Lost Marble

In 1989, we bought a little over an acre of land that had been horse pasture for as long as I had lived in the area. At the back were three fruit trees, the remnants of an orchard (ancient fruit trees, even then). Using my imagination, I could look back in time and see little pioneer children playing, and after that, children of the depression, and so on. The house two lots to the west of us was probably built around the turn of the century. The houses flanking us were probably built in the 1930s and 1940s. The acreage we bought belonged to the people who formerly owned the house to the east, and several properties to the east and north of that.

So, often, when digging, I would find treasures. On the eastern fence line, not too far from the neighbor's house, I found the remnants of an old burn pile--melted metal and melted ancient hand cream jars, lids, and so forth. When digging out on the western fence line, to the north, in what has always been pasture, as far as I can tell, I found an old, pre-matchbox era, toy fire engine. This spring, in our south pasture, to the west, where a little lean-to has stood for maybe a decade (Jake's house), a sparkle in the dirt at just the right time of day caught my attention. When I dug it up, I had a light blue and green marble. To me it looks old, especially given the imperfection at the top. I assume this is a hand-blown marble, and I don't think it was my daughter's. So I assume that it was lost by some child in a very long-ago time.

This marble seems to delight in being lost. When I found it, I stuck in my pocket and brought it in to wash it off. But when I set it down, it rolled to the floor and disappeared. A day or two later it reappeared right in the middle of the floor. So I picked it up, and not wanting it to be lost again, and wanting to show it to my daughter, to see if she recognized it, I set it in a flower pot that had been given to us, which had some living plants in it and little polished rocks like a little stream.

A few days later, I walked by the plant and remembered the marble and remembered that I wanted to show it to my daughter, but later that evening, when my daughter and son-in-law came by, the marble was nowhere to be found. I took all the rocks out and dug around in the soil, but the marble was lost. This became rather a joke to my family--me losing my marble and all. But it bugged me.

The plants died in the pot, so today, when I took it outside to clean it out, I sifted carefully through the dirt and found that marble. I don't intend to lose it again, but it seems to have a mind of its own. Nevertheless, at least I have a picture of it now, so people will know what to look for if they intend to help me find my marble.

Tolerance

I think God uses special people to help our areas of weakness. I know by the son that He has given me that I needed to grow in the areas of patience and tolerance.

Patience is a long lesson, built like a strong wall, brick upon brick upon brick. I get it. I get opportunities to learn patience almost daily. Brick upon patient brick.

I did not know I was not tolerant. I guess the opposite of tolerant would be critical, condescending, judgmental. I suppose I am and/or have been all of those things to some degree, because God is sure using my son to teach me about tolerance--from the other side, from the side of being criticized and judged, on account of my son.

He's such a special kid. He is exuberant and enthusiastic, full of life and energy, intellegent. But he has a blindspot for social things. He has never had a sense of personal space, first of all. I don't know if this is because of his vision or because something in his brain is wired differently. (I hesitate to say "wrong", because I believe that God knew what He was doing when He made K the way he is.) And so I find myself constantly reminding him that people like to have an armslength between them, when talking and such.

Another social area that we work on continually is reading body language and facial expressions and listening to words other people are saying. It's so hard when he sees other kids wrestling and such and he wants to get in on it, but he doesn't understand how to be gentle at the same time, and he doesn't realize how much bigger he is than other kids. When does "no" really mean "no"? He doesn't pick up on the subtle clues that differentiate "no" from "no". Are they smiling when they say it, or are they turning away and frowning? The subtle nuances that you and I take for granted, he does not see.

Last year, a parent called him a "bully" because of this. I suspect, now that the parent has known him for a year and through other sports and such, that he would not call K a bully now. But that was, nevertheless, his first impression. I can feel parents this year criticizing me because of my son's lack of social "comprehension", because they don't know him, and they don't know me, and they don't know us.

And it hurts. And there is nowhere to go with it. When I was raising my "other" child, I was the condescending, critical one--if not overtly, at least on the inside. So I guess, in my old age, and because I am on the other side of the coin now, I will think before I have a critical, condescending, judgmental heart. We are not all wired the same (thankfully!). It isn't necessarily lack of good parenting that makes a child blurt out what comes to his mind or play too rough or too long. It isn't a matter of 'us' and 'them', but it is 'we'. How can we help each other and encougage each other, rather than criticzing and judging each other?

Growing into the people God wants us to be sure is painful sometimes....

Weeds, Rain, and Getting God's Heart

We almost always have a relatively nice spell in February when I can get out and weed the flower beds. And they look nice for a while, but then in April when I get to them again, they are overgrown with grass and weeds and clover and bedstraw. It would be nice if I could just weed them once in a while and be done; but that isn't how life goes.

Similarly, in my own heart, I might think I have weeded out a bad thought pattern or some bitterness or have forgiven a hurt; but then something will happen to make me look closely, and there are those rotten, ugly weeds again.

I have marveled at my son's high tolerance for pain. But with my recent broken leg, I think I understand how he comes by it. When we were putting our garden in, in the first weeks of my injury, digging about two holes per day for my tomatoes was about all I could handle if the ground was hard. But I would not notice that I was in pain, only that I was getting short-tempered and cranky with my son. It seems I have a similar way with my feelings. When I am hurting, I might not recognize it; but I will start criticizing others or speaking harsh words.

Sometimes, the weeds that reach the furthest are the easiest to pull. Bedstraw and clover will cover a large amount of ground, but when you trace the vines back to their origin, with one pull a whole lot of weed comes up; and the ground cleans up easily. This is how it has been lately with my closest friend of decades. My whole life will be overcome with a hurt or a misunderstanding or something stupid I have said or done; but one heart-to-heart with her and forgiveness, and loving words of reassurance, and all that weed is gone... I just have to find the stem.

My garden was tilled in horse pasture this year, where hay and grass seed had fallen. I put soaker hoses on the garden, to only water the plants I wanted to grow, and the weeds were easy to control. But then God sent a great downpour and now my whole garden is growing in a carpet of grass. I know we need the rain, but I do find myself a little irritated at how much weeding I have to do now because of it!! The Bible says that God sends rain on the just and the unjust, meaning that God blesses everyone, not just those that follow Him. He wants us to follow him for reasons other than His provision. But I have to say, that sometimes I find myself a little jealous--like Cain, I suppose--that other people get blessed when I feel like I'm working so hard, and they are not. Personally, I think it is easier to care for animals than to work the ground, plant, weed and harvest. I think Cain probably felt the same way. But I have to keep reminding myself of C S Lewis' words, via Aslan, "I tell no one any story but his own." I can't compare MY story with anyone else's, because I am unique and God, to be just, must treat me uniquely. I almost think, when it comes to dealing with God, that I need to wear "blinders" so that I am not tempted to compare my story to someone else's.

On the other hand, we are called to be a part of the body of Christ. We cannot live as an island and also function as part of the body. A friend prayed this morning in church, "Lord, teach us to be a part of the body, because we don't know how to do it." And Gordon read out of the New Living Translation this morning (which is slightly different than my beloved NIV), Ephesians 4:2 "Always be humble and gentle. Be patient with each other, making allowance for each other’s faults because of your love. "

"Making allowance for each other's faults". It's so easy to get frustrated and irritated with each other when we don't see eye to eye and we cannot bring the other person around to our (correct, of course) way of thinking. But we are called to "make allowances" for our differences...for their faults, and them for ours. It's hard to make allowance for someone else's faults, especially if that isn't a particular fault of our own. But when we are made aware of our own faults, our "weeds", it is freeing beyond words to have others make allowances for us. It is humbling and it is comforting. In the way that we know that God will never forsake us, it is comforting to know that there are people who will also never forsake us. And we need to be the kind of people who won't forsake others.

In the same way that "he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus", he will also carry on that good work in the people we walk with--the other members of the body. Last week, Mark McCoy talked about 1 Corinthians 13, and how God was making us all to look like that. He talked about watching Bob Ross paint and how Mr. Ross would get a painting started and Mark would think, "Wow, that looks pretty good. He could stop there." But then Mr. Ross would paint a river through the middle of it, and when he was done, the painting would so much more awesome than Mark had imagined it could. That is what God is doing with us. He is making a masterpiece. We think we look pretty good, but then God paints a river through us and we think, "Don't!! You're ruining it!" But in the end, God had something even better in mind. And the fact is, He is doing that with all of us. So, if our blinders happen to be down and we happen to see God start to "ruin" what we think someone else is supposed to look like, it's okay, God has something better in mind.

So, if you hear me being negative or critical:

1) tell me to recognize if I am hurting,

2) tell me to go do some weeding,

3) remind me to put blinders on ("I tell no one any story but his own."), and

4) remind me that He who began a good work in me (and every other part of the body) will carry it on to completion.

I'm reminded of a little song that we used to sing in college..."I am a promise. I am a possibility. I am a promise, with a capital P. I am a great big bundle of potentiality. And I am learning to hear God's voice, and I am trying to make the right choice. I am a promise to be anything God wants me to be." Funny, it means so much more NOW than it did two and a half decades ago.

How deep is the night...

Here is another post from our daughter Laura, who lost her first child, Nadia, six weeks ago at 24 weeks' gestation. We continue to mourn, but we are not without Hope.


Often, the vast darkness and emptiness of pain and grief feels blinding. It's cold, and lonely, and seems ready to devour me whole. I can't see past it, or through it. How I need a light! How thankful I am that I have a light. I have the ultimate light source in my Father. He is my hope and my strength, my light in the utmost darkness.

I've often wondered, along with my friends and family, how anyone can go through this kind of pain and grief without God. I don't know how it's possible. The pain has been so great, yet I know I'm held tight, and I have hope. What darkness it must truly be without any hope or security!

I was thinking about this darkness on our recent vacation. Justin and I visited the Lava River Cave near Bend, OR. It's about a mile long, and you walk in until you can't, or don't want to, go any further. Then you walk the mile back out. It was sunny and pushing 80 degrees outside the cave, yet there was ice 50 feet in. About 100 feet in, still bathed in the dim glow of the entrance, the darkness ahead was so great that our flashlight wasn't enough for us to see. While Justin went back to get a lantern, I waited in the cave. I was standing in the light still, but I couldn't see what was around me. Waiting in the cold, in the dark, I marveled at how the light disappeared into the walls of the cave. The emptiness and darkness seemed to be waiting to swallow up all that ventured in. Only when we had the strong light from the lantern could we see the path ahead, and see the scarred but beautiful walls from the lava long ago. Such beauty from fire!

About a week before we lost Nadia, I was listening to my audio book version of "The Last Battle" by C.S. Lewis. Near the end of the book, after the battle, the main characters find themselves in a bright meadow, not the dark stable they were expecting. There they meet Aslan and are reunited with him. As they wander about, they see the dwarves huddled together, stepping on each other, and acting as though they were blind. When Lucy and the others talk to them, they find that the dwarves can't see the meadow or the light. All they see is the very dark interior of a stable that doesn't exist. They are in complete darkness, yet surrounded by light. Aslan talks to them, but they refuse to believe him. They refuse to believe that he is there or that he is real, and in that choose to remain in the darkness while the others continue "Further up, and further in!".

I'm always struck by that picture. Alone in the darkness, void of all hope. Complete darkness, like in the lava cave. How lonley and cold it is when we separate ourselves from God. A word of belief and the dwarves would have seen. A willing heart and we shall have our light that never fades or fails. God will never leave us in the valley of the night. He will not allow the darkness to swallow us. He is there with us, letting us see what gems He has hidden in the darkness, if we will only allow Him to.

"If I say, 'Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me,' even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like day, for darkness is as light to you." Psalm 139:11-12

"He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, 'He is my refuge and my fortress, my God in whom I trust." Psalm 91:1-2

"You will not fear the terror of the night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness, nor the plague that destroys at midday." Psalm 91:5-6

I find myself thinking about Psalm 23. " The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want." He's here. He's my light in the darkness, for to Him, there is no night. Even in the valley of the shadow of death, He can see. When I'm blinded by my grief, and when the pain surges anew, I need only remember that He can see clearly. He will lead me gently, and I need only to trust and follow.

It's still night. Not as dark as it has been, but night nevertheless. I will not fear the night, but look for the beauty and treasures hidden in it, for my light is everlasting. I am safe, I am warm. The storm rages around me, within me; the thunder cracks, the lighning flashes. But I am safe in my Father's arms. What a hope I have! What a hope those who know Him have. I have a place to rest. Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.

Oh yeah?

I broke my leg three weeks ago. The day before I broke my leg, my 8-year-old son decided he wanted to learn to use the lawnmower. This was providence. Why? Because I somehow miscalculated the amount of hay I had left in my neighbor's barn (or someone helped themselves to it) and so in order to stretch what hay I had remaining, I needed to mow several wheelbarrows of grass per day for the horses. This is not a problem, as I have access to not only my own front pasture, but my neighbor's as well. However, with a broken leg, I am not able to mow it. So my mighty little man has won the job. He does not always do this with a willing heart. But he does do it. Of course, as he is only 8, I need to watch closely that he takes all the safety precautions I have given him. The grass is long and often damp and often clogs, at which point he has to shut of the mower and either empty it or unclog it. I feel like a broken record, telling him over and over to back up the mower off the pile of grass under the blade before starting it. Unfortunately, I have too often worded it in a way that triggers his Richter gene.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Richter gene (though I suppose it could also be labeled the "Smith gene"), it is that tendency of our family to stand up in the face of "It can't be done." I have been told that if you want to get a Richter to do something, you merely have to tell them it can't be done. Thus, when I say to my son, "Back the lawnmower up, you can't start it where it is." His Richter gene answers, "Oh, yeah? Watch me!" And one particular day last week, on the third wheelbarrow, when his "Oh, yeah? Watch me!" had earned him a sore neck and shoulder, and my thousandth chorus of "Back it up" was somewhat lethargic and unemotional, I finally added, "Well, you CAN start it that way, but IF you back it up, it will start easier." And it finally sunk in.

Then tonight, I had asked him to put our dalmatian in her crate, which is under his loft bed, before he climbed up, but he had forgotten, and he said, "It's okay, I can do it from up here, " and I said, "No, you can't reach it" triggering that ol' Richter gene, "Oh yeah?" Of course I move in with my crutches to try to close the crate before he gets to it, and also to catch him when he falls...which is what would happen....

So what is the deal? And how do I corral this spirit of his? I don't want to break it. I think this determination is a God-given attribute, and I know, that if directed properly, it will serve him well. But how do I direct his challenges away from needing to prove me wrong? I think part of this is coming in response to me needing him to do things for me because of my leg. I think he is gaining a sense of importance and "manliness" from being needed. But at the same time, I want him to respect me and not meet every "negative" thing I say with, "Oh yeah? Watch me!"

Perhaps it is simply the way I am wording things. But for the life of me, even if I word it like, "Maybe if you try it this way..." I am still met with resistance. He wanted to be in the horse pasture with me today when the farrier was trimming our pony's feet. I had him put some hay out for the mustangs to keep them occupied, and he was thinking he could play in the pasture with us because they were distracted. When I told him no, that I could not be in there with crutches AND look out for him AND hold Jake, he stomped his foot and turned his back to me. So I sent him inside. And I was right. Our horses have been so neglected because for 3 weeks I have not done anything with them, they were all over the farrier and I begging for scratches and attention....never mind the food.

Poor boy. He comes by this gene honestly. Whether it is indeed a Richter gene or a Smith gene, I suspect most families carry it. It is expressed more obviously in some than in others. But certainly, it is strong in me. I was the same way to authority as a child. I was telling a friend the other day how I used to steel myself when a spanking was coming and would not cry. Is he destined for a life of difficulty because he resists authority?

And I think about how God has dealt with me. It hasn't been with lashes and stanchions. A will like mine will only fight harder when confined. I have been like a wild horse at the end of a rope. God has just let me have plenty of rope, pulling on the rope gently to guide me this way or that. But over the years I have learned that the suggestion of the rope is generally in my best interest, and so I have learned to resist my first instinct to pull back against the rope, and have learned to trust the person on the other end. And it has been through building relationship and trust that God has tamed my spirit. Often, my first instinct still is to pull back; but it might only be a twitch now, rather than the battle it would have been in my youth.

I hope that God gives me the wisdom and the courage to give K lots of rope, and to calmly call him back, again and again and again......

(Suggestions are always welcome!)

Marred in the Potter's Hands (The Easter Tree)

When we moved to our acre in 1992, I purchased a tree from one of those nursery catalogs you get in the mail. It was a flowering cherry and was never really supposed to get very large, maybe 8 feet tall, with a span of 12 feet or so. I had a vision that it would mark the boundary between our "parking area" and the "front yard". We put a mobile home on an acre of pasture that formerly housed horses--for as long as I lived in Junction City anyway--so I use the term "yard" loosely. It was not very big when I planted it--no taller than me, having arrived in the mail.

It was a quaint little tree. And it marked the corner of the parking area well. Then one day, after it had been growing in it's spot for about 10 years, we had a really big windstorm. Limbs and entire trees were falling all around us. My neighbor had a sequoia in his yard that forked about 5 feet off the ground, and during this windstorm one of the forks fell, essentially cutting my little tree in half.

I was heartbroken. I loved my little tree. But I didn't cut it down. I decided to wait and see what it would do. Six weeks later, it bloomed.

The next winter, when I pruned it, I left every branch that was reaching over to fill the gap. Clearly, the tree wanted to live. Just a little over a year after the storm that tried to kill it, it was again the focus of my mother-in-law's Easter tradition. In fact, we have dubbed this tree "The Easter Tree". We had called it that before it was ever damaged because it is esseintally directly in front of our living room window, the "centerpiece" of our front yard, and was small enough that my mother-in-law could hang treat-filled plastic eggs from it for our children on Easter.

But beyond being a tree to hang eggs from, it has become, to me, a tree of hope, a tree of resurrection. I had thought it would die, but with careful pruning it has flourished. When you look at this tree in full bloom, you probably would not guess that it had ever been bisected. You are caught by its beauty and fragrance. If your eyes land on its trunk, the scars are evident. It's only when you see it in the winter, stripped bare of its leaves, that you can read the story of injury and regrowth.

And now, seven years later, the tree has seemed to flourish, growing bigger than I ever expected it to. It is now big enough for a tire swing. Every spring we enjoy its fragrant blooms and the "snow" when the petals fall. The cats play tag in its branches. It provides camoflauge and rest for migrating canaries and finches every year. It sends up suckers from it roots 40 feet away! But most of all, it is a continual reminder that life follows death, spring follows winter, and restoration follow loss.

Nadia Joy

Our precious little granddaughter, Nadia Joy, went home to be with Jesus this week. The following was written by our daughter. Grab a kleenex.

Saturday, April 25, 9:49 p.m.

Our girl's gone home.

If you didn't know I was pregnant, I'm sorry you're just learning now. For the rest of you, I want to share the amazing events of the past couple of days...

First, I want to say thank you to all of you who have been supporting us, either through prayer or with your presence. I can't thank you enough. There really are no words.

This, like many pregnancies, came with it's own set of trials. Early on, I had been spotting and we thought we might lose our baby then. With lots of prayer we got our miracle, and by 20 weeks our precious little girl was perfect and perfectly healthy. We were looking forward to another 20 weeks of a healthy pregnancy. I had to have another ultrasound at 24 weeks because she wouldn't show her face, and the doctor needed to see it to know if she had any special needs that might come up at birth. So all was normal and fine until then.

At the 24 week visit, her heartbeat had slowed dangerously low. It hovered between 60and 70 beats per minute, when it should have been twice that. It also stopped at one point during the ultrasound. There were many things that could be wrong, but we needed to do some blood work on me and see a specialist in the morning. I went home with the knowledge that our best bet was to make it another week at least until she was just old enough to live outside the womb. She needed to make it to 25 weeks to even have a chance of living. There was a lot of prayer for healing, and preparing for the worst.

When we got to the specialist's on the morning of the 24th, they started another ultrasound. Having had five with this pregnancy, I've gotten pretty good at knowing what to look for. There was no heartbeat. The tech was silent, and I did have to ask to make sure, but our sweet little girl was gone. Justin and I both had a chance to cry and absorb the initial shock. Justin's parents had come, as had my mom, who had been with me the previous day. They came back and we all sat and cried while we waited for the doctor to come in. We talked about our options, and I decided that I didn't want to wait to have my labor induced.

I went to the hospital and was admitted around 10:45 a.m. They started the induction at 11:45 a.m. They had no idea how long it would take before she was born, but it could be later that night, or as late as Sunday. Only time would tell. We were gearing up for a long, grief-filled process.

At 1:12 a.m. our precious Nadia Joy was born. She had already been home with the Lord for probably a day. She was perfectly formed. She even had lines in her footprints already! She had blond hair that you couldn't really see, but it was there. She even had eyelashes! She was 1 lb, 4 oz, and 12 inches long. We had family and close friends there with us to meet Nadia and hold her. We were very fortunate to get to hold her and see her so perfect.

Ok, so those are the facts.

The rest of the story is the spiritual one. We are so blessed. We had so many people praying for us and with us. As hard as this is, God has given both Justin and me so much peace. I know that's what many of you were praying for, and God truly does answer prayers. For me personally, this whole thing has been such a blessing. I got pregnant when the doctors thought I couldn't. We had a pregnancy that lasted longer than we thought it was going to at first. I got the experience of feeling my baby move and react to sounds, I've now been through labor, though I'm sure it will be different next time around, and I got to hold my little girl. Justin got to see her grow in me, he got to feel her kick, and he got to hold his daughter. Both Justin and I are definitely grieving, and there are times that will be harder than others, but we both have peace that only God can give. We don't have any anger about the situation, just frustration about not understanding. I can speak for both of us when I say that we don't understand God's will and His choices, but we accept it fully. I can't even begin to express all of the peace and understanding and faith that I have seen in the past 36 hours. We now have an amazing testimony to the power of God's peace and the ways that he uses us. We have already seen some of the ripples and changes that have been made in attitudes and actions because of this. I'm sure God will use this to change many lives that I won't ever know about. I have complete confidence and trust in my Lord and what He does, regardless of my understanding or lack thereof.

One thing I realized this morning after coming home without our girl was something about how God must feel about His children. I was crying, and telling Justin that I just didn't understand how I could love someone so much in so short a time, and know so much about them without them knowing me. I realized that God feels that way about us. He makes us His perfect creation, designed to love Him and have a relationship with Him. He waits expectantly for us to know Him, to be born again, and for us to spend our whole lives learning about Him and who He is as our Father. When we refuse to have that relationship with Him, and refuse Him in our lives, it's like the stillborn child. Perfect in every way, created to love and be loved, and to spend a lifetime getting to know the ones who bore us. They just never make it that far. They are still loved, still wanted, and there are still hopes and dreams that we have for our children and that God has for us, but they will never have the chance to be fulfilled.

I am so grateful to have such a wonderful family and such wonderful friends who have stood with us through this, and will continue to. I am also so thankful for our family who understands that this is the loss of a child, not a pregnancy. She has a name, a birthdate, she is an individual. She is still one of the grandchildren, or great-grandchildren, the others will just never have the opportunity to play with her. She will always be our firstborn, and she will always have a place in the family. I'm so grateful that the family shares this idea with us, and that they were there with us to hold her and mourn with us. It's an experience that has touched so many lives already, and I'm sure it will touch more. My prayer now is that God will use me to further His kingdom by my being able to point to all that He's done though me.

I am so blessed to be thought of highly enough by my Lord to be used by Him to carry His little girl, that though I may not have had her for long, He let us share in a life that was too special for this realm. I'm so thankful that my girl didn't have pain, and that she didn't have to ever experience the pain of this world. I know I will see her when I go Home, and until then she is well. As a friend's child said, "Oh good! God loves playing with babies!" God loves playing with babies, and who could take better care of mine than the one who created her.


(photo courtesy of Anne Nunn Photography, see http://annenunnphotographyblog.com/ A Beautiful Life: Nadia Joy)