Forgotten

Her eyes lit up with delight. Bending closer to her, I smiled. Music rejoicing in the Savior’s birth filled the sitting room as our small group lifted heart and voice to the Lord.

“We thought you forgot us.”

Her words cut my heart. How often was this group forgotten? Entirely dependent upon others. Some with no family. No friends. No one to lift their spirits.

So desperately in need of a companion. Someone to listen to their stories. To encourage them.

Sometimes a gentle touch and a warm smile are all that’s needed.

They begin to open up. To share their hearts.

It is then that the Word of God is free to do its work.

“We thought you forgot.”

When the rest of the world is too busy to care. When memories are all they have. A gentle touch, a warm smile, and a listening ear open the heart to the Gospel.

So few days left. Nonetheless, a soul–priceless in the eyes of God. To Him, never forgotten.

As Tender Plants

A flash of green caught my eye. The unwatchful gaze would have swept past without seeing.

But I had waited for this moment.

Through the winter snows, I had poured over resources and writings. The notes were filed, rewritten, and filed again.

The spring thaw brought with it both excitement and increased labor.

Weeks of waiting. But now, there it was.

“Hey, girls!” I pointed them to small pieces of green pushing their way through the stubborn New England soil.

They were confused at my excitement; I realized they could not see the full picture.

“Those are baby carrot leaves,” I explained. “Salad!”

That garden of many years ago held a special place in my heart. Weeding, watering, weeding again, mulching… I loved those cool, quiet morning. These were the enjoyable tasks. Alone with my thoughts…whispered conversations to the Lord…burdens given over.

Disheveled brown heads, peeking out the back door and tousling down the steps like puppies, would bring my wandering thoughts back to earth.

My girls. My small plants. Nurtured. Tended. The little shoots of love, respect, honesty. The flowers that would some day bring forth fruit.

Though that garden is but a memory, the little green seedlings have since grown into capable young ladies. The weeding, watering, and cultivating has not stopped. Rather it has increased. These young plants are susceptible to infestations of pride, anger, and selfishness. Weeding against the root of bitterness requires great vigilance.

It is a monumental task, growing this next generation of wives and mothers. This garden drives me to my knees.

Ah! But that sprout I see! This. The servant’s heart. The concern for souls. The obedience. These are the moments I have been waiting for. Under the care of the Master Gardener, these plants have every opportunity to flourish with fruit to His glory.

Adventure!

Every now and then, an opportunity is presented, with an understanding that it will never pass by again. A once-in-a-lifetime deal. A time to toss routine to the wind, and have fun.

A time to get in the car for eight hours and see a fabulous group of people. Friends. Family. Musicians.

I hope I can still sing at close to 90!

Watching others sing and play for the Lord’s glory, and the edification of the saints, is always a blessing. But seeing three generations together, lifting their voices in thanksgiving and praise to God was truly a gift.

When the miles have been crossed, family ties are strengthened. Reuniting in the Smokey Mountains was truly an enjoyable day for these flat-landers!

There are higher, more breathtaking mountains, I am sure. But this view was amazing. God’s might and creativity were abundantly evident in every direction.

And we can’t ever turn down a request for music. We don’t really know what we’re doing, but we do have fun doing it together!

Sound Check!

There is so much love and joy in serving Jesus! No time passes between brothers and sisters in Christ.

Back to the routine. The simple structure of our every day life. But with renewed thanksgiving and love to others our amazing Creator and Savior.

My guys!

The Power of Influence

“Bye, Ma!” he threw over his shoulder. The door slammed behind him before I had a chance to respond. He was off to do a man’s job.

Daily, it seems, this child changes before my eyes. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at times, he is becoming a man. The men in his life have so shaped and influenced his mind, that he strives to be like them.

Daddy’s little apprentice. Working hard. Learning life-long skills. But it’s also much more. His character is being shaped and molded. When something goes wrong, his daddy doesn’t lose his temper. When his grandfather is tired, he pushes on and finishes the task. When others ridicule and mock, his pastor continues preaching. These are the powerful influences he is observing.

Sometimes this teaching must come in the form of correction and reproof. But most often, it comes through the fellowship shared over a common goal.

These hours and moments are far more effective and important than anything else.

I see him stand a little taller, and walk a little straighter. He is needed by those he looks up to.

I watch him with wonder. My little boy. Slowly but surely, being replaced by a capable, willing young man.

My Heart

The stealthy fingers of predawn light plied their way thorough the blinds, confirming the rattling alarm clock’s accuracy. Carefully, without lifting my weary head from the pillow, I silenced the monster.

“Lord,” the unspoken request for strength echoed through my groggy mind.

But today it was not to be. Closing my eyes against the room spinning around me, I curled back into my little ball and waited.

Before long, I could hear the children’s attempts toward quietness. The smells of breakfast drifted past along with muffled bursts of laughter punctuated by brief silences.

Finally, my body decided to cooperate, and I dragged myself into the waiting hugs and kisses of my babies.

Knowing me as well as they do, one prepared an oversized, steaming cup of coffee while another cleared a pile of books from the recliner, all amidst a continuous stream of updates from the past few hours.

“We did all our jobs, Mama, except for him–he’s still not even dressed..”

“I might still be in my jammies, but I already finished language and reading!”

My mind involuntarily contrasted the morning’s scene against my early picturesque visions–children snuggled cozily on the couch reading with me; pouring over maps and reference books; taking long hikes through the woods. The ideal. The very best. The wildly unrealistic.

My heart is content. It has not always been–the Lord, in His sweet, gentle ways, brought me to the place of contentment. Seeds of perceived neglect, (how could I give my children a proper childhood from the living room couch?) blossomed into flowers of independence and sweet, helpful spirits.

We appreciate the good days–which vastly outnumber the truly unbearable ones–playing outside, taking field trips, or just chatting together about life.

The academics are there, steadily running in the background. They bring order and routine to our days without running our lives.

I would never have chosen this path. But I am thankful for the fruit our Gardener has cultivated in our lives.

Play With Me

The stack of correcting on my desk loomed ominously before me. No cup of coffee was going to motivate me enough for that task.

Behind me lay a stack of dirty pots and pans waiting to be washed, and the dryer buzzed its signal for the third time, rudely reminding me of my duties in the laundry room.

He grinned up at me, blissfully unaware of the tugs and pulls on my time.

“I know, Little Man, but Daddy will be home soon, and…”

My voice trailed off as his little face beamed even wider.

“Please, Mama!”

I looked around. The girls no longer begged me to play with them. Some were gone to Bible School classes. My girls–little ones who, just yesterday, were bringing dolls to me–now sitting in a classroom next to teenagers and adults. How had we gotten to this point so quickly?

The dishes could wait. The correcting would eventually get done. And that laundry certainly wasn’t going anywhere. But my boy? All too soon, he will stop asking me to play with him. And I will miss his big, beautiful, brown eyes pleading for my time.

“Ok, Little Man,” I smiled.

High Calling

His deep brown eyes sparkled. With gentle hands he brushed my cheek.

“Love ya!” he whispered and disappeared into the pre-dawn blackness of another Monday morning.

I felt the weight of what lay before me. His complete trust and confidence in me was overwhelming.

Raise his children. Educate them. Love them unconditionally. Teach them the Word of God. Model righteousness.

Lord, I am not equal to this task!

In the quiet that only early morning can know, the Lord strengthens my mind and feeds my soul.

“…bring them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord…”

“And these words…shall be in thine heart…and thou shalt teach them diligently unto thy children…”

His words. In my heart. That still small voice whispered into the depths of my heart.

“How can you teach diligently that which is neglected in your own heart and life?”

Simply reading the words across a page is not enough. His words must penetrate my heart and change my life. I cannot model righteousness if I do not continually set righteousness before my eyes.

No. I am not equal to the task I have been given–this high calling of shaping the next generation. But the Word of God, and His Spirit are.

As the last drops of coffee disappear, I hear stirrings from the bedrooms. My day has officially begun. By God’s grace, may I live this day in His strength.

Gone Home

I can still see her in my mind’s eye. That mischievous twinkle, nearly imperceptible to my six-year-old self.

“No snacks after school,” my father had sternly told me. But that was quickly forgotten when plates of peanut butter and fluff sandwiches were placed on the table, complete with cookies and fruit punch.

Seated between my cousins, I contentedly began my contraband feast. Suddenly, mid-bite, a thunderous call rang through the house. Dad was home! Gram looked at me and I looked at her.

“Hurry!” She whispered. “Give the rest to them!”

I don’t think he missed our guilty looks at each other. The extra plate on the table didn’t help much, either.

But that was Gram. Quiet on the outside. Spunky, mischievous, and funny on the inside.

Grandpa was a whirlwind of noise and activity. She cleaned up after his storms. She would quietly wait for a well-placed verbal jab, sending everyone into gales of laughter.

I can still hear his Sousa marches blaring from the car, his short, somewhat rounded form moving animatedly back and forth to the beat. Gram would grimace as his gravely voice tried to keep pitch at top volume with his favorite brass bands. They were a funny pair, the two of them.

I know I took her for granted as a child–she was always there. She waited for me at the bus stop, took me swimming, or to the library. She patiently taught me how to sew, and let me pick strawberries from her little patch.

Now I understand her sacrifices and labor of love to make her house the home it was. Grandpa’s thunderous laugh, bellowing throughout the living room. Cousins running in all directions. Food on every table. Gram was the glue that held it all together.

“A wise woman buildeth her house, but the foolish plucketh it down with her hands.” Gram built her family. I can still hear her encouraging voice as she sat and listened to my latest piano lesson. “Very good, Honey.” I will miss that voice and the love behind it.

But I could never wish her back. Back to a world of pain, sorrow, and difficulty. Her life had been wrapped in caring for Gramp.

She looked so frail and forlorn the day we buried him. Together for 74 years, torn apart by man’s most ancient enemy.

Together again through new life in Christ. This time, never to part again.

No separation, no matter how brief it may be, is a joyous affair.

Yet my heart does rejoice. Her pain-wracked body no longer imprisons her youthful soul. The effects of sin have been erased. She is reunited with those who have gone on before.

She has gone home.

And sweetest of all, she is face to face with God Himself. Her Savior. The Lamb of God who saved her soul. How I long to join her there!

Some Day

Eight years.  It’s a blink of the eye.  It’s a lifetime.

In eight years, nothing has changed.  We still carry on with our daily lives–work, school, routines…  And, yet, everything has changed.  A 1,200-mile move, births, deaths; each circumstance etching its effect deep into our lives and permanently changing who we are.

For eight years, in the memory of a loved one, time stood still.  The occasional phone call, letter, or picture could not impress upon our mind’s eye all that had changed.

Eight years in Sierra Leone turned his hair white and carved fine lines across his face.  But I would know that voice, that smile, those eyes anywhere

Eight added years expanded our little tribe.  But no distance or time could keep him from being his Pa’s little man.

This boy hangs on his every word. Love and adoration just emanate from his glow whenever they are together.

Time spent together has blurred the lines between the routine and the exceptional. Ordinary occurrences become noteworthy when shared with a long-absent loved one.

Eight years is particularly evident in the area of technology–“What’s an iPad?!”

While we settle back into our routine, we’re reminded to take time for that which matters most.

Family–God’s family unified in charity–is as close to the fellowship of Heaven as mortal flesh can experience.

My frail, human heart cannot imagine what rejoicing there will be when the Lord calls his children home, never more to part ways.

Some day.

Maybe today.

Time

Time.

That unyielding  chain which binds mortals to the present.

The past lingers tantalizingly  just outside our grasp.  Memories, pleasant or otherwise, are all that is left.  The future rises like a dark mist before us.  Uncertain.  Unknown. Truly, “If in this life only we have hope in Christ, we are of all men most miserable.”

 

Yet those who have gone on before urge us on to a higher calling.  One not bound so cruelly by Time’s steely grasp.  Down through the dusty halls of ages past we hear them call, “Awake to righteousness, and sin not; for some have not the knowledge of God…”

Some have not the knowledge of God.  Eternal souls trapped in a mortal shell of sinful flesh while the incessant hand sweeps across the clock of life. “…For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.”  Our vapor–and theirs–will soon be spent.  Eternity is at stake.  So, for centuries, Christians have bade their families tearful goodbyes, and taken the Gospel around the world.

For those who stay, there is a different “sorrow.”  All of the missed birthday parties.  All of the family gatherings with an empty place at the table.  The quiet moment of a once-shared memory.   We who send our loved ones away know a quiet, nagging fear.  Weeks pass.  Lines of communication are silent.  Then the phone rings, accompanied by a moment of strange dread–is all still well?  Yet the sacrifice of time and distance for the sake of the Gospel seem so petty when placed next to eternity.

Some day, that awful news will come.  Not of death itself, but of our present grief and loss.  Our loved one’s vapor will have vanished.  But it is not in vain if it is spent to the furtherance of the Gospel.

Behold, I shew you a mystery; We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed,  In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed. For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality.  So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory.  O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?  The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law.  But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.  Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye stedfast, unmoveable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord.
I Corinthians 15:51-58