O Joy That Seekest Me Through Pain

Below is a rainbow over the hill to the east of our home.

Rainbows are special to us.

When Jonathan was about to get into his little pickup to travel back east

to build his brother's new home,

he was unmarried, having gone through a huge church disintegration, fighting depression, on depression meds during that time. He wanted a wife so badly.

He was so lonely.

But as he got ready to get into his pickup, this is what he saw--not this particular one, of course, but one like it.

 

Aren't all rainbows the same?

They are promise.

Back east, that rainbow seemed to say to Jonathan, I have a wife for you.

It took him two years to find her, but over in Ukraine, he found the Pennsylvania country girl--

another person with brokenness in her life,

weak, vulnerable, an emotional basket case.

She had never heard of depression medicine.

She just cried

and cried

and cried.

Would God ever hear her prayers??

The rainbow of PROMISE brought them both together.

Together they worked in Ukraine

until things fell apart there.

Should they leave or stay? Must they leave the beautiful log home they had built, expecting to raise their family there?

In answer to specific prayer for a rainbow of guidance,

one day in the middle of the day, against a cloudless blue sky,

just drops in the air near the house,

another rainbow arched over the road--away, away, the road that led away.

And so the Jonathan of the log home business

and the basket case wife, and the three little ones moved back to Colorado

to start over again.

The summer we built our home here, rainbow after rainbow arched in the sky.

And still today, when we see rainbows, we hold each other in our arms and remember,

Rainbows are promises.

 

"O Joy that seekest me through pain,

I cannot close my heart to Thee,

I trace the rainbow thro' the rain,

And feel the promise is not vain

That morn shall tearless be."

from "O Love That Will Not Let Me Go,"  third verse

The Good Shepherd

 

How the children love our kitty! Kitty is very spoiled around here.

Danny and Hannah pile their toy horses on top of kitty which is on Danny's lap, who is on--

did you see what I see?

Jesus' lap!

 Ever wish you could just climb up and sit on Jesus' lap?

The way Hannah comes crying sometimes, and is comforted when I set her on my lap.

Or when she comes, just wakened from a nap, and is just sleepy

and bored and cranky--

and I lift her up and hug her.

Don't you sometimes wish you could just--

sit on His lap?

Thank You, Jesus, for the arms of the Good Shepherd.



Here is a knitting project the girls are doing right now--knitting baby hats and booties for a baby shower and for baby layettes for Christian Aid Ministries.

Thank You, Lord, for my mom who taught the girls to knit when she was here when our seventh baby was born. Thank You that you care about the little ones,

the seventh ones that some called a "mistake,"

the second ones (like me) that were the skinny runts of the family,

the emotional basket cases,

the broken and the weak and the ugly and the simple-minded,

the ones who make mistakes

and messes

and have to slog through depression like they have thick boots waterlogged in a bog

looking for joy--

and finding it in throws picturing the Good Shepherd behind little boys with kittens and toy horses,

and in soft, fuzzy booties and hats for babies--

maybe a baby that nobody wanted,

but that a mother chose to give life to.

Joy. You have to look for it.

And then you find it!



More Cider Pressing in Charming Setting

Last week we packed a big load of apples, pots, pans, bins and ladders and went to town to pick more apples, and then on to Divide to press cider with Iva. 

Pikes Peak is in the background.

 

 

We set up the press in this vacant spot near Iva's home. You can see a windmill in the background next to the old house that is being renovated. Despite the chill in the air as a cold front was coming in, it was a charming setting.

While Jonathan and Kenn put the cider press parts together, we ladies and girls began cutting bad spots out of apples. Many of the apples had been so high in the tree that we had to shake the branches, and the apples split as they came down. No problem as long as they get put into cider right away.

Brothers-in-law chat as they cider press slats together so that we can press four mounds of apple mash at once instead of just three like we did during the hayride evening. 

It is cold! Several of us cut large apples small enough to go down the chute of the apple shredder machine. Sammy pokes them down into the shredder blades with a long stick.

Don't worry if part of the stick gets shredded, too! The muslin will strain out any skins, seeds, and sawdust.



Anna starts emptying panfuls of mash into the center of a yard of muslin.

The muslin is folded up over the flattened mound of mash, as seen below, and then a second layer of slats is set on top.

Shiver. Cold hands in pockets. Be glad you are not the one to hurriedly pull all the apples, again and again, out of the big blue porcelain pot of water after being rinsed.

Hannah gets a happy cup of cider from her daddy.

Then Daddy and boys must leave to go back to work--not far from this spot.

You can see the cold front of foggy clouds coming in over the horizon.

We hurried but could not beat the cold. Shivering and shaking and working fast, we finished as much as we could, getting about 18 gallons of cider, some of which we shared with Iva for the use of their cider press and their help.

On the same day, Sammy and Kenny operate a post hole digger at a site where Jonathan is working, putting in fence.

What is Our Focus--Thistles or the Purple Down?

 

Last week I was taking a walk around our eaten-almost-to-the-ground pasture, mostly barren and dry, when this patch of yellow caught my eye.

 Beauty in the middle of barrenness!

Closeby were thistles.

I ran back to the house to get my camera.

Not so much to snap a shot of this...

...or this...



Of course, we have a choice what we focus on, what we take pictures of, what we think about.

Will we choose to take pictures of thistles, and cowpies,

or...

the purple thistledown?

The truth is, the thistles and cowpies were in very close proximity to the patch of bright, sunny yellow flowers.

The truth is, the beautiful, soft purple thistledown was

in the very center of the thistle plant.

Sometimes the greatest beauty is in the middle of the greatest squalor.

The choice was mine what I looked at, what I took a picture of, what I delighted in.

Do I choose joy or negativity?

Do I choose joy even in the middle of negativity?

Do I choose to rejoice in God and trust Him even when

the vice-president is ramming Sen. Ryan in the debate

or when I am shivering and shaking in the bitter cold of the last cider pressing,

or when Hannah has me up four times in one night,

and then the next night the stove starts beeping like a fire alarm at 2:10 in the morning

or when my schedule is all messed up

or I am in pain

or someone I love makes choices I don't agree with?

Choose the thistledown!

Choose joy! "The joy of the Lord is your strength!"

There Can Be No Cider Without Crushing

The second highlight of our hayride last week was the homemade apple cider press Kenn was able to finish at the last minute and bring down from their home an hour and a half away--just before dusk.

Won't you have some of your wife's bear meat chili first?

He wolfed down bear meat.

 

We set the cider press up right where everyone could see it and enjoy watching. There was also an apple grater to set up.

It was actually a wood shredder from Harbor Freight.

With big presses, apples can go in whole.
But with small, homemade presses with just a samll hydraulic press, the apples first had to be grated to make cider.

And before that, you cut the bad spots out.

Who wants black grit and wormy spots in their cider?



The knife cuts deep.
Nothing black, dirty, rotten, wormy, sinful.

We sort and cut and toss into buckets, and the chopper chops, one painful, roaring experience after another.

The shape of the apple doesn't matter, the size doesn't matter (small, humble apples work just fine) leave the core, the stem, even the bruises. Actually the bruises contribute to the sweetness.

God can use the weak, the small, the bruised.

They make the best cider.



Looking at these pictures, I thought, there might be times we ask, "Please, God, I'm already bruised. I'm already cut open.

Why must You place this heavy weight on me??"

 

"A little less burden, Lord! How much more can I bear?"

Then do we hear His gentle voice>?  "There can be no cider without crushing."

The only way for the sweet, sweet cider to pour out between those carefully sawn slats (can you see the golden-brown cider pouring out toward the bottom?) is to wrap the grated apple mush in unbleached muslin, and apply the pressure.

And sometimes the pressure can be more than just pressure.
Sometimes it can seem HYDRAULIC!

Sometimes, too, does it not seem the cider pressing is on display?

"Why does the crushing situation You place me in have to be

out for everyone to see?

Couldn't I just hide in the closet, you know, with the door closed,

just You and me?" 

 

 

How many layers of suffering does this have to be, Lord? Isn't one trial enough?



"Did it ever occur to you, Child, to stop complaining long enough to let Me do the work in you that I want to do?

Did it ever occur to you that Your trials are precious to me, that the crushing in your life is the only way someone else is going to get a drink of something sweet?"

 

The cider press was center of attention in the dark chill. Dozens of children and adults standing around, watching the men arrange the slats, the muslin packs of apple bits, the cider dripping, streaming out the spigot, filling a five-gallon bucket.

"Did it ever occur to you, child, how many children are watching your life, how many brothers and sisters in the faith are watching how you handle adversity, how much (or little) glory you give to God, how sweet (or bitter) you are when things are not the way you want it?



The amount of sweet cider others get from your life will be equal to the amount of crushing you submit to.

The secret is submission.

"Please pour me a cup, Jonathan."

Talk about delicious! Fresh pressed, straight from the hydraulic pressure. Unfermented, no bitterness.
The apple mush, the dross, the garbage in our lives tossed aside. 

There might be tears, (isn't cider the tears of the apples?) but the secret is in surrendering.
Let the mush and dross go.
 Let the sweet cider flow.

"Give me to drink, please." 



Only those who have surrendered know the joy of it.

The crowd fades, blurs. May I surrender, Lord, to Your will for my life. Make me a cup of sweet cider for someone today.

Brandon Byler, pastor of a Brethren church back east, and former fellow student with my youngest sister, and nephew of our Mission Helps director, gets a dipper, and a drink.

Make me a blessing to my brothers, Lord, to my pastor, to those in authority.

Make me a blessing by my submission.

Dear friend Vera, immigrant from Ukraine, comes eagerly for a drink.

Make me a blessing to my sisters, Lord, to those who are different than me, to the stranger and foreigner, to the less fortunate, to anyone who needs a friend.



 

The leftover cider gets poured into gallons in front of Grandma's bright, beautiful zinnias.

The amount of cider, sweet, sweet cider, will be equal to the amount of crushing

that we submit to.

The secret is in our submission.
And the sweet secret about submission is the joy it brings!
Sweet, holy, bubbling up joy!