A Life Well Lived  0

A week ago, I received a text in the night that my Grandpa had slipped away from this world.  It’s been a bittersweet week saying goodbye… a little bitter, mostly sweet.  He was quite tired of living in a body that had more problems than he could keep up with.  I’d say 89 isn’t too shabby.

My Grandpa only had an 8th Grade education, but the wisdom of what he taught me far exceeded his reading level.

My Grandpa taught me to love my family.  Just a few months ago
Grandpa convinced my Mom and Aunt to drive him up to my house (they
turned a four hour drive into seven). They loaded up a mountain of
oxygen tanks, a breathing machine, and a walker.  He was so excited to
walk into my house and my kids could hardly leave him alone.  All in one
day, he made it to Kate’s soccer game, then drove to William’s football
game.  He cheered his guts out and we beamed that he had made it.  When
we got home that afternoon, we let him rest, the oxygen lines running
like railroad tracks all over the house.

Then the
electricity mysteriously went out.  Seriously.  At first, it was an
adventure, but as the hours went on and the dark started to come, we
began to get a little worried.  It didn’t come back on for the entire
night.  We put Grandpa to bed in William’s room and I set the alarm
every two hours, hoping the oxygen would stretch since we couldn’t
recharge the tanks.  I had to keep a candle lit in the bathroom for his
frequent trips to the bathroom.  I spent the night praying that he
wouldn’t die in William’s bed since his various machines couldn’t be
plugged in.

In the morning, I looked at my Mom and
Aunt– none of us had slept and we were all three exhausted.  But
Grandpa?  He was pretty tired, but still raring to go. Mom had to gently break
it to him that they had to leave early since we’d had to make a serious dent in the extra oxygen.  I
mean, I’m certainly not a nurse, but breathing is kind of important.

It was the last of many, many, many visits from Grandpa and Grandma. When I think of all the places and all the ways they made it a priority to visit us in between our trips home, it makes me feel so loved.

My Grandpa taught me to be generous.  I have a little collection of silver dollars.  They all have a piece of white medical tape on them, with my name and the year written on it.  I remember Grandpa dressing up in a Santa costume that Grandma had made, along with a beard that was made of quilt batting and elastic.  Every Christmas they would come up with some kind of creative way to give us a little envelope with $20 in it and I thought it was the best thing ever.  One year it was taped inside a little plastic horn, and inevitably, they would pretend that one of the in-law’s envelopes was empty and would laugh like it was the funniest thing in the world.  Even this Christmas, when he was so sick, he took joy in handing us those little familiar envelopes.  He loved to give and he taught me the joy in giving to others.


But most importantly, my Grandpa taught me about longing for Jesus.  Just a few days before he died, when we still thought that he might pull through, he looked at my mom and said, “I can just see my welcoming line in heaven.  I can see Jesus waiting for me… and behind Him is Gracie (that was my Grandma) and then Annie.  I just can’t wait to see them.”  His words have echoed in my brain many times since Mom relayed them to me.  When we face death, whether our own or someone we love, we long for heaven and for those we know who have gone before us.  We miss them and rightly so.  Heaven becomes so much more vivid to us when we can picture the faces of those we’ve loved so deeply. But Grandpa had a sacred longing for Jesus, not just for those he had known in life, and that is so profound to me.  When I think of the promise of heaven and all that it holds for me, I don’t want to gloss over what Jesus has done for me by limiting my longing of heaven to just those I have lost here on earth. Someday in heaven, we will be in the fullness of Jesus. Together with our welcoming line, we will sing “He is worthy to receive power and riches and wisdom and strength and honor and glory and blessing!” (Revelation 5:11-12).  We will look to Jesus, our desires for Him fully satisfied, and it will be far beyond our wildest dreams.

I love the legacy that my Grandpa leaves: to love others, to live generously, to long for Jesus.  He may not have thought he was a smart man, but his actions and the way he ordered his life proved otherwise.  I miss him dearly already, but I am so glad to know his deepest desire has come true. He is home.

P.S.  That picture is one of my dearest treasures:  My Grandparents with Annie, just two months before she died.

Blank Slate: New Year  0

I finally got around to opening my 2015 planner this week… halfway into January.

I am sitting in my dining room, drinking a cup of Builders Tea (milk, no sugar).  The sun is beautiful and I hijacked Kate’s disco ball last week because it sends tiny polka dots all over the room.  It makes me so happy.  The Christmas season was full for us, a good full, but taking down the decorations is like a breath of fresh air, a new beginning of sorts.

I’m not necessarily the Resolution Type, especially halfway into January.  But there is something about this season that lends itself to evaluation.  I will admit I’ve been eyeing spiderwebs hanging on the ceiling fans and daring to look under beds.  I even made bran muffins, though I’m not sure they’re healthy when you add a glob of butter on them and eat more than one.

 Sometimes when I look around me and all that needs to be done, I just tend to get overwhelmed and I quit before I start. But in an effort to keep myself sane, I decided that I would add to my planner just a few small goals I feel I can accomplish this year:

1. This year, I will teach my children to wear coats.  I don’t know about you, but my kids are forever arguing with me about what to wear when we leave the house.  They have lived in Michigan for their entire lives, and yet somehow as we leave the house, we have the exact same conversation about what they should be wearing to stay warm.  And they always seem genuinely surprised that I won’t allow spring jackets and shorts when it is January.  As we walk out the door, inevitably 10 minutes late, they ask: “Mom, do I need to wear a coat?” and I answer: “It is winter.  In Michigan.” Often they look at me after this statement with blank stares, like I haven’t really answered their question, which leads me to the next goal…

2.  This year, I will be more specific.  I have finally learned that flippantly telling my children to put away their dirty laundry just doesn’t cut it.  Instead, laundry needs to be put in the basket used for dirty laundry. Not beside the basket, not under the basket, not on the shelf of clean towels located just above the basket… but in the actual basket I have so kindly provided.  I will strive to close the loopholes, however many thousands there are.

3.  This year, I will call a truce. I will make peace with blue lumps of toothpaste that I find dry in the sink morning and night …and with the lone socks that I find under furniture and stuffed in the corners of the closets. I will learn to accept the foam darts and tiny legos, the rainbow loom bands and painting projects.  I will keep demanding that toots are to happen away from the dinner table, but in my heart I will know that it’s a battle I’ll probably never win.  Because these signs of life– the painful, smelly, patience building signs of life– will all too soon be a memory of the past.

Happy New Year, Friends.  May you have the courage to hold this blank slate of a new year in your hand, realize the gravity of what you’ve been given and then spend it wisely.  Keep your expectations low and when all else fails, just buy a disco ball.

Hope and a Box of Crayons  1

 

via

 

I think I was four because I remember being at the Library Story Hour and we had a gift exchange.  One by one we went up to choose a gift.  And I deliberately picked the smallest package. I was so sure of whoever this Worst-Advice-Giver had said.  (Did you know gullible isn’t in the dictionary?)
It was a box of crayons.  A 24 pack, with all the normal colors.  It wasn’t even neon or pastels or anything.
So much for good things.
Twenty-five years or so later, on our first Christmas after Annie died, we were so sad. Peter and I were reminiscing about it the other day– and actually, we have very few tangible memories.  What we do have, however, is the memory of heaviness.  It had been just three months, long enough for people to think that we’d soon be getting back to normal, and long enough that I was pretty sure that I’d never be happy again.  It had never occurred to me that Christmas could be sad.  We all felt this deep hopelessness that seemed to be magnified by all the sparkle and happiness that surrounded us.
Looking back, I realize we just wanted to ease the pain somehow.  We bought gifts like crazy– we wanted to do something to make us forget how horrific the past months had been and so driving two hours to buy a moped for Peter and completely surprising him seemed like a small break from the bleakness.  And yet, under it all, that moped didn’t bring him more joy and didn’t erase our sadness.
Sometimes good things just seem so illusive, just out of our reach. They promise so much, yet when we finally achieve them, it seems so empty.
Donald Miller just wrote a blog post called “Why We Distract Ourselves with Things of Pleasure”, because yes we do.  I see that tendency in myself and around me.  This time of year, especially, isn’t our sorrow magnified?  Things we’ve kept neatly tucked away, or at least under control, seem to be harder to manage.  We’re forced to reconcile where we thought we’d be, how we thought life would look and the weight of where life has taken us is sometimes too much for us to bear.
He says, “Everybody around us, especially during the holidays, is seeking to receive and give pleasure, but pleasure rarely satisfies.”
It’s true.  I hated that first Christmas. Everything about it was wrong.  I knew there was nothing I could do about my fragmented family, but there was something I could do about how we lived our life.  And I think that’s when things really turned around for us.  We searched for meaning and we started to redeem our pain by allowing God to use us.
But, ugh, I don’t want to make it seem like we have the magic formula …. because on a normal day I feel like I fall so short of where I should be. Somewhere, though, in the mess of life, in small slivers of time, I can see how God is taking the notion of pleasure out of me and He is giving me something much bigger, much longer lasting.
Joshua 2 tells the story of Rahab, a prostitute in Jericho.  Everything in her life was sad and wrong.  And yet, for some strange reason, when the two Israelite spies sought refuge in her house, she hid them and didn’t tell the guards they were on the roof.  She bargained with the spies, and perhaps she was aware that God was giving her a way out of her life gone wrong, a chance for redemption.  The spies promised her that if she hung a scarlet rope out of her window, when they came to destroy her city, they would spare whoever was in her home with her.  And they did.  The Hebrew word for the lifeline that hung from her window was tikvah.  It’s also the word for hope.  When we have hope, we know and understand that God is changing us and taking the broken places in our life and giving them meaning.
This year, the moments of sadness are still there, but they are fewer.  Maybe because it’s been six years since that first one.  Or maybe because God has slowly shown us something much greater than pleasure in this season.  He redeems our pain, hands us the cords of hope and gives meaning to our shattered grief.
I know so many who are sad this Christmas.  So many who feel like they’ve been handed a box of crayons, a crushing reminder of empty promises and heartbreak.  And I just want to give you a hug and look you in the eye and tell you– A fancy drink at Starbucks will not satisfy you.  Neither will more gifts under the tree or a vacation away from “real life”. Do not buy into the lie that pleasure will bring you joy. You may feel better in the moment, but the pain will be real and raw until you open your heart to God’s hope.
May you, like Joseph, fight for redemption of your pain so that you can say, “God has made me fruitful in the land of my suffering.” (Genesis 41:52)
And by all means, don’t choose the small packages at your next gift exchange.

Upon Your Heart  0

Last week I donated the last box of diapers in our house.  I had the hardest time letting them go and found myself trying to come up with weak excuses to keep them.  I’ve been reflecting on it more than can be humanly healthy, but at the bottom of it all (no pun intended), is the shock that I’ve made it this far.

I’m ten years into this parenting thing, and I have done truckloads of things that I had no idea I was capable of doing…  like listening to their deep cries of grief (I still have moments when I wish they could’ve experienced death from a pet) to potty training (I still have no idea how I did that), to sticking up for them when others expect the pastor’s kids to be the perfect ones (fyi: they’re not even close) and listening to endless commentary on countless football games (William congratulated me when I mentioned halftime the other day. It’s sad, really).

Parenting is so intentional, isn’t it?  I can’t just sit back and hope that my kids turn out okay.  I have to guide them and listen to them, keeping in close relationship with Jesus above all.

Lots of years ago, when Kate was a difficult three year old, I remember praying so hard that somehow God would take hold of her heart.  Her strong will was getting the best of both of us and I was out of ideas.  It was around Christmas time and a church in town had a live outdoor nativity.  We walked past the Roman guards and the marketplace, coming up on the stable at the end.  Mary and Joseph were there, along with several animals and baby Jesus.  I was holding Kate and I remember that she stopped wiggling and was so still.  Peter and William moved on, but she whispered, “I’m not ready yet.”  This is it!  I remember thinking, tears in my eyes.  Finally after many minutes of silence and stillness, she whispered to me “I’m just waiting for that cow over there to poop.”

Just like that I realized that I couldn’t wish for some magic solution to her cure her strong will.  Instead, the heart change had to be in me.  Peter and I have learned to celebrate who she is, to bend her strong will to be a strength instead of something that gets the best of her.  It’s a slow process, but as we watch her bloom, to stick up for the underdog, to do the right thing even when it isn’t what everyone else is doing– well, it makes me burst with love for her.

In Deuteronomy 6, right after Moses gave the Ten Commandments, he tells the people about other things that God told him to teach the people.  He says,

“Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength.  These commands I give you today are to be upon your hearts.  Impress them on your children.  Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up.”

Do you see what Moses said right before he told them to impress the laws on their children?  He said they were to first be upon the parent’s hearts. Before we can teach our children how to love God, we first have to love God ourselves.  His commands have to be on our hearts, as parents, first.  If I’m not living my life for Christ, then I can’t expect my kids to.  When it comes to character and faith, they see right through it.

Last week we were praying before dinner.  We had let Hank, our old dog, out and he was watching us through the window.  But Hank has this problem.  He still runs away, even in his old age, and it was bitterly cold and dark.  We knew if we let him out of our sights, he’d be gone in a flash, and it would not be good.  So while we prayed, Peter and I kept our eyes on Hank… and the kids caught us.  They said, “You didn’t close your eyes while we prayed!  Why do you tell us we have to close our eyes if you don’t do it?”  We were busted (but they were busted, too, since they clearly had their eyes open to catch us).

My kids know when it’s real and they aren’t afraid to challenge me when they see that what I’m telling them to do is not lining up with my actions. Sometimes it’s the little things that don’t matter so much, like not closing my eyes while praying.  But often it’s the bigger things that could have a real impact on their future.  I don’t have to be perfect— just honest.  Whatever I want my children to become, I should strive to become as well.

It has to be upon my heart before I can impress it on theirs.

If I want my kids to respect their leaders, I also need to respect my leaders.
If I want my kids to admit they’re wrong, I have to learn to tell them I’m sorry when I mess up.
If I want them to be generous, I need to give freely.
If I want them to be kind, they have to see me building others up
If I want them to be honest, they need to see me being honest with others.
If I want them to follow Jesus, I have to love Him with all my heart and soul and strength.

It has to be in me before it can be in my kids.  And it has to be in you before it can be in your kids.  What if you believed that the greatest thing that could happen in the heart of your child would be what happened in your heart first? Your kids can’t see who you are becoming if they never see who you really are.  And if they never see who you really are, how will they know the difference God has made and continues to make in your life?

I was not a gracious mom yesterday morning.  As my mind replays it now, I am ashamed at the way I sent my kids to school.  True, they picked on one another far more than they should’ve and true, they made many unnecessary messes (I’m looking at you, toaster crumbs).  But I got mad.  And after I pulled away from the school drop-off and finally had a moment of quiet, I realized that I could’ve stopped and prayed with them instead of getting angry.  It might have changed our morning, or maybe it’s wouldn’t have, but I know my own soul would’ve been settled.  When they got home, I asked for forgiveness.  My kids see who I really am and it often isn’t great.  I hate it when I get it wrong, but I can redeem my actions if I choose to swallow my pride and make it right with God and with them.

“God is at work telling a story of restoration and redemption through your family. Never buy into the myth that you need to become the ‘right’ kind of parent before God can use you in your children’s lives.  Instead learn to cooperate with whatever God desires to do in your heart today so your children will have a front-row seat to the grace and goodness of God.”– Reggie Joiner

 

“He tends His flock like a shepherd; He gathers the lambs in His arms and carries them close to His heart; He gently leads those who have young.”– Isaiah 40:11

Take heart today. I don’t know who you are or where you are in your relationship with Christ.  Maybe you find it easy to be intentional with your kids or maybe you find yourself weary from trying to get it all right all the time.  Maybe you’ve surprised yourself with how hard it is to be a parent.  Maybe you’re just starting out, or maybe you’re at the end.  Wherever you find yourself, know that God is with you.  He promises to carry you close to His heart.  He wants you first to love Him with everything you have, and then to teach that love to your children.  He will lead you one tiny step at a time.

{I chose the pictures as proof that we have lots of “moments” in our house.  So. many. moments.  But also?  I have to remember that if I wait long enough, frowns eventually turn to smiles.  Most of the time.}

{Also, want to read more?  I love Parenting Beyond your Capacity by Reggie Joiner and Carey Nieuwhof and the corresponding blog Parent Cue.  I’m also on the tail end of Nancy Guthrie’s The Lamb of God and her chapter on Deuteronomy has been so eye opening to me.}

On Poverty {step into my shoes}  1

For the past few Monday nights, after we get dinner on the table, we’ve been opening up a little cardboard box called “Step Into My Shoes”.

We’ve met a Pastor Tom and Momma Nancy, along with their 12 children.  They live in Uganda and they’ve been teaching us, via DVD, about what it means to have enough.  The first week we watched how they take plastic bags and fibers from the banana tree to make a soccer ball… and then we made one of our own.  Last week we watched them roast ears of corn on the fire while they sang and prayed together.  As a family we talked about belonging and about the ways that we are the same and different than Pastor Tom and Nancy’s family. Through the next sessions, we’ll learn how they gather water, how they prepare food, how they find safety as they sleep, how they travel to school and how they worship.

 

“With our busy lives, we sometimes need a story that reminds that simplicity leads to joy and the opposite of poverty is not wealth, it’s finding God is enough. As we discover God’s purposes and provisions for us, our families and our world, we live blessed to be a blessing.”– Compassion International

Two weeks after I came home from Haiti, I found myself in Louisville, Kentucky at the MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) International conference.  I had responded to an email invitation from Compassion International for a luncheon they were serving during the conference.   When a beautiful girl named Olive stood up and started speaking with confidence and poise, I sat in rapt attention as the stories came tumbling off her lips.

She herself had once been a Compassion Child.  She was from Africa, living through wars and unspeakable tragedy.  She told of her disappointment when she was told she could not go to school, how she had followed her grandmother to the fields on the first day, thinking of all her cousins and friends as they went without her.  She told of her excitement to get home and hear all about it and the confusion when it turned dark and they still hadn’t returned.  And then she shared her horror when they realized that during the day rebel soldiers had come to the school and had taken every child. By God’s grace she had been spared.  She grew up with hope, knowing Jesus.  She spoke of a family from Australia who supported her through Compassion for years after her mother died of AIDS.  She gets to meet them this winter, 20 years later.  It was the only time during her talk that she cried.

It was unbelievable.  With my own stories from Haiti freshly in my heart, I knew that God was showing me again the pain in the world.

At the end of the luncheon, we were handed a box and an invitation.  An invitation to shift our focus from to-do lists and busy schedules to “living from God’s enough”.  Step Into My Shoes is a 7-step walk in the footsteps of Pastor Tom and Nancy.  As we’ve been “slipping on their shoes” each week, we’ve been looking at how Scripture calls us to follow Jesus.  For our family, this is a practical way we can see the world through God’s eyes.  It’s another piece in the puzzle as we help our kids form the way they see the world.  And let me tell you, the conversations we have been having and the ways that I see my kids processing poverty makes my heart burst.  This is the stuff that matters in life.

Would you like to request a box for your family? It’s totally free– a gift from Compassion International, no matter if you sponsor a child or not.

 

Snapshot {Superman}  1

For a week in mid-September (2014) I was in Haiti.  I’ve been digesting my experience bit by bit here on my blog.  You can find the whole series of Snapshots here.

There’s this Haitian they call Superman. And there’s this story from years ago– that when they were building the mission, a wall began to cave in and one of the other workers was trapped under the dirt. All the Haitians froze, staring at the man as he struggled to get out from under the debris. Larry (he’s the missionary that we stayed with) jumped in and started to dig with his hands frantically as the Haitians screamed, “It’s going to cave in! Get out! Get out!” But Larry kept digging faster and the Haitians kept yelling louder.
Suddenly, from out of nowhere, Superman swept in.  He lifted both of them men out of the hole.  He got them to safety and literally seconds later, the entire wall caved in.  Superman, risking his own life,  saved them from being buried alive.

I didn’t get to meet Superman.  He died just a few days before we arrived in Haiti, of an infection.  After all he did for the people of Haiti (he spent twenty years building the mission and working there), it was fitting that we were there for his funeral.  He was 47 years old.

We rode in the bed of a pickup truck 45 minutes to the town of his funeral.  Most of the way there, as I was precariously balancing, exercising muscle groups that I didn’t know existed, I was selfishly thinking of the amazing cultural experience this would be.  A funeral! And just a day into my trip!  I asked if I could take pictures.

And then we arrived. I couldn’t process the sound I heard, because I had never heard anything like it.  Ever.

It was the sound of wailing.  A church full of wailing people, rocking back and forth, pleading, “Jesus, Jesus”. At times we couldn’t even hear the Pastor talking because the wailing was so loud.  It was so hot and so stifling.  My new friend, Pam, and I were squeezed next to one another, the sweat running down our backs.  People kept sitting next to us… and when I thought we couldn’t possibly fit one more in our row, we fit four more.  She would lean forward and I would lean back.  And then we would switch because there was no room for both of us to be in the same position.

There were no flowers, only ribbons made to look like flowers, because flowers would cost too much.  We were told that Superman’s widow would be paying for this funeral for a very long time.

I closed my eyes and drifted off, unable to process the grief and sorrow I was hearing.  These people– they have so little.  So much has been taken from them and they live with their souls wide open, rejoicing and grieving without abandon.  So raw.

They carried his widow out with the casket.  She was unable to support herself.  His two young daughters, too.  They loaded his casket onto the back of a truck and then we walked.  Hundreds of us walked quietly for over 30 minutes, following the truck to the cemetery.

 

And we watched from a distance as they destroyed his casket, pulling the handles off of it, to keep it from being stolen.  The tombstones were cement, with crude dates written by hand on them.  I learned that in a few years, the people take the remains of a person out, shove the bones back and make room for someone else.

I could only pray, “Lord, have mercy.”  These people have experienced too much grief, too much hardship.  With a freshness, my heart broke open as I realized how deeply Jesus loves these people and how He loves the underdog without abandon.

I have no good ending for this story, no little sweet verse to tie it up neatly.  This one cut me to the core.  I never want to get over it, yet it haunts me.  Now that I’m home, in the world of changing leaves and running errands and pumpkin lattes, it almost seems unbelievable.  And yet there is a very real widow today, putting the pieces of her life back together, putting one foot in front of the other in order to survive.  Lord, have mercy on her today.

An Interview with Eliza at 4 years and 2 days old.  0

I think there are few things as exciting as turning four.  And this girl has been over the moon about everything birthday this year.  She requested “eggs with bacon sprinkles” for her special breakfast, strawberry cupcakes with pink frosting and pink sprinkles, and potato soup for dinner.

This morning we were sitting on the floor and she was trying to talk me into letting her play on my phone and eat a sucker.  Instead I said, “What if I interview you?”.  She was so excited…. and she had no idea what an interview was.  Ha.  I love her so much. (Her words are in bold)

Hello.
Hello.

What is your name?
What is your name?

No, no.  In an interview, you don’t repeat the question, you answer it.  What is your name?
Pickle.


Um, your real name.
Eliza.  E-L-I-Z-A


What is your favorite thing to eat?
Mac and cheese.  Um, mashed potatoes and that’s all.


When you get up in the morning, what do you look forward to?
Breakfast.  You need to eat breakfast.  Lunch, dinner and supper.  When are we going to eat?  In a little bit?

Can you tell me a story?
Once upon a time there was a puppy and it was named Rosie and there was a little girl named Rosie and there was a little boy that was named Jack and there’s a tiny dog and there’s 2 dogs and the other dog was a girl and the other dog was named Rosie too because it was a girl and they played all day and they loved apples and pears and peels.  They liked to go potty in the garage.  The end. (Everything EVERYTHING is named Rosie. Also, there’s always a mention of potty because certain people in our house ALWAYS LAUGH at potty references.)

 
What is the biggest word you know?
Chrysanthemum and hallelujah.  Actually, the whole world.  That’s a big one.
 
What do you know about Jesus?
Hmmm.  He loves me.
Tell me what you like to imagine.
You’re a baby and I’m a mom and we say baby things.  Wah! Wah!  Like that.
 
What are you thinking about when you hum?
(Starts humming) I love everybody.
 
What do you like about being four so far?
I’m bigger than three.
 
Did you like being three?
No!  Cause I wanted to be four!
 
Thank you very much for the interview.
Uh-huh.

 

 

Snapshot {dignity.}  0

For a week in mid-September (2014) I was in Haiti.  I’ve been digesting my experience bit by bit here on my blog.  You can find the whole series of Snapshots here.

 

There’s a story in Luke 13 of a woman who had been bent over double for eighteen years.  Eighteen.  It says she couldn’t even straighten up at all.  Jesus sets her free, healing her on the Sabbath, which puts the people all up in arms.  As they’re arguing and telling Him what He did was wrong, the woman, now standing straight, is praising God.
 I’ve tried to imagine myself in her place many times.  Only being able to look at the ground.  Seeing other people’s feet instead of meeting their eyes.  Unable to help with even menial tasks.  A burden to society, with no end in sight. Washed up.  Unwanted.
Often in a country as poor as Haiti, the older people are uncared for.  Their families simply cannot support them…. or won’t support them. They are bent over double, so to speak.  They have nothing left to offer their families.  They’ve lived incredibly hard lives, harder than we can ever imagine.  They’ve gone hungry more times than they can remember.  They’ve held their babies as hurricane waters sweep through their homes, standing to keep little bodies above the water.  They’ve sent their children to gather water while they sweep their front stoop over and over, taking pride in their home and their country. They’ve worked when they can, doing whatever it takes to keep their families alive and their children educated.

There aren’t many older people in Haiti.  In a country with so many diseases and so much hardship, life expectancy simply isn’t that high.  So when we were able to visit the Grand Moun house, I knew I was seeing something I’d never forget.  These precious people were being cared for and they did not take it for granted.  They spend their days in rocking chairs, looking out at the mountains, singing and building a community. Their beds are thin mattresses on cement blocks, their possessions in small sacks piled at the foot of the bed.
And yet, at an age where most are turned away, they have been given dignity.  Jesus has lifted them up and they are no longer bent over double.
(The Gran Moun House is part of the Northwest Haiti Christian Mission)

 

Snapshot {enough.}  1

For a week in mid-September (2014) I was in Haiti.  I’ve been digesting my experience bit by bit here on my blog.  You can find the whole series of Snapshots here.

 

One month ago, I boarded a plane and found myself in Haiti for eight days.  And still, all these days later, I am having a hard time finding just the right words to explain what I saw, what I felt in my heart, how it twisted me up down deep.  If you were to ask me to return, I’d go get my suitcase in a heartbeat.  It was an amazing trip.

I feel like I’m holding something new in my heart, like I have all this new information that is so precious and life giving and mind blowing… and it’s completely overwhelming to me that Jesus trusts me with it.

I finally realized that one of the reasons I haven’t been writing is because I don’t have any neatly packaged stories.  I have no cute anecdotes or sweet endings.  There is so much heartbreak in the world and it’s haunting to me.  More than ever, though, I see how God is so tender to the underdog, to those who are overlooked by the world.

So here you go.  The first snapshot of Port de Paix.

*************

Each morning we would walk.  We would give a little wave and say “Bonjou” to as many people as we could.  “Watch them bloom,” our missionary friend, Larry said. “So many of them are so discouraged and they can’t imagine why someone like you would want to come to visit their country.  Smile at them and watch them transform from discouraged to joyful.”  And so we did just that.  It was fun to watch the demeanor of their whole being change.  We would walk through town, up the mountain a bit and then rest.  As we made our way back, we would stop for a banana. These simple walks taught me so much.

One day, a man came up to me and started speaking.  He had his wife and small baby with him.  His eyes were desperate and as he went on, I kept trying to tell him I couldn’t understand him.  Finally, I got him to talk to Larry.

Their baby was sick.  We don’t know for sure what he said, but it seemed to be something wrong with her heart and they needed help.  I watched Larry listen and then give them money.  Before they left,  Neile prayed for them. She prayed that the money Larry gave would be enough.

We didn’t see them again. Each day I kept my eyes open for that sweet baby and her parents, but they never reappeared.

Almost daily I think of them.  And I wonder, was it enough?  Was she taken care of or was it too late?  Are they grieving a baby in the grave right now or are they rejoicing that their walk that day resulted in a divine appointment to get the treatment they needed?

What exactly is enough anyway?

How would I live my life differently if I was forced to walk the streets, praying for a miracle to help my child?  And how do I reconcile the massive difference between the “American enough” and the “Third World enough”?

A Sweet Aroma  0

 

At the moment I have all I need—more than I need!
I am generously supplied with the gifts you sent me …
They are a sweet-smelling sacrifice that pleases God well.
(Philippians 4:18)
When the calendar turns to September, no matter how prepared I think I am, it is still a really tough month.  The memories surrounding Annie’s last month with us– the desperation I felt trying to figure out what was wrong with her and the subsequent diagnosis of a brain tumor, followed by just a few days in the hospital before we said good-bye— come back stronger and more vivid.  Those last few days were somehow simultaneously horrific and holy.  I will admit that I still find my mind wandering back, willing a different ending to the story.  And the heartbreak comes when I realize that it’s just too late.
Monday marked five years since Peter and I put “Peacemaker “ on repeat and they slowly took out the tubes and we were left holding her until she took her last breath.  I woke up immediately thinking of that day and the tears came even before I had opened my eyes.  But even as the tears fell, I felt God gently speaking to me. He’s been teaching me about redemption, about taking the sting out of our suffering.  And so, knowing that so many of you remember this day with us, I put this status on Facebook:

“When they walk through the Valley of Weeping, it will become a place of refreshing springs. The autumn rains will clothe it with blessings. (Psalms 84:6 NLT)
Five years ago today, I held my sweet Annie Jane for the very last time. And while the memory of her still makes me weep, when I look at the path of our lives since that day I am overcome with gratitude at the ways God has guided and changed us, loved us and comforted us.
Many of you have lived this story with us. Thank you. As an offering to Christ, would you tell us a way Jesus has changed you as a result of her life? Let’s take the sting out of our suffering today. Only Jesus can take our dry valleys of weeping and make them into refreshing springs.”

You guys.  The response I got blew me away.  I had no idea it would add up to over fifty comments, multiple inbox messages and a letter that had me sobbing.  I am so absolutely humbled at the impact my daughter has made in a world she spent just 183 days in.  It is all because of Jesus.
“It taught us to pray together for a mourning family for a whole year. Romans 12:15”
“A few years ago, you & Peter were participants on a panel about grief, bereavement, loss, the huge impact for me was Peter vocalizing your story. So many times loss of unborn or young children is focused on the mom, Peter gave that voice of a hurting/strong dad/husband.”
“Jesus has helped to to step outside of myself and truly love and care for grieving friends. “
“…grief and suffering can draw us nearer to the heart of Jesus and one another if we will let the Spirit take us there and intercede with and for us.”
“Rocking and holding Annie is a gift that I treasure and I am forever changed. Through the tears and heartache (shared with you) something beautiful was happening in our lives that we couldn’t explain. A mystery for sure.”
Yesterday, even though I had a million “important” things to do, I ignored them all and I spent the morning cutting my Sweet Annie … one of God’s most tangible gifts to me.  Each year I am amazed as I watch it grow and realize that it will be ready to cut and dry on the exact week of her death.  It has the sweetest scent, one of my favorites in the whole earth.  And as I lost myself in prayer as I cut it, I thanked God for so many of you.  For the way that God has chosen to use our story to bring others into a deeper relationship with Him.  I am humbled beyond words that My Annie is “A sweet smelling sacrifice that pleases God well.”  What more as a Mama could I desire for my child?
P.S.  If you’d like to read the whole string of comments on facebook, go here.
P.S.  I just returned from a week in Haiti.  It wrecked me, in a good way.  I’m sure the stories will be leaking onto this blog soon, but for now, I’m struggling to hold both my grief for Annie and Haiti together in my heart.