When Grief Stalks

Cinnamon coffeecake plunges high up my plastic fork while brown sugar topping flakes and tumbles from the top. Espresso grinders whir loud then fade to the music from overhead speakers. Three inch pink baby shoes glide by in a black stroller; purple sippy handles peak from a stroller's corner. Wooden coffeehouse chairs scrape and clunk hollow, and I sip my hot refilled coffee from blue cardboard.

On a morning of Monday's clean laundry piled high and an upcoming evening church softball game, we received word of a tragic car accident. A former youth group student and his family of five were killed in a multiple car pile-up involving a semi-truck. His family's faces still grin happy in the missionary magnet on my fridge, just a month away from their departure to a new life in Japan.

My cell phone's text message blinked the news, and it was too awful to believe or to speak aloud.

"What?" Mark kept asking me in my gaped silence, "What?!"

Our shock and grief looked like crying in Mark's arms, my tears and nose running and wiped on his shirt unconsciously while we prayed. Grief looked like numb silence and staring slack-jawed out the window.


"What are you looking at?" Daniel wants to know, peering out the window too.

"Just thinking about our friends, bud," I murmur, and we both fall silent.

Earlier, concerned by our tears and unsure how to respond, Daniel had fled the room. Following him, I found him burrowing under his blankets in the dark room.

"We can be sad together. It's okay to cry and to ask God hard questions."

My words falter and fall short today. Typing a short message to my friends to mourn their son and his family, I tell them that we ache and cry with them.

Community is shared grief, shared silences, shared tears. And God's chest is big enough for those hot tears and raw words too.

Friendships that Linger over Lunch & Whisper in the Darkness

I pulled in behind her grey minivan, Shari stepping out from the driver's seat, arranging tin foil across a tiny platter of chocolate-dipped cookies.

"I didn't want to be the first one here," she laughed, and we walked up the driveway together.

Hugging our hostess, we stepped into two hours of conversation, camaraderie, and community. History piled high behind us as we poured countless glasses of raspberry iced tea and passed around a plate of sliced cucumbers, green peppers, and rich red tomatoes beside a ranch dipping sauce. 

Stretching across the rectangular wooden table, the five of us served each other from the bowl of Italian pasta salad and held out photographs of recent trips and a friend's baby grand-daughter. New parent eyes gleamed dewy in the close up photo of a young mom and dad with a pink-faced newborn. At the table, we lingered long at that photo, tracing their sweet faces and knowing that feeling of treasuring love.

My blonde-haired friend gracefully gathered plates around us as conversations ebbed and flowed, while our hostess brought out brownies.

"I have this coffee drink," she smiled, bring out a carton of cold sweetened mocha. We swirled the drink before pouring, sipping, and exclaiming.

We cheered each others' successes, sheepishly admitted areas we were working on, and laughed in safe affection. All too soon, it was time to go. I gathered my bag, hugged my friends, and slipped out early for an obligation.

Last night, something woke me and I lay in the dark. My mind whirred and clicked, gaining momentum, planning To Do lists, before it sidled over to tease and tangle out the quiet worries. "What if...?" and possibilities loomed.

God whispered silent in the night, cuing me to bedrock. I agreed, nodding quiet and taking a deep breath.

How did that verse go? I wondered. Something like, I will not concern myself with things too lofty for me to understand...but I have stilled and quieted my soul...

Other verses slipped in, old favorites, and I said them to myself, lying motionless on the bed, I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I put my hope.

Wriggling my toes against the sheets, I gently stretched my legs, careful not to wake Mark. Breathing in and out, I spoke truth to myself.

And today as I pull my Bible close, those verses ring loudly again to me and leap off the page, repetitious truth that constructs a base for me. And suddenly I see the full context of those verses,

I do not concern myself with great matters or things too lofty for me to understand
But I have calmed and quieted myself;
I am like a weaned child with its mother,
like a weaned child I am content (Psalm 131:1b-2).

The last verse in a section I was studying clinched it, "...be their shepherd and carry them forever (Psalm 28:9b).

Our times with dear friends are gifts, and God's whispers in the dark are gifts, both from a God who carries us, calms us, and quiets us, like an infant in its parent's arms.

For After the Turkey and Stuffing...What's Seeking to Fill You Right Up?

 I admit it. The fear crept in.

In between the moist brined turkey slathered with cranberry jelly, the gravy-drizzled stuffing and the mashed potato mounds, the fear slipped in.

Earlier, on our way out the door to relatives and Thanksgiving feasts, two letters had arrived. The letters mapped out the region around our home, drafting new roads, and moving forward the construction of a giant twenty-four-hour shopping center down the street from us. The twelve acres of woodlands and wetlands would be razed, sections of our yard would be converted into roads and turn lanes, and semi-trucks would soon rumble deliveries all night long on the road outside our bedroom.

On the road to our relatives' house, we passed wind turbines, calculated wingspans, and grieved the probable loss of our home and yard. The fear slid in then, and I voiced aloud my concerns.

• "It took us a year for our last house sell and to find this one." 
• "We bought this one when it was foreclosed and at a lower price than they are now available."
• "It's only a block from your work, and from our teens. What are the odds of finding another one like this again? And it's a perfect volleyball yard for youth group!" 
• "We landscaped, built raised garden beds, planted strawberries, rhubarb, raspberries, mint, tulips, daffodils, purple aliums, and more. Those bulbs and plants don't come up again until next year, and I don't want to lose them. We brought in garden dirt, started a compost, and planted trees." 

My husband voiced reason and hope, "God has always taken care of us, Jen. He will again." We talked for awhile of possible moves, of real estate issues, and I let myself grieve too.

"This is my dream home and yard," I whispered later at the table. Mark squeezed my hand, and the moment passed as five small children crashed underfoot, cousins rolling and playing around us, and my father-in-law ground beans in his wooden mill for the next batch of coffee. New family arrived and we tumbled into afternoons of coffee, pecan pie, moist fruit cake tarts, and hours of games and conversations.

Photo Credit to Becky Pratts

Late at night in a silent house, the fear and grief crept in again. Tucking my pillow under long damp hair, I reminded myself of the cure. This cure, I've found, is to remind myself of my God. Remembering again God's heart and his history fills me with hope and trust for the future.

Yes, it took eleven months for our last house to sell and to find this one -- but it's perfect. Look at his heart and extravagant gifts in that? He can do it again, Jennifer. You have savored this home and yard this last year and a half. 

That night, and this week, God brings to my mind memory after memory of where he has shown us his heart: anonymous checks of money in our early years of marriage written precisely in the amount we needed for rare unexpected bills; or tiny five year old Morgan with her cancer scare and His peace that came as a relief after our tight chest moments, even before a final diagnosis; donated vehicles weeks before its predecessor died; God's chasing heart in our own foolish wayward moments; and through it all, His tender re-threading of beauty from our raveled bits.

I pick up my pen each day now, and write line after line in my Gratitude (Gifts) Journal. My pen scratches both the easy-to-list good gifts (hot coffee, tumbling snowflakes, a family who knows You, safe travels, family laughter around the table) and the hard gifts -- the ones that cause anxiety to reach tall, grappling with my heart: (possibly losing our home = a chance to trust you, God; the need to sell and buy a new house = a chance to watch you, God). Thank you for this home, for these eighteen months here, and for each day.

At work today, I watch snowflakes fall and tuck my legs under me, picking up my Bible and this Gifts journal. I remember promises about Who this God is, and Who he says he is. Snippets from my Bible time catch my attention, and I write them quickly across the page. "I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I put my hope." "The Lord directs our path, our steps." "The fear of the Lord is a fountain of life..." "...A patient man has great understanding." "A heart at peace gives life to the body... "...The prayer of the upright pleases him." "All the days of the oppressed are wretched, but the cheerful heart has a continual feast." 

And my fear? It dissipates. Not in a Pollyanna-denial way, but by stepping back and reminding myself of who this God is, of what his heart is like, and by looking back at his history. 

The house issues are still there, and we prepare for two City Hall Meetings. But the fear? It dissipates.

What about you? What fears, stresses, or anxieties stalk you? Financial worries? Children's issues? Marriage struggles? Grab a pen and God's word with me, friends, and start writing out his gifts, will you? "Don't be afraid, you are worth more than sparrows..." "...The very hairs on your head are counted..." and "The Lord works everything out for his own ends." Even the tiny sparrows that are sold for pennies, he is aware of -- "not one of them is forgotten by God," he promises. And you? "You are worth more than sparrows."

What verses or truths do you grab when fear or anxieties creep in? (Those reading this in email can click here to join the conversation.)

Why You're Never Too Old

"Mom, can you help me? I don't know how a do this," he says, tiny hands holding two halves of a blue plastic game board. Imploring eyes and a sweet round face melt me instantly.

"I'd love to!" I smile, getting down on his level. I kiss his soft face, and slide together the blue plastic frame of an ice cube game.

They grow up so fast, these kids, huh?

This week, I waited in an echoey church hall after a graduation meeting for my senior. The class of 2013 voted on announcement styles, ceremony emcees, and slide show music. I texted my son for his votes, as he sat through a work meeting half an hour away.

In five months he'll walk a stage, flip silver tassels, and receive a rolled-up diploma.

Over coffee and a cheese danish this week, I discovered parenting advice from two thousand years ago that resonated with me.

"If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously and without finding fault, and it will be given to you." 

Like my four year old, humbly holding out two plastic game pieces; to my eldest filling out college and job forms; to me, holding out humble hands to my Abba/Daddy.

Abba, please give me wisdom today, this week, this month, as I raise my kids, love my man, and strive to be a woman after your heart.

You? Anything on your heart? Need wisdom or a flash of light? 

And our Papa? He melts to hear you ask that, scooping down to cup your face, kiss your soft cheeks, and slide those pieces together.

Linking with Imperfect Prose.

Photo credit.

...That is the Question...

Japanese-synthesized music lilts in the background, and I munch almonds beside a cup of reheated coffee. My tousle-headed preschooler is in bed, and the older kids help at our church’s summer Vacation Bible School program. 

Last night panic gripped my chest. I had been researching part time jobs and considering one especially. This one would require an intensive full-time training period, lasting over six months. My motivation was the resulting flexible part-time schedule with numerous days home with my family, but the process to get there suddenly seemed daunting. 

The excitement had dissipated and apprehension constricted my chest. Could we do this? Was it wise for our family? Would the end justify the crazy period to get there? 

Later that night, I lay entwined in my husband’s arms on the couch. He talked, his mouth against the back of my head. He wasn’t sure what to think either, but he murmured calm into my mind. We hugged in silence.

I ran the idea and its pros and cons past some friends over a night of games and fresh Vietnamese spring rolls. Late at night, fingers twisting the frayed couch threads, I whispered the idea over the phone to my sister, and she practiced newly-acquired counseling techniques with me, asking questions and waiting. 

Today, sunshine and a cool sixty-four degree breeze buffeted me gently as I walked the neighborhood circle, greeting neighbors, and guiding my three year old on his blue bicycle. Training wheels scratched the road on alternate sides, and he drove in mild diagonal lines across the street. I weaved with him, gently nudging the wheel towards safety and watching for oncoming traffic. His red duct-taped helmet hung low over his eyes, and he squinted into the setting sun. I knew the path, and he was happy to simply bike beside me.  

Boxes line the hallways and stack high in our garage now. Our eleven month process to sell our home, find a new one, and prepare to move is almost over. In seven days we close on our new home and drive away from this current one. We’ve seen our God’s extravagant hand so clearly through this, and it speaks calm to my mind now. 

My almonds are gone, the coffee cools, and the music plays on. Thank you, Abba. I’m happy to simply bike beside you too. You weave beside me, nudging me into safety and you know the path we’re on. 

Linking with Ann, Michelle, Shanda, and Emily. 

Kid Bedtimes and Gathering Storms

Grey clouds blanket my evening sky. Wind-tossed trees are now still and a heavy mugginess descends. Swollen drops pockmark my deck, and then nothing. 

Like silence before the curtain rises, the yards wait quietly. A slight breeze stirs the leaves and a distant car muffler hums and fades away. Silence again. 

My three year old tantrums from a dark bedroom bunk-bed, trying out an angstful attitude he’s seen. Sarcasm rolls off his lips, and tiny arms are crossed. Angry eyes burn out at me. Wow, where did he hear that monologue? It saddens me, layered between the brief hidden humor at hearing his, “Hmm! What do you think about that?!” final rant. 

“Daniel, I’m so sorry you’ve heard people talk like that. How did you feel when they did that?” 

“Happy!” he huffs, crossing his arms the opposite way for emphasis, and frowning at me.

“You don’t look happy. It’s not nice to talk like that. We use kind words and voices.” I kiss him, and rub his back. Miniscule ribs beneath a red striped shirt that his towering brother used to wear. The room is dark and my hand brushes his small back for a few minutes. He’s so little. 

“Good night. I love you. You need to go to bed.”

“Nooooo!” he yells as I leave the room. We’ve hugged and tickled and prayed together. We sang our songs, and snuggled close – me trying to avoid his mono germs and yet smothering him in further-away kisses. 

The rain droplets have evaporated already outside, leaving no trace on the deck and driveway, yet the grey-green sky waits. It’s dark for seven thirty. 

He gets up again, my son. His anger intersperses with tears, and we talk it through. There’s no more sarcasm thankfully, just sadness and a hopeful expectation that bedtime will disappear. He’s mistaken, poor guy. 

The bedtime mandate stays; hugs are layered on; and sippy-cups are filled with fresh water and ice. 

“Good night, my sweet. I love you.” 

In silence outside, the rain falls, releasing the hot asphalt smell of rain and tar that signals summer to me. A cool breeze starts, and the mugginess lifts.


Linking with Shanda's On Your Heart Tuesday, and Emily's Imperfect Prose on Thursday. 

Buckling Into, Not Buckling Under

He sits belted in familiar confinement. 

Spying his worn blue car-seat downstairs earlier, he had heaved and tugged it partway up the stairs, clunking, crashing, and grunting until I helped him. 

“You want your car-seat upstairs?” I asked, surprised. The child seat had been left in the entryway temporarily, in between car shifts. 

“Yes! Tant you, Mom,” he squealed. 

Now, he munches a buttery bagel from deep within his belted blue car-seat, while cartoon ponies sing onscreen.  The buckles and clasps have been shut by him.

A doctor visit, long fever, and two naps later, we have learned that he has mono. I didn’t know that three year olds got mono! Fruit juice popsicles, couch cuddling, and Lego men dances and battles made the afternoon race by. 

A cuckoo clock jumps out the hour, and a blue sippy cup drains out last milk dredges. Robins outside warble continuously and sunshine lies long on the neighbor’s lawn. Summer twilights are leisurely and warm. 

Joining Ann and Michelle, I thank God for: 

Photo Credit

-a sick boy finding comfort in his mama’s arms, and in a blue car-seat that he buckles himself into

-an Abba Lord that I can clamber up on and buckle myself into too

-geese clamoring as they swoop overhead

-dandelion oceans bobbing fuzzy heads

-fresh-brewed coffee in my favorite cup

-God’s word laying open to Daniel

-hopeful news on houses and a chance to wait and trust again

-non-stop bird songs outside

Join me in counting gifts today, friend. Buckle into him and avoid buckling under. 

From Shiny Bathroom Tiles

Floor tile in Karpas, northeastern Cyprus.

 

tile and marble at Topkapi Palace Istanbul

Window Apartments of the Crown Prince in the Topkapi Palace, Istanbul

 “Mooooooom! Mama? Maaaaaaama!”

Lusty-chested bellows ricocheted off the bathroom tiles. Bath-time splashes and naval battles had subsided.

“Mooooooom?   I done. Maaaaaaamaaa! I done.”

Even with only an inch or two of water in the tub and the door open, I had been monitoring my three year old very closely. I was nearby and knew he was safe, but I was on the phone.  Hurrying to wrap up the conversation, I edged to the bathroom.

“Mooooooom?! I done. I get OUT! Maaaaamaaa?”

Even as I was walking towards the door, he erupted into staccato mode. “Mom, mom, mom, mom, mom.”

Swooping into the bathroom, I wrapped him in a sea-green towel and hugged him close.

“I was coming. I just had to finish on the phone,” I murmured as I kissed his fresh face.  Happy in my arms, he snuggled in, warming up in the towel’s layers. Soon, he was dressed and scampering off, wet swirls of dark hair still coiling up his head and cheek.

His attitude struck me. Never was Daniel afraid or worried that I wouldn’t come. In fact, the very presence of yells displayed the knowledge that I was there, that I would hear, that I would aid him.

He called to me because he knew I would hear.

There was no fear of my anger or displeasure. No thought of my not coming through. Only the insistent yells, convinced that when I heard him, I would come.

Where are you at with your Abba Daddy today? His love is so much richer than our human love for each other, for our kids.

From our tiled bathrooms, carpeted living rooms, dark bedrooms, or traveling cars, we can yell out, Abba!  “I call on you, my God, for you will answer me; turn your ear to me and hear my prayer” (Psalm 17:6).

From the hallway, from the dining room, from beside us, He will answer.
“Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know” (Jeremiah 33:3).

What about you? What adds intimacy to your prayers? What are you praying for this week?