A Season of Remembering

Could we ever have imagined the realities of the past couple of months? Like it or not, we've learned a whole new vocabulary. We've limited our travels, our work, and our shopping. We've also reached out to others in new ways, using our compassionate and creative energy to cross the barriers to lend support and help.  

For me, it's been a season of recovery . . . and remembering. Last time (April 5th), I wrote about the 17th anniversary of our family's car crash. In addition, as I sat in my recliner with ice on my new hip, I read through some of my late husband's journals. Some pages brought tears to my eyes. Others made me laugh, but every paragraph reminded me of the grace of God in spite of our humanness.

This is also the month to remember my mom (May 1936-August 2013), my parents'  wedding anniversary (63 years today), and the five-year anniversary of Barry's passing (5-15-2015). Made me wonder what I've been doing the past five years! Writing a couple of books, seeing Elisabeth through college, keeping up with my grandsons and their five-star moms (and dads), simplifying, maintaining my home, nurturing relationships . . . and learning, learning, learning all the way. I'm so grateful for God's tried-and-true promises.

I completed a project this past week that brought back multiple memories. I made Elisabeth a quilt (i.e. picnic blanket) from a stack of her saved T-shirts. I cut the shirts apart and squared up each block, then ironed fusible interfacing onto the backs and squared them up once more. The stack of squares and rectangles boasted logos and slogans from elementary school, high school, college, places of employment, our church, a 5K run, and her favorite vacation spot. What stories they told!  

As I stitched, I remembered praying her through many of those chapters, usually coupled with motherly concern and a sense of pride as I cheered her on. The process reminded me of the promise in Philippians 1:6 . . . the promise that we can be confident that He who began a good work will continue . . . developing and perfecting and bringing it to full completion (AMPC). 

I'm learning that when we remember God's intimate involvement in our lives, we can better place our faith in Him when we peer into the fog of an uncertain future . . .  humanly speaking, a future with no guarantees. We can make decisions based on what is and Who is rather than on the fear of the what-ifs. 

I invite you to brew a cup a tea, and take some time to remember. How has God blessed you? In what ways has He given you grace in the past? What promises from His Word will you claim? Let's make this season of remembering a time to also ask God to give us the courage to move forward into the "new normal" of tomorrow.

"Bless the LORD, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits."

Psalm 102:2

The Christmas Countdown . . .

I eyed my calendar, making a mental note of all I had to do before the 25th. Decorate the house, purchase gifts and wrap them, plan menus, attend holiday events, write our annual Christmas letter and mail out cards, pick up last minute gifts and grocery items . . . all before they come trooping through the door and the quiet turns a bit chaotic with three little grandsons, their parents, and a favorite aunt. Just thinking about it makes me smile.

Timing is important this season of the year, like planning a celebratory meal so every dish finishes cooking at the same time. We feel the strain of getting it all done just right, on time, making it special and memorable. Does anyone else feel the pressure?

Over the last few years, our family has talked a lot about simplicity. How can we keep the traditions alive that are important to us without doing everything we've always done . . . without "doing it all"?

The answer to this question varies, but we've learned to be okay with a little less baking and decorating and fewer gifts. And our time together is just as meaningful. We treasure every bit of stimulating conversation and laughter around the table that feeds a feeling of belonging.

On the other hand, no holiday is perfect. The kids cry. A new toy breaks. A part is missing, and we can't find the receipt. The roast doesn't get done in time. The empty chairs, seen and unseen, remind us of those who are no longer with us. We feel the loss . . . more so than on regular days. 

So then, there's the matter of trying to adjust our expectations . . .

 . . . and focusing on the first Christmas where a government tax bill shuffled people around the land of Israel, making it necessary for a young virgin to give birth to her firstborn son in a stable miles from home. Not ideal by any standard, yet somehow in God's perfect time according to His perfect plan.

But when the fullness of time had come, God sent forth his Son, born of woman, born under the law, to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons (Galatians 4:4-5).

This Christmas, I want to be purposeful and embrace those traditions that are meaningful, don't you? And to see the wrinkled newborn in the manger with fresh eyes, to hear the brilliant announcement and glorious song of the angels with the shepherds, to follow the mysterious star with the wise men, and to embrace the wonder of it all with Mary and Joseph. 

No matter how our holiday week plays out, a simple story from long ago makes all the difference. And in this wonderful story, the baby's name is Immanuel. 

God with us. 

Your thoughts?

Feeling the Let-Down

The back door swung open as I slid the key back out of the lock. I breathed in the familiar, almost  comforting, scent of the house as I crossed the threshold and took a look around. 

Home again. 

Not the home of days gone by, filled with children's jostling laughter, school project deadlines, and piano practice. Instead, in moments like these, the walls seem to speak the memories in quiet whispers, mere echoes of those busy days . . . all the more dear to me now. 

Part of me is grateful for the silence after a somewhat hectic week of playing with small grand-boys, cuddling a new-born, cooking for a crowd, savoring laughter and conversation with my daughters, son-in-law, and even some new friends, trying to sleep in a strange bed, and driving miles to and fro. Good times. Yet, a part of me grieves. As I put things away, the stillness serves as an ever-present reminder of how life has changed. Time has slipped through my fingers, as time is prone to do . . . 

And yet, I come home to more than silence, for I somehow bring my children's concerns with me. I carry their uncertainties, their fears, their everyday challenges. With intention, I recall our late-night conversations and their whispered what-ifs . . . our acknowledgment that control is an illusion and there are few guarantees and that our only hope is trust in a great big God who lovingly writes our life stories with purpose, even when it makes little sense to us now. I treasure these conversations. Both their concerns and victories matter to me.

I am their mother, after all.

Can you relate?

I've grown to appreciate the practice of Job, who brought each of his ten children before the Lord in prayer on a regular basis (Job 1:4-5). Although not a parent in the physical sense, Paul wrote about the deep concern he felt for all the churches, i.e. his spiritual children (2 Corinthians 11:28). Another first century Christ-follower, Epaphras, wrestled on behalf of the early believers in his prayers, that they would "stand mature and fully assured in all the will of God" (Colossians 4:12). 

We're not alone in our care for the circle God has entrusted to us. Yet, I find a bit of tension between concern for others and focusing on what God has given me to do. These three questions help me better sort it out: 

• What is my role? 
• What role do others play? 
• What is God's role?

So, what is my role? To daily (and often) bring each one to the throne of grace (Hebrews 4:16), to cheer them on, to initiate as appropriate, to be available . . . to love them as only a parent can . . . and to believe in them.

As I stow my suitcase in its usual place in the attic, I find myself turning a proverbial corner, focusing on getting back to normal . . . at least for the few days before the calendar beckons me to deck the halls and my Christmas gift list pushes me out the door. I am grateful for the gift of family, of community, and of a faithful God who always plays His role perfectly - both when I'm away and when the stillness welcomes me home. 

When the Passing of Time Brings Change

The emotion I felt surprised me.

Another first since my husband passed away. . . which should have been the first clue this would trigger some feelings of nostalgia mixed with loss.

The last two years, our youngest daughter and I "decked the halls" of our home, but this year she and the others plan to arrive for an early Christmas on the same day. Our time is short so I planned to have everything ready - and honestly looked forward to decorating the house. Umpteen trips up to the attic and back saw me pull out the old familiar simple, homespun Christmas garlands, stockings, and lighted village. And, of course, the wooden manger my dad made when the kids were little . . . and all the holiday stories. 

I cranked up the Christmas music on Pandora and went to work . . . but instead of seeing my hands sort lights and greenery, I saw little-girl hands hanging their stockings on designated hooks by the fireplace. Added to the carols, I heard their voices and laughter. I watched their daddy in the recliner, taking it all in, giving his two cents now and then, snacking on popcorn, and feeding the fire. I smelled pizza in the oven and freshly baked cookies as the celebratory ending to our annual tradition. 

Tears ran down my cheeks. Those busy, hectic days slipped away so quickly . . . only memories now. 

Even as I reached for the tissue box, I thought of our girls and how proud I am of each one. Two of them are now mothers, creating their own family traditions. I thanked God for the privilege of being their mom all these years.

And I rehearsed the blessings God has offered me today . . . family, friends, community, health, the ability to do my work and help others. . .  and even events to look forward to over this holiday season . . . blessings I want to receive with gratefulness and contentment.  

Even though time changes so much of life, Christmas is still about Emmanuel, God with us. It's still about a loving God who sent His only Son to be our Savior. It's still about joy and peace . . . and everlasting hope. 

When the family all comes trouping through the back door in a couple of weeks, the house will be festive, the tree bright, the frig stocked with their favorites, and the gifts wrapped. The little grandboys will dress up as shepherds, and we'll read the familiar story from Luke 2 together. We'll ponder the miracle of Christmas.

I plan to savor every minute!

Savoring our Blessings Just a Little Bit More . . .

I wonder how many times we don’t fully appreciate something until it’s gone. Said another way, we often realize how much we value people, abilities, and even things after we lose them. And sometimes the seeming littlest losses bring a grief that surprises us.

So, how can we be more intentional about gratefulness. . . ahead of time? 

As a child, I could run—fast. I loved to hike in the woods, climb up and down ravines, and hop from stone to stone in the creek. In my forties, I took brisk early morning walks with my husband and jogged with our daughter, Sharon. I enjoyed those times, but now my hips complain. I never thought about the blessing of being able to climb and run until I couldn’t do it anymore. Yet, every time I put on my sneakers and head to the park or even around the block, I find myself thanking God. I can walk! (If you've read my book, you know that after a car accident, I had to learn to walk again. I don't take it for granted.)

After that same crash, our family no longer enjoyed the security of health, routine, and predictability. We lost the normality of traditional roles, family suppers, and even the ability to ambulate unaided, drive, and independently care for ourselves. When some of these things returned, I felt blessed beyond measure—and still do.

Several years ago, watching my sweet mom go through chemo treatments helped me appreciate the blessings of an appetite, a bad-hair day, feeling half-way decent, and the ability to do my work. 

The quiet of my home echoes with memories of the man I loved for nearly 36 years. I miss his sacrificial love, his advice, his strong arms around me. When I'm not sure what to do about a matter, I often think, "Now, what would Barry say?" Sometimes I ask God to whisper my thanks to him for all he did for our family, what he taught us, and for his faithfulness. That's a lot to give thanks for. 

  

Perhaps we don’t fully appreciate what we have until something happens. We take running water and electricity for granted until a pipe leaks or the lights go out. We underestimate the efficiency of working with two hands until one is injured. We may not fully realize the comfort of a friend or family member until circumstances take him or her away from us. When we find our lives altered, in big matters and small, we see things from a different perspective.

Today, I want to be intentional about savoring the blessings in my story just a little bit more.

How about you?

A Reassuring Voice . . .

It seemed the bottom fell out of my soul. 

How could I go on . . . alone?

I, the follower, the glad-I'm-not-in-the-spotlight wife and mom, the one who sought my husband's opinion on, well . . . just about everything. Barry always seemed to know how to think and what to do.

As I trudged uphill on the path called "widowhood," I began to discover God's provision in new ways. While climbing the steep learning curves of insurance, home maintenance, college decisions, and finances, I heard several voices whispering their wisdom to me, voices that, in retrospect, guided me along when I didn't know how to think and what to do.

One of those voices belonged to Shawn Stockdale. Shawn and Kay had been friends for many years. We saw them at church, at school, and at soccer games. Kay and I shared tea and prayer requests. Shawn, Barry, and another friend walked together in the mornings before work.

About twelve years ago, Shawn became our financial advisor. He and my husband met regularly. I came sometimes, more often as time when on. Little did I know then, that this relationship would be a huge gift to me, one that would lessen my stress and give me the direction I needed.

After Barry passed away, I sat in Shawn's office with Barry's words ringing in my ears. "If anything happens to me, Shawn will help you."

And he has.

With a gentle kindness, Shawn assisted me in consolidating our savings and offered a long-term plan for the future. Using the Dunkin' Donuts situated nearby as an illustration, he explained the various pieces of a healthy financial picture and the basics of good stewardship. I took notes, and with every meeting my understanding increased a little more.

I also learned to ask questions. Questions about our resources, about what to do when my Subaru gave out, and about where to buy good snow tires at a reasonable price. I brought in mail with insurance offers, statements I couldn't make heads or tails of, and health insurance options. He and his sensitive, competent staff walked me through each issue, step by step. I've thanked them over and over.

After his fourth open-heart surgery, Shawn passed away this past Wednesday. 

I'm so very sad for Kay and their children and grandchildren. I pray God gives them the strength they need day by day. I'm sad for those whose lives he touched with his smile, kindness, and practical help. I'm sad because it's a loss for me, too.

Even through my tears this week, I'm finding ways to be grateful. I'm reaching out to the One who promises to always be with us. And I've found myself thinking about Shawn and Barry . . . old friends . . . walking the streets of gold . . . without a word about money!

The Secret - Behind the Scenes # 9

I didn't deliberate long. No wringing my hands over this decision. I'd surprise him when the book came in the mail. 

After all we'd been through together, I would dedicate Penned Without Ink to my husband, my college sweetheart, the man who protected me, my best friend who would do just about anything for me.

As Barry struggled to recover from a traumatic brain injury back in 2003, his condition progressed from the dark of a coma to gradually becoming more active and more aware of his surroundings. Pretty soon he recognized me and our daughters when we came to visit him in the nursing home. We saw him progress from preschool level activities in therapy to more advanced exercises. He had a habit of getting stuck on a word or phrase but kept marching forward with each new day. As time went on, he called me on the phone from the nurses' station. And one day he wrote me a love note on a scrap of paper, now one of my most prized possessions.
 

I kept my secret quiet as I wrote each chapter and then the final draft. I word-smithed those few lines over and over. They had to sound just right. They had to express my heart. They had to somehow show him how much I loved and appreciated him.

  To Barry

My kind and gentle husband who loves God and his neighbor . . .

My wonderful friend.

I love you.

But he passed away before the book came in the mail. Before the manuscript was edited or even submitted to the publisher. I never got to tell him.

All I could do was change the verbs to past tense.

The bitter-sweet day Penned Without Ink found its way to my mailbox, I could only imagine what it would have been like had he still been here. Would I have pointed the dedication page out to him or let him find it on his own? Either way, I can see his smile . . . feel his hug as he reached for me. "Good job, hon." he would have said.

Instead, I opened the package alone.

The yawning divide between the living and the dead is so permanent. Does he know? I took my secret to the cemetery and had a good cry. I realize Barry isn't there, but it satisfied something deep inside me. Someday we'll walk the golden streets and I'll tell him my secret. Perhaps he'll smile, reach for me with a hug, and say, "Good job, hon."

And I'll lay my head on his shoulder and whisper, "I couldn't have done it without you, Babe."  

Two broken and restored people with a story . . . for the glory of God.

Penned Without Ink: Trusting God to Write Your Story is available on Amazon.com.

Your Life Story . . . Penned Without Ink

Story.

Life story.

Your life story.

We each have a story. In fact, we each are a story - penned without ink - known and read by the people around us. While the main characters wander in and out of our paragraphs, the plot thickens with tension and misgivings and relaxes with humor and celebration. We all hope for a satisfying conclusion.

So, what's going on in the current chapter of your story? In what season of life do you find yourself? Does the fall represent a new beginning as flexible summer days give way to predictable routines? Are you looking forward to new opportunities or do you find yourself grappling with loss and grief? What's unique about this time in your life - both the pros and the cons?

Today marks the first day of a brand new chapter for me. 

My youngest is beginning a new chapter in her life, too . . . on a college campus. Which means . . . my house is a little too quiet, a little too empty, a little too solitary. Elisabeth's in a healthy environment where she will learn far more than if she were home. But that ache in my heart, as I left the flat farmlands of the mid-west, made the roadway blurry as I wiped away the tears for an hour after crossing the Pennsylvania state line yesterday.

Perhaps, in the transitions of life we experience both gains and losses. In a day-to-day sense, I have lost my daughter's companionship yet have gained the freedom to come and go, serve and write as seems best to me. Just the opposite of when we welcomed our girls into the world. We gained the wonderful privilege of parenthood and relinquished a few freedoms in the process.

Whatever this new chapter holds for me, I want to do it well. Don't you feel the same way? My friend, Gail, sent a short note, which read, "I'm praying your sense of hearing will be so sharpened that you'll hear God's presence in the quiet." Ironically, I have been praying a similar prayer the last few days.

 

Wherever we find ourselves in our life stories, let's remember God's faithful presence . . . in our joys, in our sorrows, and in our transitions. We take the promises of God with us into each new chapter and into each new day. 

Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you. 

The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid. 

Hebrews 13:5, 6

Penned Without Ink: Trusting God to Write Your Story  

Now available on Amazon.com

In the Garden . . .

Aren't you glad summer's here? We savor the warmth and sunshine. We look forward to vacations and picnics. We catch up with neighbors over the back fence . . . and enjoy the beauty of flowers bordering sidewalks, along roadsides, and in various pots here and there. At the nurseries I joined the spring crowds loading up their carts with zany zinnias, shade-loving impatiens, bright geraniums, and dependable begonias. Maybe you were there, too?

Yet, for me, the real joy came in purchasing a few vegetable plants.  Last fall (October 20), I blogged about our choice to disassemble my late husband's big garden. We grieved one more loss. At the same time, we conferred with a local master gardener-friend, Susan, who helped us create a small lasagna garden in our yard. Perhaps we could still preserve Barry's legacy. 

We chose an easily accessible sunny corner and began the process with Susan's oversight. We layered leaves and hay, using recycled pavers to mark the boundary. Elisabeth carefully transplanted Barry's old fashioned roses, raspberry plants, and a clump of chives, babying them with hopes and prayers that they would make it. 

Then we waited for spring. 

Mid-May found us in the check-out line with red cabbage, lettuce, Swiss chard, cucumber, and tomato plants. We found beet and bean seeds. And Memorial Day weekend, we planted . . . Elisabeth reminding me of Barry's prior instructions. 

There's something wonderful about a garden. Every day, first thing in the morning, I find my way to our little plot. I marvel at the growth, check for more blossoms, smile at the tiny cucs, pull out the weeds while they're still small, and smell the variegated roses. I remember the man with the green thumb who gave me and our daughters an appreciation for God's good earth and its fruit.

And I realize that, difficult as it is, the change of moving forward is good. With an open mind, it brings its own treasures and joy. There's growth in the process.

So . . . if you're local and happen to be in the area, stop by and peek over our white picket fence. And remember . . . God gives us grace to begin again.
  

 

The Memory of a Man

2012

One year.

The events of May 15, 2015 changed my life and the lives of many others forever. It's been a year since my husband, Barry, passed away. 

2014 Birthday

A year of tears, loneliness, and loss. A year of uncertainty mixed with grit and determination. A year of learning about cars, home repairs, finances, health insurance, and legal matters. A year of trying to think of what he might decide . . . and of learning about myself . . . without the man who would do anything for me.

It's also been a year filled with grace. A year of experiencing God's loving-kindness and mercy day after day, night after night. Even through the tears. Even when I paced the floor wondering what to do. Even when one more thing went wrong. God's grace often showed up in the form of new friends and old, who came along side at just the right time to give counsel, coach me through home projects, and offer wisdom about everything from tax questions to gardening. 

Barry with his siblings

So, how does one commemorate a life? What would you do? On Friday, I found our local Red Cross and gave blood. It seemed fitting in light of our car accident in 2003 when someone else's life-giving blood saved Barry's life. Our family is spending the weekend together, the girls cutting squares from Barry's shirts to make quilts. Good memories mingled with masculine patterns and the hum of sewing machines somehow seem comforting. 

Mexico in 2002

The words of Steve Green's song have played themselves over and over in my mind during these months: "May all who come behind us find us faithful." When a person passes on, everything is left behind. I've done my share of sorting Barry's "everything" over the last year. And as I've sifted through boxes and files and papers and drawers, I've found him faithful. Faithful to God. Faithful to me. Faithful to our girls.  A wonderful legacy. 

Memory Quilt, May 15, 2016

So, today as we remember Barry, I pray we will be faithful . . . in the little things and in the big things . . . and that we will run with perseverance the race marked out for us (Hebrews 12:2).