What's the Point?

Do you read the obituaries? 

I only get the newspaper on Saturdays and Sundays, but I do find the death notices and skim each one. Maybe it's a sign of getting older myself? I usually note the age of the person listed and, if it's mentioned, the circumstances surrounding his or her passing . . . a brief illness, a long battle with cancer, a car accident. 

Recently, several in my circles have lost spouses, siblings, or parents. When I heard the news, I felt the same way as when I walk to the cemetery and happen to see a fresh grave with flowers laid on top. It saddens me. A life lived. A life gone . . . so quickly. Reminds me of the book of Ecclesiastes where the writer talks about the vanity of a life that is soon snuffed out.

The melancholy part of me grieves. I feel unsettled . . . and vulnerable.

There's a little phrase tucked in one of Paul's sermons in Acts 13 that I go back to often. It offers hope and focus, especially when, in our more human moments, we might be tempted to wonder, "What's the point if we all die and after a while nobody remembers us anyway?"

Here's the verse: "David, after he had served the purpose of God in his own generation, fell asleep and was laid with his fathers . . ." (Verse 36). 

Did you see it? Yes, David lived and died, but he also served God's purpose in his own generation! He was a man after God's heart who gave himself to his contemporaries in multiple ways . . . from caring for the family's flock of sheep to governing the nation of Israel. He wasn't perfect, yet with intention, he fulfilled God's purposes for him and those under his influence.  

Three millenniums later, we walk this earth to live out the same objective as David. To faithfully serve God's purposes (not ours) in our own circle of influence, for this generation - for the glory of God. 

So the next time we read the obituaries in the paper, let them remind us of David's example. A worthy goal. A noble aspiration that sheds a whole new light on life and death. 

Asking the Right Questions . . .

How are you at asking questions?

I grew up in the "telling" generation. We were told what to think more than how to think. Not all bad. What child or teen doesn't need instruction and guidance? I'm grateful for the many "tellings" I received during my growing-up years. They have shaped me in positive ways.

Over time, however, I have also come to appreciate the wisdom of asking questions. 

My late husband, Barry, was a master at question-asking. In going through his papers after his passing, I discovered his secret.

He worked at it. 

I found lists of questions in his office, questions such as:

• What do you mean by ___________?
• How does __________ relate to ___________?
• Why do you say that?
• Can you give an example?
• Let me see if I understand. Do you mean __________ or ___________?
  

He often quoted Stephen Covey: "Seek first to understand then to be understood."

At the Montrose Christian Writers Conference this past July, I picked up Paul Angone's book, 101 Questions You Need to Ask in Your Twenties (and let's be honest, your thirties too) [Moody Press]. It's a book for Millennials, and since my youngest turns 21 in a few weeks, I thought it might be a good read for her.

Before sending it off, I took a look inside. Long story short, I read the whole thing and took nearly eight pages of notes. The premise of the book is this: to be successful, learn to ask good questions. Every question in the book is thought-provoking and helpful. Here are a few that gave me pause:

• Do your friendships help you fly or pull you down?
• When is enough, enough?
• Do your actions back up your ambitions?
• Do I create more or complain more?
• Am I going through my day mindful or mindless?
• What am I going to regret not doing?
• Who inspires me most?
• Everyone leaves behind a legacy. What will mine be?

Today would have been Barry's 62nd birthday. Somehow, on this day, it seems fitting to write about the value of asking good, even great questions. I have a hunch, if he were still with us, he'd take a few notes on Angone's book himself before writing Elisabeth a fatherly note on the title page and sending it to her with love and his best wishes.

When Mothers Pray . . .

September was just around the corner when a flyer tucked in the church bulletin caught my eye. 

A local chapter of Moms in Prayer International was holding a weekly prayer meeting during the school year. Their mission? "To impact children and schools worldwide for Christ by gathering mothers to pray." Their vision? "That every school in the world would be covered with prayer."

I read the entire flyer several times, thinking about our youngest daughter who had just graduated from a small classical K - 8 Christian school that spring and was heading to the public high school in just a few days. I didn't know how the prayer time was set up or who was coming, but I decided she needed the extra prayer support - and, truth be told, so did I.

Seven Septembers later, I am still meeting to pray Moms-in-Prayer style!

From Moms in Prayer Website

The ancient patriarch, Job, prayed for his children (Job 1:4-5). And often I have prayed that, above all else, my children would walk in truth (3 John 4). Moms in Prayer has been a way to intercede for my children and grandchildren, linking arms with others with the same desire. 

Here's a look at our hour-long prayer times:

Each week the leader prints out a prayer sheet. We take turns reading Scripture verses that share an attribute of God. Right away our minds are focused on who God is. Then we pray sentence prayers in this order:

PRAISE: praising God for who He is, His attributes, His name or His character.
CONFESSION: silently confessing our sins to the God who forgives.
THANKSGIVING: thanking God for what He has done.
INTERCESSION: coming to God on behalf of others. 
     Each mom chooses one child for that day. We each place our child's name in a selected Scripture verse and pray that verse for our student, then go on to pray for specific needs. Each mom around the table prays for this child. Then another mom prays for her child in the same way, and others pray for this child, etc.
     We then pray for teachers/staff for our specific school(s).
     We remember specific school concerns.
     We end our time praying for the ministry of Moms in Prayer.

From Moms in Prayer Websit

Our times of prayer have been sweet. There's something strengthening about knowing that throughout the week others are praying for my child while I'm praying for theirs. We've seen God answer over and over again. His faithfulness has been overwhelming! And it's a wonderful way to make new friends around a common passion.

If you're looking for a unique way to pray for your children, I invite you to consider Moms in Prayer. God invites us to His throne of grace (Hebrews 4:14-16). He hears our prayers . . . and our hearts.
     

A Way to Remember

So, what's the best way for you to remember? 

What do you do to remember to make that call, bring the chairs to your in-laws, or take the library books back? I'm a great one for making a list or placing a card with the task written in bold on the kitchen window sill or setting the timer. When I forget I find myself inconvenienced, annoyed, or just plain frustrated. You, too?!

To remember important events or places and to honor the people we love, we celebrate holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries. We visit cemeteries with carefully chosen epitaphs. We sponsor 5K runs in honor of a cause or in memory of a loved one. Even in biblical times, a pile of stones or any number of sacred objects reminded the ancients of certain lessons, lest they forget their heritage. When Jesus observed the Passover with His disciples, He instructed, "Do this to remember me."  

Last week, a small group gathered on a hillside behind a local church to plant a tree in memory of Barry. They wanted a tangible way to remember him . . . the humble, quiet man who contributed to their Bible study and nurtured in them an even deeper love for the Word of God.

We gathered at the assigned place as the tree expert from Corky's Greenhouse began to dig the hole, shoveling out rock and sod together. Once the Tulip Poplar was placed, we each poured a shovel full of dirt around it, then watched as the finishing touches brought stability to the ten foot tall sapling. 

We circled closer and each, in turn, thanked God for Barry and for all he had taught them and for this token that would remind them of the lessons learned around their study table. Tears slipped down my cheeks as I listened. After the last "Amen," the sun burst out from behind a cloud, warming faces and hearts together. 

I'll never forget this day . . . and all it represents. And I have a hunch that I'll be driving home this way more often . . . just to get another glimpse of Barry's tree . . . 

A wonderful way to remember, don't you think?!

Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the wicked,

nor stands in the way of sinners, nor sits in the seat of scoffers; 

but his delight is in the law of the LORD, and on his law he meditates day and night. 

He is like a tree planted by streams of water

that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither.

In all he does, he prospers.

Psalm 1:1-3

Tulip Poplar Blossoms

To Let the World Know . . . Behind the Scenes # 7

And then there's the marketing . . .

It's one thing to practice the craft of writing over many years, to schedule time to sit down and do it, to rewrite a chapter multiple times, to read it to your critique group, to edit it again, to gather up the courage to send your manuscript off to a publisher, and wait and pray for an acceptance letter.

It's quite another thing to market it. To let the world know. To somehow persuade people to like your combination of words all nicely packaged inside a great cover and . . . to actually buy it.

I'm an introvert. I'm the child who picked mostly white strawberries so everyone else could have the red ones. I'm the young woman in the circle who thought of a contribution ten minutes after the fact. I'm the graying grandma who, like many writers, finds it more comfortable to quietly peck away at my computer than put myself out there.

Then I remember that Penned Without Ink is not about me. Yes, it's our family's story. But it's more than that. It's God's story. He's the hero! And it's His words, jotted bold on the page, that make all the difference.  

Do you ever feel like the little boy who handed Jesus his lunch? I do. Sometimes our fish and bread seem insignificant against the needs surrounding us but Jesus blesses what we bring to Him. He multiplies our offering and somehow feeds the multitudes.  

But what encourages me today is that even Jesus accepted assistance to distribute this miracle meal to the hungry. The text reads, "Then He broke the loaves and gave them to the disciples and the disciples gave them to the crowds" (Matthew 14:19).

I'm learning that it's important to accept a little help in order to offer our story of grace . . . God's story . . . to the world.

A special THANK YOU to all who are offering Penned Without Ink's message of hope to friends, relatives, and others who are hungry for a positive word, some in the midst of very challenging circumstances. 

Blessings to you all. 

More about Penned Without Ink: Trusting God to Write Your Story

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Rethinking Mealtimes

So, who's the main person who feeds the people at your house? The one who cooks, packs lunches, and makes sure everyone is fed and nourished? In my home, it's me. I enjoy it most of the time.

Do you sometimes resent all those hours in the kitchen because of the more worthwhile items on your TO DO list?  At times, I do. Especially this season of the year. Recently, I heard a statement that has revolutionized the way I think about the time I spend in the kitchen. 

"Jesus took time out of His sermon to feed people."

I found the story in all four gospels. People had come from far and near to hear Jesus teach. When "the day was already far gone," Jesus sent the disciples among the people to search for food "that these may eat." All they could find was a little boy's lunch, consisting of five barley loaves and two small fish. In the end, Jesus fed 5000 men plus women and children from this little lunch, lovingly prepared by an unnamed mother that morning. Several ideas stand out in bold as I read this story.

• Jesus asked the people to sit down, which they did, in groups of hundreds and fifties, "looking like so many garden plots" (The Amplified Bible). Even though the hour was late, they didn't "eat and run" or eat standing up. They sat down.
• Jesus gave thanks. A simple tradition that acknowledges a heavenly Father who takes care of us.
• The food was simple yet nutritious: fish and bread.
• This picnic was an organized affair, not a free-for-all. Lots of helpers made it work. Jesus distributed "to the disciples and the disciples to those sitting down."
• There was plenty. The people ate "as much as they wanted."
• Nothing was wasted. Jesus gave specific instructions to "gather up the fragments that remain, so that nothing is lost."
• In the gathering dusk, the people went home with more than full stomachs. The experience touched them. "This is truly the Prophet who is to come into the world."

All worthwhile activities, wouldn't you agree? So much more that just getting the crowd fed. Translated into our century: a simple menu of plentiful, nutrient-dense food. A table of seated family members and guests. The giving of thanks. A setting for conversation, for sharing the wonder of daily miracles, for telling stories that reflect God's faithfulness. A feeling of warmth and belonging. It doesn't always happen this way, I know. Yet even though mealtimes have their challenges, perhaps these observations are worth our consideration. Perhaps there's another way to view our work in the kitchen.

The next time we're tempted to sigh over the endless cooking and baking responsibilities and all that goes with it, or even feeding a baby every three hours around the clock, let's remember how Jesus took time out of His important kingdom service to feed people. There's a whole lot of worthwhile-ness in that! 

Quote by Jennie Allen, Restless: Because You Were Made for More, W Publishing, 2013, video for Lesson Six.
Story from Matthew 14:14-21, Mark 6:33-44, Luke 9:11-17, John 6:1-14. 
Photos from bing.com

The Epitaph

I wanted more than just his name and his dates.

There's something special when a gravestone gives an inkling about the person's life, a line to two to sum up the years. Perhaps the engraved words create a sort of bridge between the living and the dead. 

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Once or twice a week I walk to the cemetery to visit my husband's plot, tissues wadded up in my pocket to catch the inevitable tears as I kneel down to tell him how much I miss him and love him. It's been four months today that he passed from this life into the next--a long four months. And now the permanence of being alone seems to haunt me more than at the beginning of this journey. At the same time, I've found hope in the presence of a living God who promised never to leave me.

Before I ordered Barry's monument, I walked up and down the paths between the stones, reading the names and dates and searching for inscriptions that said a little something about their untold stories. I didn't find many. Only a few had verses. One had a word puzzle. Many displayed hearts and crosses.

How do you summarize a life? What's left after you boil it all down to one or two lines to etch into a piece of granite? How does a family sort it all out and decide just the right words?

This is the epitaph our family decided to have engraved under Barry's name:

Lifelong Learner

Loved God and Others

Barry had a love of learning that still baffles me . . . languages, philosophy, history, math, health, gardening, investing, sports, religion, politics, the arts, and on and on.

He also loved God, "the Creator and Sustainer of the universe." And growing out of that relationship, he took time for others. Time to listen, encourage, help, offer sound counsel, give of his resources, and nurture their gifts and passions.

I think he had it right, don't you?

It's a bit sobering to see my name beside Barry's, already indelibly etched into the stone. I wonder what will be engraved beneath it someday. On my walk home, eyes still moist, I remind myself that ending well starts with the present. 

So . . . what epitaph would you like to have on your headstone someday?

A Song in the Night

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I woke with a start and reached for my husband next to me. Then I remembered. His recent illness had brought him downstairs to the recliner. Again, worry brought a sigh and a prayer. "Please, Lord, help him to feel better. Help us to know what to do next."

I closed my eyes to try to get another couple of hours of sleep when, from the living room, I heard Barry singing. I laid still and listened as he sang the words of an old song I taught to the girls as little children, words set to the even older tune of "Guide me, O Thou Great Jehovah."

 

God has made me very special, and I'm dearly loved my Him.   

Even though He knows me fully, He accepts me as I am. 

How I praise Him, How I praise Him,

For His wondrous love for me. For His wondrous love for me.*

 

My husband, in pain and unable to sleep, used the words of a simple hymn to bring comfort and strength to his circumstances. Isn't that when the love of our heavenly Father means the most to us?  When we feel all alone and out of sorts? When we're at our lowest and hope is ebbing away?

 

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I've thought about that song in the night many times since then. Barry had it right. Whether we're feeling the ache of physical pain or the sting of rejection or the angst of loss, how comforting to line up our emotions with truth. God loves me. He knows all about it. 

 

Since my husband passed away I often find myself awake at night, thoughts swirling every which way. "How will I take care of the house and the cars and the yard and the finances and . . . who will take care of me?"

Then, like Barry, I remember an old hymn:

 

Be not dismayed what e're betide, God will take care of you. 

Beneath his  wings of love abide,God will take care of you.

God will take care of you, Through every day, O'er all the way;

He will take care of you, God will take care of you.**

 

God has taken care of me . . . of us. This gives me hope for the days ahead.

What songs have encouraged you through the night?

 

*Words by Verna Birkey, 1977.
**Words by Civilla D. Martin, 1869-1948.

The Making of a Man

On May 15, 2015, I lost my best friend . . . my husband, my confidant, my true love for nearly forty years.

Even after he stepped over the threshold into the heavenlies, I learned a few things about him I didn't know before. Close to 500 people came to the visitation and/or memorial service. Many of them told me stories of their connections with Barry. Over and over again I heard the words, "kind," "gentle," "a good man." What a legacy he left us all.

After everyone found their way home after the service, my sister stayed a few more days. She helped me clean bathrooms and floors, launder sheets and towels, and make up beds.

After Barb and I finished in "our" room, Barry's bedside stand caught my attention. I dropped to the floor to take a closer look. Stuffed into the bottom section and spilling onto the floor, I noticed a large print Bible, his guidebook for life. I  found titles such as Composers on Music, A Gospel Primer for Christians, The Consolation of Philosophy, The Secret of Father Brown, Dialogues of Fenelon, Hearing God, and The Lazy Gardener. I also discovered a small book of Norman Rockwell prints, a 2011 anniversary card I had given him, a couple of textbooks he ordered to keep up with Elisabeth in English this past year, and a treasury of Curious George stories in Spanish.

I leaned my back against the bed to take it all in, then said to my sister, "This is the perfect snapshot of Barry's life. All these interests packed into one small space . . into one small life . . . that he lived out in a BIG way to touch many lives."

With intention, I left the "picture" just as you see it here. Somehow it represents the story of a man with an undeniable quest for learning. And the making of a man who shared his quest with whoever wanted to join him on the journey. 

I have a feeling, I'll be learning a few more things about Barry as I sift through his piles of papers and file folders, the 3 x 5 cards from his pockets, and his library of books.

I love you, Barry. And miss you more than words can express.

A New Appreciation

Sometimes I take everyday gifts for granted . . . but don't realize it until they're not there, even temporarily. Can you relate?

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My husband's  been out of commission for a week and a half. Intense pain brought us to the ER, the primary care physician's office a couple times, and finally to the fourth floor of the hospital. The surgeon removed the pesky problem--or so we thought. It's been a rough recovery, though, which leads me to question if there's isn't more to the issue . . ..

The recliner has become Barry's bed. He's finally keeping clear fluids down . . . yet I wonder what tomorrow will hold. He has tried to engage, but exhaustion has a way of taking its toll. We miss his take on the newspaper headlines, his "living encyclopedia" answers to our questions, and his sense of humor. He can't mow the lawn and trim the yard, take the garbage out, weed the flower beds, or plant the broccoli . . . We've managed to pitch in and take up some of the slack, but we realize one thing more than ever. He does a lot around here!

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So thank you, Barry, for all you do every day--and more importantly, who you are to all of us. Please get well soon. We love you!

What gifts do you appreciate, perhaps even more because of changes in your life or in the lives of those you love? 

Christmas Stories

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There's something about Christmas that makes me want to enjoy a warm, wonderful story. Down through the years I have collected a file folder full of Christmas stories from magazines and newsletters along with a stack of holiday books. Every day during the month of December I would read to our daughters by tree light. Every year we looked forward to the stories, stories that became more and more dear.

My parents began our story-telling tradition. Down through the years, they read the same stories to my sister and me--and then to our children. A tradition, just like our roast beef dinners, our singing of carols, and our one-at-a-time opening of gifts. A timeless tradition for multiple generations.

Here's a list of a few of the stories we've come to enjoy. Maybe you have some you'd like to add!

The Christmas Story written by New Testament authors Matthew and Luke
"Christmas Lost and Found" by Danae Dobson (from the book Christmas by the Hearth)
"Charlie's Blanket" by Wendy Miller (from a book compiled by Dr. Joe Wheeler: Christmas in My Heart: A Timeless Treasury of Heartwarming Stories)
"The Good Things in Life" by Arthur Gordon (from a book compiled by Dr. Joe Wheeler: The Best of Christmas in My Heart, Vol. 2)
"Out of the Ivory Palaces" by Dr. James A. Hunter
"Why the Chimes Rang" by Raymond MacDonald Alden
"The Shoemaker's Christmas" by Corrie ten Boom (from her book Christmas Memories)
"The Gift of the Magi" by O. Henry
"The Night Before Christmas" by Clement Clarke Moore
"The Grinch Who Stole Christmas" by Dr. Seuss

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The Christmas Miracle of Jonathan Toomey by Susan Wojciechowski
Punchinello and the Most Marvelous Gift by Max Lucado
The Candle in the Window by Grace Johnson
The Littlest Angel by Charles Tazewell (This title is linked to an edition like my parents owned!)

What Christmas stories can you add to the list?

A Belated "Thank You"

I wish I had expressed my gratefulness in the moment. Maybe I didn't understand the value of those treasures until now. Maybe I didn't know I would carry them with me from junior high school all the way to fifty-something. But this week, I want to say "Thank you."

The year I had Miss Latta as a school teacher in fourth grade, we began attending Winchester Community Church. Five blocks from our home, it offered family-friendly programs of which we soon became a part.

I remember singing "O Jesus, I have promised to serve thee to the end . . ." in children's church and "Dare to be a Daniel" in the Junior Department Sunday School opening exercises. In Pioneer Girls, we learned to change a tire (on the pastor's car!), build teepee campfires, and layer lasagna. Our leaders, "Phoebe" and "Chips," not only planned fun overnights and taught us silly songs (that I now sing to my grandson) but  held up God's Word as a "lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path" (Psalm 119:105). 

I loved Sunday evening services. Mr. Holland led the singing like no other. I learned to sing alto by sitting next to Mrs. Davis. The pastor's wife encouraged me to play my flute. Sometimes we played a duet. They even let the young girls take the offering once in a while. In the summers, we enjoyed singspirations at the homes of various church members and sang till we were hoarse. There were always refreshments afterwards.

During Easter week, we came to church almost every night, as I recall. After the sermon, the pastor, also an artist, did a chalk drawing to illustrate his message while the organ played. Then he'd shine different colored lights his picture. Easter Sunday brought us to church early for a sunrise service and breakfast. My mom always made plum and apple raisin kuchens.

Vacation Bible School was the best. For two weeks, every summer, we lined up by departments in the parking lot to say the three pledges. We listened to Bible lessons and missionary stories, learned our verses, and created crafts. Before going home, we gathered in the auditorium and sat on the edge of our seats to find out which team was winning the contest. We sang "We can know that Jesus saves us. We can know. Be assured each moment, everywhere we go . . ."

This past summer, we drove past where the church building used to be. It burned down a while back. The congregation has moved to another location. But the memories live on, memories I cherish.

Thank you to the people from Winchester who invested in a young girl's story. Thank you for giving me the gift of God's Word, the gift of positive spiritual expressions . . . the gift of belonging. 

It's the time to give thanks. What belated thank-yous come to your mind?

Making Waves

Dune grasses against a blue sky, kites flapping in the breeze, sand between our toes, and the ever constant waves. Last month we headed up to our favorite vacation spot. "Up North," on the shores of Lake Michigan, we enjoyed wonderful times with family: catching up, reminiscing, taking turns reading stories to the kids, and breathing the fresh air.

One day, all of us struck out for the beach. We slathered on sunscreen, took turns zipping around on the jet ski, and watched the little ones play. Boats of all shapes and sizes glided to and from the marina. I found myself mesmerized by the waves, sometimes gentle, sometimes strong, but ever constant. I discovered that a boat can be gone a long time before its wake splashes up on the beach. And this made me think about influence . . . our influence on others and their influence on us.

We all make waves as we move ahead in our life stories. Those closest to us feel the effects in the moment or soon after. Yet, actions and attitudes cause a ripple effect. Long after, our choices still make waves. Often our waves bring a positive effect. And sometimes our wake, even after many years, brings waves of disappointment and pain.

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Makes me wonder what we're leaving behind in our quest for a fulfilling life. Maybe it's a good idea to look behind us once in a while, to pay attention to the influence we have, and to do all we can to make sure we're leaving the right kind of wake . . . waves that bless others . . . for a long, long time.