When the Bluebird--and Hope--Arrive Again

A bluebird landed on a fence post the other day.

Right in the middle of news of deaths of loved ones,

and airplane crashes,

and political and economic unrest

and cyclones, and beheadings--

the bluebirds are landing in the branches of our straggly pine tree 

and checking out our birdhouse. 

And a little boy planted a morning glory in a pot indoors

and it is already blooming!

Little splashes of cheerful blue

in the gray of life,

little splashes of purple and white beauty of morning glory

opening to the sunlight.

And a mom finds the courage to go on with life-

to do with daughter number four what she's done with the three before her--let the little one turn the wheel on the sewing machine and press the pedal and 

lift the presser foot--and help sew a dress for herself.

Because the hope that we have is Christ--

but the hope is Christ experienced and known in the next generation, and not just ours.

And we can't give up when things look bleak. 

We pray for, love and support the martyrs, and all the real victims,

but may God save us from a victim mindset.

Some crazy co-pilot crashed a plane, and some crazy cyclone devastated Pastor Kalo's home and church in Vanuatu, and crazy terrorists ran blood into the ocean--

but on all of those days when all of those things happened,

thousands of people around the world were turning to Christ. 

Millions of Christians were worshipping and obeying and blessing God and witnessing for Him.

And God was providing daily bread for billions of families.

Hundreds of relief organizations were working around the clock,

and millions of people were being touched with love and compassion and hope again.

While the devil was pounding viciously in every way he could,

God was trying to pound into our thick skulls that

what the enemy tries to work for evil, He works for good.

And while some choose to be victims and live with bitterness and rage and self-pity because of all the evil craziness,

others choose to be crazy enough to hope and rejoice and love and forgive.

They have chosen to forgive the ones who beheaded their loved ones.

They have chosen to forgive the one who crashed the plane. 

They cry, and they hurt, and they pray--

and no one says it's easy or that they just instantly and peacefully forgive, 

but they forgive.

They suffer, but they forgive.

They suffer, they grieve, they weep, they are angry--but they let go of their anger. 

They let go of it--place it in God's hand.

And God turns their anger inside out into peace.

There are times to protect oneself, obviously, but really, do we have to protect ourselves so badly from every petty irritation and inconvenience

while Christians in Egypt gather to decide that what really matters

is staying true to Christ and sharing the gospel with those who have beheaded their loved ones?

I wonder which ones are blessed with the

peace of God?

I wonder which ones' faces shine with joy instead of being screwed up like a pickle,

and which ones' lives are a testimony of the grace of God instead of blasting out the most recent complaints and gripes against some recent inconvenience or some person we feel insecure around

or some person who has insulted someone we care about?

I wonder whose faces are radiant like a morning glory opening to the sun?

Pictures of my brother Gabriel's family

My brother Gabriel and his family traveled to Florida last week to attend the funeral of a relative. Too bad it couldn't have overlapped while we were down there, as they weren't that far from where we were. 

He sent us pictures of their family getting eaten by an alligator! :) :)

 An absolutely adorable picture. 

This must have been a different gatorland than the one our family went to last year.

Kara Tippetts--Skipping on Heaven's Golden Streets

Last Sunday a fellow believer, a sister in Christ, and one who partook of the sufferings of Christ

in the form of cancer,

went to heaven--

Kara Tippetts.

I learned about her homegoing as we also read in the news about the airplane crash in the French Alps.

Not exactly material to jump up and down about.

Or was it?

Kara wouldn't want us to cry too long.

She would want us to get back to life as usual--

only with extra hugs for our children, 

and an extra desire to savor the moments with them.

 I gulped back tears last night, reading Ann Voskamp's comments about Kara, 

and then reading a bit in Kara's own blog--this valiant mother who had sent an open letter urging another young mom

not to cave to doctor-assisted euthanasia as she was promising to do.

The other mom went ahead with her plans. 

And Kara lingered on--choosing to live to the end of her days as she felt Christ would want her to.

She knew that that would mean more pain--

but it would also mean more grace--and more peace. 

 What stood out to me in the testimonies about Kara's final days was the peace. 

Because when we make Christ-honoring choices,

and choose God's way,

it may invite more pain, but

it always brings peace.

 It was hard to focus on what needed to be done before going to bed last night, after reading all that.

I wanted to meditate and cry, but there were things needing to be done.

Sometimes it bothers me to just act like this other mom, younger than me, never died and left a lonely husband and four young children, 

right here in Colorado Springs, over on Westside, 

to just go about my bedtime rituals so I could get up in the morning to start life all over again--

when someone else started eternal life--and left behind a grieving family. 

But after wanting us to go ahead and grieve a bit, pray for her family, and remember eternal things,

Kara would want us to do just that--go gladly on with our own life.

She would be glad that the very next day after reading about her death, home school moms are getting together 

for educational and outdoor activities.

 She would remind us that she has jumped right into a heavenly Father's arms--

so why can't we jump rope with laughter and shouts--

one child after another jumping into the turning rope and jumping the given number of jumps, 

and then jumping back out again

to the cheers of the onlookers?

 She is dancing around the streets of gold, 

so why can't some children dance together

while the moms turn the rope and cheer them on?

 One person after another, taking turns jumping rope.

One person after another, taking turns dying.

 I have never had so many people we know dying as have been lately.

It could be awfully morose--just feeling like we are sorta waiting our turn to die.

But it's up to us. 

Are we waiting our turn to die, or, as Kara would ask,

are we waiting our turn to fully live?

She said she hadn't really fully lived until she realized she was going to die. 

She used to begrudge when little feet came pattering to disturb her morning sleep,

but now she welcomed the little ones to come and snuggle with her.

I could empathize. 

I'm so tired a lot of the time.

But she didn't have many more of those moments to--

enjoy, rather than to endure.

Facing the end of one's life gives a totally different perspective to the things we so often begrudge, 

endure, and take for granted.

I woke up this morning feeling sad--

and I had to acknowledge my feelings, but just identifying what I was feeling helped me overcome it.

I remembered that Kara had written that she allowed herself to be sad, but not to be angry.

Why should we be angry at God, Who knows exactly what He is doing?

So many people have been touched through this mother's story. 

It was all part of God's plan, and the wonderful way He redeems our sorrows

and turns them into something beautiful.

 We don't need to spend our lives licking our wounds, begrudging all the bad things that happen to us,

all those things we think we don't deserve.

We could grow dizzy with all the bad things we hear about.

It could all turn us upside down...

 and inside out, if we let it.

( Most of these pictures were the way the cat honestly was--he is so crazy!)

I love watching our cat. 

There is something about the way he just comes in, makes himself at home, curls up and goes to sleep. 

And that is how Kara would want us to envision her--

and how Naomi French's father would want us to envision him--

and how Dorcas Brown and others about to cross over would want us to envision them--

curled up, having made themselves at home in the lap of God,

and gone to sleep.

Rest. 

Peace.

Joy.

Home--at last.

So why not skip rope all over again?

When Cobwebs Cling Near Splashing Fountains

This morning in church, joy and praise splashed over.

Naomi French's father (who had just turned 100 years old) had just gone home to heaven Friday, 

and her praise was overflowing because he had made it Home.

There were shouts of praise and testimonies from overflowing hearts and people giving each other hugs.

Our friend Carole, who can barely move or speak anymore, who has just been diagnosed with tongue cancer--her face was glowing with a heavenly glow,

and a visiting young lady who cares for her was going to her with a tissue to help her wipe the tears away.

And then the same young lady was standing with her hand raised, too, 

tears running down her cheeks.

It was like a rain shower on a garden.

You would think a wonderful Christian like me would have been shouting and crying and going around hugging people, too. 

Instead, the louder it got, the more clammed up and dead I felt.

I am sure such a thing never happened to you--where you could relate more to the cobwebs in a Florida pavilion than to overflowing fountains.

Where you just stood there thinking, "What is the matter with me?"

 You can more relate to someone who is hanging for dear life onto a very crooked palm tree.

While one person is way up there somewhere near the top, waving handkerchiefs and jumping for joy,

you are somewhere near the bottom--hanging upside down. 

                                         

You don't really mean to be a wet blanket on other people's joy, and you aren't. 

You just aren't exactly skipping around either. 

You're just tired, and maybe a little dazed.

You've just spent the day before putting stuff away in the basement, supervising seven children with an eighth child visiting, working outdoors cleaning out and vacuuming the double cab of your husband's work truck

while he cleans out the back of it, 

while the boys are supposed to be throwing a pile of scrappy decking wood onto the dump trailer--but aren't.

You've gone with the family up to the bluffs so the children can bike back down, and then followed the bikers down the road with the hazard lights blinking. 

And then gave hair cuts after supper, and hunted fruitlessly for a lost credit card, and decided that the dirty bathroom floor and piled up dresser can wait till next week.

So yes, maybe there are cobwebs on your brain. 

And Sunday afternoon is filled with carry in dinner and watching several little ones outdoors and handbell and choir practice for Easter at church,

(in which your five-year-old comes right up the middle aisle, and pats the director's arm to get her attention,

and then shows her a hand full of not just one lady bug but three or four!)

 and you only get a short rest before you are up to get ready to go to evening service--

where there is a rousing prayer meeting with more shouts of praise.

And you lift your voice with the others, but not extremely loudly, 

because it kind of gnaws at you that as soon as you leave the door at the church,

you are heading into the patch of cacti all over again.

It's kind of hard to shout hallelujah when you know you're going to be having to settle squabbles back in the vehicle between little ones who are already quarreling about the snack when you get there.

('Cause your little darlings aren't angels like other people's darlings are.)

And oh, plus, one left his jacket in the church, which is already locked,
and another forgot to use the bathroom till the rest of us are in the vehicle ready to go. 

And the church is already locked, so in they trot into the parsonage--while you wait and try to decide whether to turn off the engine or not.

And your little girl hands down a half-finished ice cream bar, which drools chocolate on the back of your hand, and you forgot to bring wipes along.

And when you get home you have to dole out consequences to someone who thought they had the special privilege of coming indoors without carrying a smidge of anything, 

immediately after being told that everyone  was to help carry stuff in. 

So that person gets to carry in three loads instead of just one.(Shout hallelujah)!

And you have to put away leftovers from lunch, and scrub a crockpot and put tired children to bed

and (due to the cistern consistently running low) dip water out of the tub to flush a toilet.
(Shout hallelujah again! You feel like you just got saved!)

And so, yes, maybe it's no wonder it's kind of hard to work yourself up to holler hallelujahs. 

You are kind of wanting some medicinal aloes instead.

Sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do is to allow yourself to be human--

and to accept that there are these times when others are overflowing--

while you feel like a dry tree root sticking up somewhere with the other dry tree roots. 

We don't all feel the same way all the time. 

Like the lady who hugged another right in front of me after the service, and just quietly shared that sometimes while another is up high, there are others who are battling.

But we rejoice with those who are high--anyway, she said.

(It was comforting to know someone else felt the same way I did.)

Maybe our turn will be next--when the fountain will just pour out on us, and we'll do our own splashing in the the joy of it.

But for now, we come home to hot flashes and weariness that isn't allowed sleep, and various thorns of life. 

And so we sit down to blog--and to allow ourselves to be the dusty human being that we are--

reminding ourselves that there are many roses along with those thorns. 

And that even though our fountain wasn't that great today, it's okay.

A child can't respect a mom who shouts in church but then yells at them at home. 

And a husband can't respect a wife who shouts in church but turns her back on him in the bedroom.

Spirituality is not so much about outbursts of emotion

as a steady walk of honesty and humility and caring in our homes and families and work life.

We may not always get it just right, but if our husbands and children see us walking honestly and contritely before God and them, 

they will care more about the security they find at home than about emotional outbursts at church.

Waving hankies and shouting praises will not mean as much to them as

Mom and Dad finding ways to get through hard times and still love each other,

and where we and they can make mistakes, and ask forgiveness, and still laugh and love each other
in an atmosphere of love and patience rather than perfectionism.

While there is no excuse for keeping silent instead of praising God,

sometimes it seems to me that it is safer for me personally to not succumb to the peer pressure of acting a certain unusually demonstrative way in church, and getting all giddy and high,
for the simple fact that even before I go out the church door the reality of life on this earth hits me in the face.
To be free to express our emotion is important--and I do at times.
And to be honest, I like it when others do and when they "get high" on praise--
especially when it is truly coming freely from their hearts. 
You can truly sense that God's Spirit is in it. He inhabits the praises of His people.
It would be wrong to try to still those praises as the Pharisees tried to still the shouting children
who were praising Jesus in the temple. 

To refuse to praise God out loud because some hypocrite you know
makes big claims or shouts at church and then acts like the devil at home
is not a significant reason to be a dead head at church yourself. 
But I find that it is also important to have the self control that will keep myself stable, as a mother, wife, and just a woman whose emotions are so erratic.
Because I could let myself go high and squeaky in church emotionally, but then minutes later I'm having to control the same emotions that want to spiral down out of control in a low and wrong way when troubles hit me in the face.
I just seem to do better in this season of my life when I try to keep my emotions steady without feeling guilty about it.
But neither do I need to feel guilty if next Sunday my own fountain runs over.

And so ends just a late night meditation of a mom who hopes to get to sleep now!

Monday in Florida

Monday morning the boys helped to almost finish the platform. A lot of work went underneath this huge thing. Electric wires and outlets had to be put in, and plumbing pipe had to be installed for

the sound system wires! 

Underneath this plywood is a whole maze of joists and "walls" and lumber well glued together so there won't be squeaks!

Not sure if these are boys or monkeys.

We ladies were back into the job of painting.

The boys help sweep and even mop to get ready for the men who are coming to lay tile.

The boys (here David Morley) help trim the drywall around the window before window casing and/or sills go in.

At lunch time, I caught a couple snaps of the ladies stir-frying sweet peppers to add to the rice and chicken dish.

The delightful stir fry they served us that day.

Regina and I saw a huge pile of dirty dishes and pots and pans out on the sinks and on the table nearby, 

so we rolled up our sleeves and got to work.

Regina scrubbing in the deep sink.

How would you like a pot like this one to cook in?

How would you like just a table for a dishdrainer?

I was so utterly happy in the beautiful, warm outdoors, helping with dishes in a simple situation where everyone was just pitching in here in an outdoor setting.

I loved it.

When we got back to the church to do more painting, Jonathan and Bro. Wheeler were working on installing the double glass door between the sanctuary and vestibule.

Leveling and shimming and making sure it's just right.