Decisions, Decisions

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So, how are you at making decisions?

 

I've had to make a lot of decisions over the last few months. And I'm not finding it easy. I've agonized over replacing my old car, deciding what to keep, what to pass on, and what to save, and everything in between. How did Barry always seem to know what to do?

 

How often I've cried out to God to help me over these weeks. I'm learning that making a decision is a little like crossing a river, taking one step at a time.  

 

Decision

I size up the rushing river

 overflowing its banks, full of unknowns,

the other side far away and obscure.

 

Alone now,

with only distant dreamlike memories left,

I wring my hands and pace the shore.

 

What if my foot should slip?

What if misjudgment sweeps me downstream?

What if ignorance pulls me under?

 

I feel the hand of time upon my back,

driving me ever closer to the current’s edge.

-

My heart beats fast.

Tears escape their hiding place.

I cower at the brink.

 

 “Oh dear God, please help me.

I need your grace.”

 

First one foot. Then the other.

And as I take each faltering step,

the Red-Sea-waters part.

Just enough for me to take another step

and then one more.

 

On dry ground

 

Slowly

Slowly

 

All the way to the other side.

 

 

 

 



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?

Scrawled on the Back of a File Folder . . .

Some years ago, I found the following poem hanging on the wall in a waiting room and copied it down on the only paper I had with me - the back of a file folder. I could find no author's name. I filed it away and just recently ran across it. Perhaps some good thoughts to consider as a new school year begins . . .

Help Me Grow



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Please

Be consistent with me,

Then I can trust your words and actions.

 

Comfort me when I'm scared, hurt, or sad,

Then I'll know I'm okay even when I'm not feeling strong or happy.

 

Take responsibility for all your feelings and actions,

Then I also won't blame others and I'll take responsibility for my life.

 

Communicate when you feel hurt or frightened or angry,

Then I'll learn how to constructively deal with my feelings.

Tell me clearly and specifically what you want,
Then I can hear you and I'll also know how to
communicate my needs in a positive way.

Express to me that I'm okay
Even when my words or behavior may not be,
Then I can learn from my mistakes and have healthy self-esteem.

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Balance your life between work and play,
Then I can believe that I can grow up,
be responsible, and still have fun.

Remember what you wanted when you were my age,
Then you'll better understand my needs and interests.

Understand and accept me.
I may be different from you and that's okay.

Treat me as an individual,
Then I'll know that I can be my unique self.

Hug me and tell me that you care about me,
Then I'll feel lovable and I'll express caring to others.

Thank you for hearing me.
I love you!

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One Quiet Invitation

Do you ever wonder if your efforts to encourage others will a make a difference? If your initiatives to offer kindness and help others will mean anything in the long run? Perhaps this story will encourage us all.

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Today is the 80th birthday of Barry's Aunt Sue. A former second grade teacher, she has lived a quiet life. Apple orchards and grape vineyards surround her modest home on the family homestead in southern Michigan. She and her daughter keep a small garden. She reads and walks and attends church. She keeps up with us by writing letters.

Aunt Sue's birthday marked the perfect opportunity for me to thank her for what may have seemed like an insignificant event back in 1971. I don't think she'd mind if you read over her shoulder.

Dear Aunt Sue,

 

I've been thinking of how God has used your influence to touch the Phillips family. Barry often told the story of how you and Uncle Earl invited him to a Campus Crusade for Christ concert when he was 15. There he began to understand God's love and placed his faith in Christ for salvation. Little by little his faith grew. That decision forever changed the direction of his life story.

 

After college, Barry taught at and became the principal of a Christian school and moved on to become a professor and administrator at a Christian college. He brought up our girls in "the nurture and admonition of the Lord." Over the years, he aimed to love God and love his neighbor.

 

All because of one quiet invitation.

 

Barry touched hundreds of lives through his teaching, his leadership, and his influence . . . and somehow, Aunt Sue, I think you have a significant part in his legacy.

 

Now when we sing songs in church about eternal life and spending forever in heaven, tears run down my cheeks. In the end faith in Christ matters most - and because of your initiative, I have the assurance that Barry is with his Savior.

 

Thank you for not overlooking an opportunity to encourage a tall, gangly teenager named Barry. It made all the difference for him and for countless others. Have a wonderful birthday!

 

With Love,

Sarah

I'm sure Aunt Sue had no idea how one invitation would bless so many. We don't know how our offers will influence others. Perhaps Paul had this in mind when he wrote, "Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain" (1 Corinthians 15:58).

So, how has one quiet kindness blessed you?

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.

Proof Through the Night

Does your mind sometimes act like dominoes? One thought leads to another, and before you know it, you're thinking about something on another level from your original thought.

On our way home from our Michigan vacation, "up north," we passed a mailbox shaped like a little house with a tiny tattered American flag attached to the front, waving in the breeze.

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That brought my thoughts to the line in "The Star-Spangled Banner" that reads, "And the rockets' red glare, the bombs busting in air, gave proof through the night that our flag was still there . . ."

And this made me think of the "bombs" in my life that had burst all around me in the past several months . . .the sudden illness and passing of my faithful husband, the crushing grief and feelings of vulnerability, the ensuing mounds of paperwork, the never-ending list of phone calls, the flooded basement when a storm took the power out, the breakdown of our good car nine hours from home, the wringing of my hands because he always knew what to do . . . everyday reminders of the earthly permanence of this unsolicited separation . . .

Then I came to realize that these "bombs" have the potential to prove that, through the night, my faith in God is still there. Still active. Still strong. Still flying high . . . tattered and torn as it may seem some days.

I've been reading Elisabeth Elliot's book A Path Through Suffering: Discovering the Relationship Between God's Mercy and Our Pain. She defines suffering as "having what you don't want, or wanting what you don't have" (page 56). Her thoughts about the Old Testament character of Job caught my attention. "We may take heart from the suffering of Job. Suffering was the necessary proof of the reality of his faith . . . a living proof of a living faith . . . Job's suffering provided the context for a demonstration of trust" (pages 52, 53).

No matter what the challenges of life may bring, I want them to give proof through the night that my faith is still there. Visible and present, regardless of the darkness, the testing and trials, the unexplained losses. Just like the flag that inspired Francis Scott Key to write the famous lines that became our national anthem and just like that little American flag attached to the front of the mailbox along a sandy roadside up north.

A Dad Who Prayed

Every morning it was the same.

The alarm went off at 5:59 a.m. We listened to a couple of minutes of news and noted the weather. Barry slipped his arm around me, drew me close, and began to pray.

I loved to hear him pray.

He thanked God for His goodness and His blessings. He prayed for each daughter by name, mentioning their specific needs. He prayed for our grandchildren. He asked for wisdom with reliance on a Heavenly Father who cares for us, one day at a time.

And he often, with some variation, repeated the same phrases. I never knew where these words came from until after he passed away. Tucked into the books next to his side of the bed, I discovered a half sheet of paper, photocopied from an unknown book. I've bolded the words I heard most often.

FIRST THINGS FIRST
The day begins for [John] Stott* at 5:a.m. He swings his legs over the side of his bed and starts the day in prayer:

Good morning, Heavenly Father; good morning, Lord Jesus; good morning, Holy Spirit. Heavenly Father, I worship you as the Creator and Sustainer of the universe. Lord Jesus, I worship you, Savior and Lord of the world. Holy Spirit, I worship you, Sanctifier of the people of God. Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever. Amen.

Heavenly Father, I pray that I may live this day in your presence and please you more and more. Lord, Jesus, I pray that this day I may take up my cross and follow you. Holy Spirit, I pray that this day you will fill me with yourself and cause your fruit to ripen in my life: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Holy, blessed, and glorious Trinity, three persons in one God, have mercy upon me. Amen.

For decades, Stott has begun each day with a version of this Trinitarian prayer. 

That's all the paper held . . . until I carefully, almost reverently, turned it over. In Barry's familiar handwriting I found this addition: "That I might live a continual life of repentance, being transformed into the glory of God through the gospel of Christ by the work of the Spirit (2 Corinthians 3:18).

I will always treasure the memory of Barry's morning prayers, prayers filled with worship, humility, and a deep desire that his children walk in truth.

 *John Stott (1921-2011) was an English Christian leader and Anglican cleric.