand before Christ, because they haven't come under His righteousness. And then we talked about why, if Christians have already been judged (and found worthy), there would be a second judgement. Our curriculum explained that it is so that Christ will be officially and finally and completely glorified for His sacrifice by looking at us and proudly declaring us worthy.
With that "final" thought, I told the students to keep this in mind as we say The Apostles' Creed together in church. I also told them that we could all take comfort from being reminded that we have been declared eternally worthy when we feel inadequate in life. And then I was about to send them on their way.
Before I could do that, one of the young adults said, "But don't you think that judgement will still be scary? I mean, when you get to heaven, and you're looking at Jesus' face, don't you think you'll be freaking out?"
The question sort of caught me off guard, but it didn't take long for a smile to spread on my face and tears to spring into my eyes. "No," I whispered. "No. I think when I get there it will be like arriving home, and I've never been afraid to walk into my house. I belong there, and my parents are there."
Maybe that's why the command from heaven to not be afraid truly is repeated in scripture more than any other command. Surely God commands a holy fear. We are to fear the Lord, in fact. But that fear isn't the fear that is defined in most American dictionaries. It's not a "distressing emotion" brought on by "impending danger." It's an awe. A reverence for this holy, holy God. When I think of that "fearing the Lord," I'm reminded of the passage from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis when the Pevensie children are asking the beavers about whether Aslan is safe. "Safe?" they are asked. "Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you."
We have that same comfort in approaching our God. Of course He isn't safe. And of course we should fear Him. But we shouldn't fear Him, and we shouldn't dream for even one moment that walking into our final judgement or standing in front of His throne at our deaths should be scary. Because He's good. Because He's the King. Because those of us who are found in Him have been saved and made perfect by Him. And because when we get there, we're Home. And it should never feel scary to walk into your Home. You belong there, and your Father is there.
We talked about that judgement, and what it might mean. (Because they're teenagers, we also talked about whether "judgement" is spelled "judgement" or "judgment." And, because they're teenagers, we had plenty of smart phones to use to determine that it is considered correct either way. We all liked it better with the "e.") We talked about how for Christians, when we arrive at the Judgement Day, we will be judged based on Christ's actions and His sacrifice for us. We also talked briefly about how nonChristians will be judged by their own actions when they stand before Christ, because they haven't come under His righteousness. And then we talked about why, if Christians have already been judged (and found worthy), there would be a second judgement. Our curriculum explained that it is so that Christ will be officially and finally and completely glorified for His sacrifice by looking at us and proudly declaring us worthy.
With that "final" thought, I told the students to keep this in mind as we say The Apostles' Creed together in church. I also told them that we could all take comfort from being reminded that we have been declared eternally worthy when we feel inadequate in life. And then I was about to send them on their way.
Before I could do that, one of the young adults said, "But don't you think that judgement will still be scary? I mean, when you get to heaven, and you're looking at Jesus' face, don't you think you'll be freaking out?"
The question sort of caught me off guard, but it didn't take long for a smile to spread on my face and tears to spring into my eyes. "No," I whispered. "No. I think when I get there it will be like arriving home, and I've never been afraid to walk into my house. I belong there, and my parents are there."
Maybe that's why the command from heaven to not be afraid truly is repeated in scripture more than any other command. Surely God commands a holy fear. We are to fear the Lord, in fact. But that fear isn't the fear that is defined in most American dictionaries. It's not a "distressing emotion" brought on by "impending danger." It's an awe. A reverence for this holy, holy God. When I think of that "fearing the Lord," I'm reminded of the passage from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis when the Pevensie children are asking the beavers about whether Aslan is safe. "Safe?" they are asked. "Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you."
We have that same comfort in approaching our God. Of course He isn't safe. And of course we should fear Him. But we shouldn't fear Him, and we shouldn't dream for even one moment that walking into our final judgement or standing in front of His throne at our deaths should be scary. Because He's good. Because He's the King. Because those of us who are found in Him have been saved and made perfect by Him. And because when we get there, we're Home. And it should never feel scary to walk into your Home. You belong there, and your Father is there.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Better is One Day
This morning I was thinking about the song "Better is One Day." I thought of it because one of the Psalms in my daily reading is a Psalm of the Sons of Korah. So is Psalm 84, the Psalm on which the song is based. Without a doubt, that is my favorite Psalm for more reasons than I have time to write about now.
The song. This is about the song.
The first time I sang "Better is One Day," I was in a church in the mountains of Colorado. Talk about being aware of the majesty and creativity of God. I'm sure there are many places in the world where God's power and creation are on full display, but the Rockies seem to be a grand place to start. As we were singing the song, I couldn't keep my eyes from the windows where the power and beauty and wonder of the mountains reminded me of Whose presence I was declaring was great.
I also couldn't keep my mind off of the people I was with. It was a spring break trip with dozens of high schoolers. We had taken a Greyhound-style bus and a couple of vans full of teenagers from Grand Rapids, MI, to Colorado for a week of skiing and day trips in Glenwood Springs. As we were singing the song, in the midst of those beautiful teenagers, I thought, "Yes. I would spend one day in the presence of these lovely children of God pointing them to Him." One day with them and with Him. Because it would be worth it. Even after how that week ended up, it would have been worth it.
And I couldn't stop thinking about where we were singing it. Our trip to Glenwood Springs brought us through Denver. Because we were taking teenagers through Denver, I thought it would be good to take them to Columbine High School. It was only one year after the tragic shootings at Columbine, and I thought it would have a great impact on the teens to actually see that place and be reminded that what they saw on the news wasn't actually a Hollywood creation. And, I didn't want to be that close and not get to see it myself. So we went. Dozens and dozens of teenagers and adults walked around that school, praying, taking pictures, remembering. We also went to a church service not far from there. We attended West Bowles, which is the church where some of the kids who died at Columbine had worshiped.
In that place, in the midst of that majesty interwoven with tragedy and possibility, I sang "Better is One Day" with all my heart. I learned it that morning and felt as if I'd known it my whole life. When I sing it today, I still see those images. And I still think that I would cash it all in for one day with Him.
The song. This is about the song.
The first time I sang "Better is One Day," I was in a church in the mountains of Colorado. Talk about being aware of the majesty and creativity of God. I'm sure there are many places in the world where God's power and creation are on full display, but the Rockies seem to be a grand place to start. As we were singing the song, I couldn't keep my eyes from the windows where the power and beauty and wonder of the mountains reminded me of Whose presence I was declaring was great.
I also couldn't keep my mind off of the people I was with. It was a spring break trip with dozens of high schoolers. We had taken a Greyhound-style bus and a couple of vans full of teenagers from Grand Rapids, MI, to Colorado for a week of skiing and day trips in Glenwood Springs. As we were singing the song, in the midst of those beautiful teenagers, I thought, "Yes. I would spend one day in the presence of these lovely children of God pointing them to Him." One day with them and with Him. Because it would be worth it. Even after how that week ended up, it would have been worth it.
And I couldn't stop thinking about where we were singing it. Our trip to Glenwood Springs brought us through Denver. Because we were taking teenagers through Denver, I thought it would be good to take them to Columbine High School. It was only one year after the tragic shootings at Columbine, and I thought it would have a great impact on the teens to actually see that place and be reminded that what they saw on the news wasn't actually a Hollywood creation. And, I didn't want to be that close and not get to see it myself. So we went. Dozens and dozens of teenagers and adults walked around that school, praying, taking pictures, remembering. We also went to a church service not far from there. We attended West Bowles, which is the church where some of the kids who died at Columbine had worshiped.
In that place, in the midst of that majesty interwoven with tragedy and possibility, I sang "Better is One Day" with all my heart. I learned it that morning and felt as if I'd known it my whole life. When I sing it today, I still see those images. And I still think that I would cash it all in for one day with Him.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
We're not home yet.
So we have some friends whose marriage appears to be over. We have prayed with them and prayed for them. We have counseled them. We have cried with them. We have hoped for them. And now we are surprised by whom they are turning out to be. All of it serves to remind me that we just aren't home yet. God, I wish we were back.
Still, it's Reformation Day. It's the day that we remember that the Word of God is for all of us. It's also the day (thanks, Dad) that we remember that the Word of God is life transforming and should never be taken lightly. And it's the day that I am reminded that the Church's one foundation, and MY one foundation, is Jesus Christ. No matter what.
Though with a scornful wonder
we see her sore oppressed,
by schisms rent asunder,
by heresies distressed,
yet saints their watch are keeping;
their cry goes up, "How long?"
And soon the night of weeping
shall be the morn of song.
Mid toil and tribulation,
and tumult of her war,
she waits the consummation
of peace forevermore;
'til, with the vision glorious,
her longing eyes are blest,
and the great church victorious
shall be the church at rest.
(The Church's One Foundation, Samuel Stone)
We sang these words in church this morning, and it made me weep with the beauty and the promise of it all. We aren't home yet, but we will be one day soon. And in that day where there is no more night and no more pain and no more divorce, we, the church victorious, shall finally be the church at rest.
Come quickly, Lord Jesus.
Still, it's Reformation Day. It's the day that we remember that the Word of God is for all of us. It's also the day (thanks, Dad) that we remember that the Word of God is life transforming and should never be taken lightly. And it's the day that I am reminded that the Church's one foundation, and MY one foundation, is Jesus Christ. No matter what.
Though with a scornful wonder
we see her sore oppressed,
by schisms rent asunder,
by heresies distressed,
yet saints their watch are keeping;
their cry goes up, "How long?"
And soon the night of weeping
shall be the morn of song.
Mid toil and tribulation,
and tumult of her war,
she waits the consummation
of peace forevermore;
'til, with the vision glorious,
her longing eyes are blest,
and the great church victorious
shall be the church at rest.
(The Church's One Foundation, Samuel Stone)
We sang these words in church this morning, and it made me weep with the beauty and the promise of it all. We aren't home yet, but we will be one day soon. And in that day where there is no more night and no more pain and no more divorce, we, the church victorious, shall finally be the church at rest.
Come quickly, Lord Jesus.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Willing to Relocate
Beau had a meeting with his supervisor last week, and they did some goal setting and talking about Beau's future in Corporate America. Now, let it be said that we really like Corporate America so far. Coming from Nonprofit World it isn't hard to be enthralled with the beauty of Corporate America. Especially when they reward hard work.
Beau came home from said meeting and told me, "I said I'd be willing to relocate." I thought, yeah. I've been telling God that for ten years. Obviously I was pleased that Beau said that. There have been times that I've wondered the same thing about him.
Then he asked me where I want to relocate to, if we had our choice.
Where wouldn't I go would be an easier question. Florida. Down south. I don't like humidity, and I really have no desire to move to Texas, Oklahoma, or Arizona. Nevada either. Most of those southern states hold little appeal for me. I think I would also decline the midwest. Why leave Michigan to go somewhere else exactly like it?
My quick answer to Beau was New England. He claims the winters are bad, worse than here, but I love the history. I've never gotten into Michigan history. We moved from here in 3rd grade, just as they were starting to teach it. And we moved back here in 7th grade, just after it was all over. So I know nothing. I can count the number of times I've even seen the Mackinac Bridge, and I once cut a college class to go to the Michigan Capitol Building in Lansing. It was the only time I've been there.
Michigan isn't "home" for me. When people ask me where "home" is, I tell them it's somewhere on the road between California and Michigan. The truth is that there have been three times I have felt "home" when arriving in a specific location. The first was when my mom took me to Oxnard, CA, in between my freshman and sophomore years of college. I was born there, and I think I'd like to die there, too. The second was when I crossed the bridge in between Washington and Astoria, OR. My dreams were born there during endless watching of The Goonies, and I nearly did die there. (Okay, a bit dramatic, but the story is a good one.) The third was when I visited the TeKrony farm outside of Castlewood, SD, for the 4th of July. Sometimes it's people that feel like home.
So I'd pick New England every time, because I love American history. And it's so rich there. Or maybe I'd pick Colorado. Ooh, or Utah. The mountains, snow . . . but I hear I'd need a big dog to keep away the rattlesnakes when I'm hiking. The Pacific Northwest is a gimme. I'd move there in a second. I also hear San Diego is lovely this time of year. Every time of year.
Now I'm restless again. Longing to relocate. Beau could have told them that, and I wouldn't have minded. "My wife is longing to relocate." Especially if Corporate America is willing to pay for it AND sell my house. Sign me up. But I'm not really looking for home. My parents taught me how to make it wherever I am. With my husband and my kids. With my pictures and my books and my dreams. With whatever friends I am lucky enough to have. Because there have been three times in my life when I felt "home." But none of them were really Home. I'll get there one day . . . and, yes, God. I'm willing to relocate.
Beau came home from said meeting and told me, "I said I'd be willing to relocate." I thought, yeah. I've been telling God that for ten years. Obviously I was pleased that Beau said that. There have been times that I've wondered the same thing about him.
Then he asked me where I want to relocate to, if we had our choice.
Where wouldn't I go would be an easier question. Florida. Down south. I don't like humidity, and I really have no desire to move to Texas, Oklahoma, or Arizona. Nevada either. Most of those southern states hold little appeal for me. I think I would also decline the midwest. Why leave Michigan to go somewhere else exactly like it?
My quick answer to Beau was New England. He claims the winters are bad, worse than here, but I love the history. I've never gotten into Michigan history. We moved from here in 3rd grade, just as they were starting to teach it. And we moved back here in 7th grade, just after it was all over. So I know nothing. I can count the number of times I've even seen the Mackinac Bridge, and I once cut a college class to go to the Michigan Capitol Building in Lansing. It was the only time I've been there.
Michigan isn't "home" for me. When people ask me where "home" is, I tell them it's somewhere on the road between California and Michigan. The truth is that there have been three times I have felt "home" when arriving in a specific location. The first was when my mom took me to Oxnard, CA, in between my freshman and sophomore years of college. I was born there, and I think I'd like to die there, too. The second was when I crossed the bridge in between Washington and Astoria, OR. My dreams were born there during endless watching of The Goonies, and I nearly did die there. (Okay, a bit dramatic, but the story is a good one.) The third was when I visited the TeKrony farm outside of Castlewood, SD, for the 4th of July. Sometimes it's people that feel like home.
So I'd pick New England every time, because I love American history. And it's so rich there. Or maybe I'd pick Colorado. Ooh, or Utah. The mountains, snow . . . but I hear I'd need a big dog to keep away the rattlesnakes when I'm hiking. The Pacific Northwest is a gimme. I'd move there in a second. I also hear San Diego is lovely this time of year. Every time of year.
Now I'm restless again. Longing to relocate. Beau could have told them that, and I wouldn't have minded. "My wife is longing to relocate." Especially if Corporate America is willing to pay for it AND sell my house. Sign me up. But I'm not really looking for home. My parents taught me how to make it wherever I am. With my husband and my kids. With my pictures and my books and my dreams. With whatever friends I am lucky enough to have. Because there have been three times in my life when I felt "home." But none of them were really Home. I'll get there one day . . . and, yes, God. I'm willing to relocate.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Still Checking Closets
I've been thinking lately about Narnia. Not the films, though I am irresistably drawn to them. Not the books, either, which I read aloud to my husband over three years of road trips. I'm talking about the place itself. But there's really more to it than that even.
When I'm reading about Narnia or thinking about it, riveted in my seat after the credits are rolling or lying in bed wishing my closet opened to magical lands, I am filled with longing for a place like that. For walking with the Lion of Judah and losing myself in His wild mane. For the place where my heart is at ease and time flies but stands still at the same time. For Home.
The Pevensie children were called to and drawn to and created for a magical land. And once they'd tasted of it, they couldn't be content in this world. Except for one.
"Sire," said Tirian, when he had greeted all these. "If I have read the chronicle aright, there should be another. Has not your Majesty two sisters? Where is Queen Susan?"
"My sister Susan," answered Peter shortly and gravely, "is no longer a friend of Narnia."
"Yes," said Eustace, "and whenver you've tried to get her to come and talk about Narnia or do anything about Narnia, she says 'What wonderful memories you have! Fancy your still thinking about all those funny games we used to play when we were children.'"
"Oh Susan!" said Jill. "She's interested in nothing nowadays except nylons and lipstick and invitations. She always was a jolly sight too keen on being grown-up."
"Grown-up, indeed," said the Lady Polly. "I wish she would grow up. She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now, and she'll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age. Her whole idea is to race on to the silliest time of one's life as quick as she can and then stop there as long as she can."
--The Last Battle, C.S. Lewis
I do that. I waste my time wanting to be somewhere or something other than what I am. And in doing that, I miss what I'm called to, drawn to, and made for. Narnia may not be in the back of my closet, and I may visit only in my dreams. But there is something about it that I can keep alive within me. I am allowed to hope and dream for a place of my own and find it in Him.
"Created for a place/I've never known/This is home/Now I'm finally where I belong/. . . I've been searching for a place of my own/Now I've found it/This is home" (Switchfoot, "This is Home" from The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian)
My heart is not meant to live in this land. My heart wants to be Home. For me, now, it is a dream. A magical dream, but it is one that I can hold on to. It is one that I can share with other Narnia lovers and wishers and dreamers. Others who were made for more than this. Because in the end, even though Peter and Lucy and Edmund lived in this world, they longed for another. They held on to another. And one day, in the end, they were home to stay. "The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended: this is the morning." (Aslan, in The Last Battle, C.S. Lewis)
I don't know when my dream ends and my morning begins. There are days that I hope it is soon, and there are days that I hope I get to see my girls grow to love God and others and have children of their own to lead to Him. When I walk through a valley, I remember that this is not the end. This is the term, and my longing for Home is the dream right now. But one day, one day soon, really, the dream will end. I cannot wait for the day that God will hold my face in His hands, look into my eyes, and say, "The dream is ended: this is the morning. You are Home. This is your land."
But until then, Dearest One, I'll live. I'll live here and now. But you need to help me not waste any more days, forgetting what matters, forgetting that dreams can be real, wishing to be grown-up. While I'm here, though, know that I'm thinking of Home. I'm thinking of magical lands where time flies by while it stands still. Where I am a queen. That's what I was made for. And one day, I'll be there with you.
"It isn't Narnia, you know," sobbed Lucy. "It's you. We shan't meet you there. And how can we live, never meeting you?"
"But you shall meet me, dear one," said Aslan.
"Are--are you there too, Sir?" said Edmund.
"I am," said Aslan. "But there I have another name. You must learn to know me by that name. This was the very reason why you were brought to Narnia, that by knowing me here for a little, you may know me better there."
--The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, C.S. Lewis
Let me know You. And may my times with You in my dreams and in my Narnias help me to know You better here.
This post is lovingly dedicated to the Rings.
When I'm reading about Narnia or thinking about it, riveted in my seat after the credits are rolling or lying in bed wishing my closet opened to magical lands, I am filled with longing for a place like that. For walking with the Lion of Judah and losing myself in His wild mane. For the place where my heart is at ease and time flies but stands still at the same time. For Home.
The Pevensie children were called to and drawn to and created for a magical land. And once they'd tasted of it, they couldn't be content in this world. Except for one.
"Sire," said Tirian, when he had greeted all these. "If I have read the chronicle aright, there should be another. Has not your Majesty two sisters? Where is Queen Susan?"
"My sister Susan," answered Peter shortly and gravely, "is no longer a friend of Narnia."
"Yes," said Eustace, "and whenver you've tried to get her to come and talk about Narnia or do anything about Narnia, she says 'What wonderful memories you have! Fancy your still thinking about all those funny games we used to play when we were children.'"
"Oh Susan!" said Jill. "She's interested in nothing nowadays except nylons and lipstick and invitations. She always was a jolly sight too keen on being grown-up."
"Grown-up, indeed," said the Lady Polly. "I wish she would grow up. She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now, and she'll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age. Her whole idea is to race on to the silliest time of one's life as quick as she can and then stop there as long as she can."
--The Last Battle, C.S. Lewis
I do that. I waste my time wanting to be somewhere or something other than what I am. And in doing that, I miss what I'm called to, drawn to, and made for. Narnia may not be in the back of my closet, and I may visit only in my dreams. But there is something about it that I can keep alive within me. I am allowed to hope and dream for a place of my own and find it in Him.
"Created for a place/I've never known/This is home/Now I'm finally where I belong/. . . I've been searching for a place of my own/Now I've found it/This is home" (Switchfoot, "This is Home" from The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian)
My heart is not meant to live in this land. My heart wants to be Home. For me, now, it is a dream. A magical dream, but it is one that I can hold on to. It is one that I can share with other Narnia lovers and wishers and dreamers. Others who were made for more than this. Because in the end, even though Peter and Lucy and Edmund lived in this world, they longed for another. They held on to another. And one day, in the end, they were home to stay. "The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended: this is the morning." (Aslan, in The Last Battle, C.S. Lewis)
I don't know when my dream ends and my morning begins. There are days that I hope it is soon, and there are days that I hope I get to see my girls grow to love God and others and have children of their own to lead to Him. When I walk through a valley, I remember that this is not the end. This is the term, and my longing for Home is the dream right now. But one day, one day soon, really, the dream will end. I cannot wait for the day that God will hold my face in His hands, look into my eyes, and say, "The dream is ended: this is the morning. You are Home. This is your land."
But until then, Dearest One, I'll live. I'll live here and now. But you need to help me not waste any more days, forgetting what matters, forgetting that dreams can be real, wishing to be grown-up. While I'm here, though, know that I'm thinking of Home. I'm thinking of magical lands where time flies by while it stands still. Where I am a queen. That's what I was made for. And one day, I'll be there with you.
"It isn't Narnia, you know," sobbed Lucy. "It's you. We shan't meet you there. And how can we live, never meeting you?"
"But you shall meet me, dear one," said Aslan.
"Are--are you there too, Sir?" said Edmund.
"I am," said Aslan. "But there I have another name. You must learn to know me by that name. This was the very reason why you were brought to Narnia, that by knowing me here for a little, you may know me better there."
--The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, C.S. Lewis
Let me know You. And may my times with You in my dreams and in my Narnias help me to know You better here.
This post is lovingly dedicated to the Rings.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Day Two of What Should Be Day Five
Me again. Trying to rise up and meet WMW's challenge . . . it shouldn't really be this hard. I had about five posts in mind last night, and the time to write them, and the capability to not post them all on one day. It was tempting, but I'm trying hard to learn to overcome temptation. So here I am. With a blank page. And that d*@$ cursor again.
I'm watching the news, though it's hard to call it that. They do about two minutes of news once every hour. After that, it's mostly political agendas and stories about sensational activities. I have to check out CNN.com to find any real news. And thank goodness I have that insider in Iraq where I can get REAL news on the war.
The media is frustrating to me. It tells me what to think while only presenting one side of the story. Not only am I told what to think, but I'm also told what to feel about any given story. It's hard to imagine crying that hard over a dolphin, albeit a sad story, when we just ignore what is happening to children the world over. But the media and "celebrity" seem to be on the same page. So am I the one who's missing something?
And how do I keep my daughter from it all?
There's so much to protect her from:
* the monkey who visited her in her dreams on Friday night . . . and bit her!
* the heartbreak of having her cow snatched from her bed, all because he couldn't be washed and was getting gross after two years of love
* the fact that the monkey may come back, even though Mommy picked out this new cow (who could be washed) because the monkey doesn't like him
It's hard being a mom. No wonder God works so hard to try to convince us to stay away from sin . . . he understands the heartache it will cause, and He's desperate to protect us from it all. Any parent would be.
Heaven, honey. Heaven. That's Home. No dolphins will be slaughtered there, but no children will be neglected or violated or betrayed either. Oh, and only the good monkeys make it in. And both cows.
I'm watching the news, though it's hard to call it that. They do about two minutes of news once every hour. After that, it's mostly political agendas and stories about sensational activities. I have to check out CNN.com to find any real news. And thank goodness I have that insider in Iraq where I can get REAL news on the war.
The media is frustrating to me. It tells me what to think while only presenting one side of the story. Not only am I told what to think, but I'm also told what to feel about any given story. It's hard to imagine crying that hard over a dolphin, albeit a sad story, when we just ignore what is happening to children the world over. But the media and "celebrity" seem to be on the same page. So am I the one who's missing something?
And how do I keep my daughter from it all?
There's so much to protect her from:
* the monkey who visited her in her dreams on Friday night . . . and bit her!
* the heartbreak of having her cow snatched from her bed, all because he couldn't be washed and was getting gross after two years of love
* the fact that the monkey may come back, even though Mommy picked out this new cow (who could be washed) because the monkey doesn't like him
It's hard being a mom. No wonder God works so hard to try to convince us to stay away from sin . . . he understands the heartache it will cause, and He's desperate to protect us from it all. Any parent would be.
Heaven, honey. Heaven. That's Home. No dolphins will be slaughtered there, but no children will be neglected or violated or betrayed either. Oh, and only the good monkeys make it in. And both cows.
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