“That’ll be $28.62.”
The Aldi cashier looked expectantly at the woman in line ahead of me. He had efficiently rung up and tossed her 20 or so items into the waiting basket—coffee cake, chips, ice cream, caramel apples.
The young woman, sporting a tight glittery t-shirt over her swelling belly, handed her debit card to the cashier.
He swiped it.
“Denied,” he said, holding out the card.
The woman pursed her lips.
“Try it again.”
“Sorry,” he said swiping it a second time.
The woman pulled six dollars out of her wallet, then stuffed the bills back in.
“Okay,” she sighed. “I’ll put the things back.”
During the 90 seconds of this exchange, I felt my heart speed up as I contemplated what I could do. I considered the $30 cash I had in my wallet. For a second or two I thought of handing it to her. Or just telling her not to worry, I had it covered.
But I wondered how strange that would look or how I would respond if she refused my offer. I considered the fact that we don’t really have extra money to be throwing around these days. And, truth be told, I didn’t like what she was buying.
Even though I knew the awful embarrassment of having a card rejected at the point of purchase, I did nothing more than attempt to smile at the woman as she steered her cart back into the store.
Now, two months later, I can’t get this encounter out of my mind.
::
A couple years before I met my husband, he had moved to Scotland from a small town in Italy, with barely a penny in his pocket. His first day in Edinburgh, Andrew found a job washing dishes at a pub. After a week, Alice, the pub manager called him into her office and asked him how it was going and where he was living. He told her (proudly, I imagine, and without any sense that it should have been otherwise) that he had a tent and was camping at a nearby campground. Alice looked surprised and then shook her head "no," reached into her purse and pulled out her checkbook. Before Andrew could protest, she wrote out a check for 800 pounds and told him to go find an apartment and he could pay her back later.
Although Alice knew Andrew for another two years and saw not only her loan paid back but also his promotion to cook and assistant bar manager and his courtship and engagement to this nice-enough American girl, I don't think she could ever know the tremendous impact her split-second decision had on my husband. Andrew was a stranger and yet she risked losing a large sum of money, not to mention trust in another person's ability and desire to do the right thing, by helping him.
What Alice did was risky and extravagant. As a result, my husband views her as one of the few people in his life who has ever truly loved him.
This story humbles me. In general, I think I’m pretty great at showering people with love. But I’m no Alice. My split-second decisions are usually peppered with worry and judgment.
This Christmas season, I have been thinking about what Alice did for my husband, and what I failed to do for the woman in Aldi. And I am being reminded that the One we wait for at Advent, the Christ child, was also a risky and extravagant gift given to strangers.
If I could go back to my Aldi encounter, I’d pay for the pregnant woman’s groceries. And I’d give her a hug, if she’d let me. And talk with her. About her impending birth experience, where she was living and what kind of support she had for a growing family. If I was really being risky I’d ask her if her hunger was being satisfied. I’d engage her on a level that an awkward smile wouldn’t allow for but a generous gift might.
More than 2000 years ago, God gave us the most generous of gifts when He brought His kingdom to earth. And every time we love each other—family, friend and, yes, stranger—with his risky, extravagant love, we bring it back again.
But it’s not easy. Although Jesus has already come—we’re reminded of it every Christmas—we still need him to show up again. It’s a crazy, messed up world. Full of hurts and worries. Distrust and dishonesty. Rejection and loneliness. And that’s why I love remembering Alice.
Alice shined God's love in a dark corner where it had not yet been. And for one person, that made all the difference.
May we all be like Alice, brave and bold, filled by the awesome, gracious presence of the God who is already here and the joyful anticipation of the God we wait for, and take a few generous risks for those who have not yet seen Him.
::
I had the privilege of sharing this reflection at the Women's Advent Service at our church yesterday. A couple days after I wrote it, I ran across a story on NPR about a man who was mugged in New York City and responded in a risky and extravagant way. I am sure that I would never have the presence of mind to respond as he did but the story is inspiring and is evidence (in my mind) that even in a messed up, crazy world desperately in need of the peace and reconciliation we sing about this Advent, God continues to work through us to bring his kingdom to earth.
Showing posts with label now and the not yet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label now and the not yet. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
the haves and the have nots
If you are trying to preserve a happy-go-lucky, life-is-good mentality, I have a little advice for you. Don't hang out with people who are suffering.
Last night I caught up with some of the regulars at our church's Third Tuesday Supper and I can't get them out of my head, or my heart. A few weeks ago I wrote a column for the TribLocal about these free monthly dinners and why they have become my favorite night of the month.
I stated that "No one knows if you drove up in a Lexus or a rusted-out Bonneville. And no one cares." And while this is true on one level, it's not the whole story.
A lot of neighbors come to these dinners. People you'd expect. Church members. Local families. Elderly couples. And even though some of them may be in a tight spot financially (I would even put us in that category), they are still the "haves." They have options and resources. Or at least they have access to friends and family with options and resources if things get really tough.
The supper also attracts people who truly need the meal. For the sustenance, the company and the reminder that they are not walking this earth alone. Perhaps this sounds exaggerated. I used to think so. This is Geneva afterall.
These people don't look like the disheveled homeless man panhandling at the train station. They look like the single mom with five kids who can't get out of bed in the morning, or come up with the money to buy milk and gas. Like the anxious middle-aged woman without any connections being pushed out of her home for complaining to her landlord. Like the single man who eats all of his meals alone except on this one night every month.
One ten-year-old girl that I seek out at each supper has kept me on the edge of tears today. She looked skinnier than ever and her usual luster was gone. Her mom, mired in grief over the death of her husband nine months ago, confessed that she was struggling to put food on the table. Then she shared about recent health struggles and her unfruitful visits to the emergency room. The family has no primary care physician because when you can't afford to put food in the mouths of your five children, you certainly can't afford health insurance.
I stood, holding a load of dirty plates, wanting to hand her a wad of cash. I wanted to say, my husband/best friend/sister is the finest doctor in the world and he/she will see you for free. I wanted to fly to Washington DC and slap some sense into the people who are buying $10,000 hammers. I wanted to scream. The best I could do was to find our pastor and and get a grocery store gift card to hand her instead.
Several weeks ago Andrew and I attended a World Relief dinner. The main speaker that night, professor Soong-Chan Rah from North Park University, talked a lot about suffering, and how American Christians are, for the most part, out of touch. We are positive thinking, upwardly mobile go-getters feeling pretty darn blessed by how much we've got. Most of us are generous and giving but we would not choose to invest our lives in a suffering population. And, yet, he argued, to choose not to is to miss out on the heart of God.
Listening to Professor Rah speak, one might easily respond, "We can't all be Mother Theresa." Most of us can't even afford to travel to a place where people are really suffering. Last night, however, I realized I can drive less than two miles to find this population.
Before my ten-year-old friend left the supper, I told her mother that I'd bring her family a meal this week. I love to cook for people, so while it sounds nice of me, it's not difficult. It is, however, a step out of my comfort zone to deliver it. I've stepped into this girl's home before and the memory gives me a heartache. Imagine an episode of Hoarders. Imagine teenage boys "cooking" the meals. Imagine dogs who should be let out more often.
If I really had God's heart, I would show up with a bucket and some Lysol. I would not only prepare the meal, but also stay to eat. I would leave extra time to take my young friend out for ice cream and invite her brothers, too.
Instead, I'll make the nicest meal I can, throw in some frozen pizzas and try not to cry. I'll crack the door to suffering and let a little more of God's heart seep into mine. And then, when that fuller heart prompts me again, I pray I'll be ready to do the next thing.
Last night I caught up with some of the regulars at our church's Third Tuesday Supper and I can't get them out of my head, or my heart. A few weeks ago I wrote a column for the TribLocal about these free monthly dinners and why they have become my favorite night of the month.
I stated that "No one knows if you drove up in a Lexus or a rusted-out Bonneville. And no one cares." And while this is true on one level, it's not the whole story.
A lot of neighbors come to these dinners. People you'd expect. Church members. Local families. Elderly couples. And even though some of them may be in a tight spot financially (I would even put us in that category), they are still the "haves." They have options and resources. Or at least they have access to friends and family with options and resources if things get really tough.
The supper also attracts people who truly need the meal. For the sustenance, the company and the reminder that they are not walking this earth alone. Perhaps this sounds exaggerated. I used to think so. This is Geneva afterall.
These people don't look like the disheveled homeless man panhandling at the train station. They look like the single mom with five kids who can't get out of bed in the morning, or come up with the money to buy milk and gas. Like the anxious middle-aged woman without any connections being pushed out of her home for complaining to her landlord. Like the single man who eats all of his meals alone except on this one night every month.
One ten-year-old girl that I seek out at each supper has kept me on the edge of tears today. She looked skinnier than ever and her usual luster was gone. Her mom, mired in grief over the death of her husband nine months ago, confessed that she was struggling to put food on the table. Then she shared about recent health struggles and her unfruitful visits to the emergency room. The family has no primary care physician because when you can't afford to put food in the mouths of your five children, you certainly can't afford health insurance.
I stood, holding a load of dirty plates, wanting to hand her a wad of cash. I wanted to say, my husband/best friend/sister is the finest doctor in the world and he/she will see you for free. I wanted to fly to Washington DC and slap some sense into the people who are buying $10,000 hammers. I wanted to scream. The best I could do was to find our pastor and and get a grocery store gift card to hand her instead.
Several weeks ago Andrew and I attended a World Relief dinner. The main speaker that night, professor Soong-Chan Rah from North Park University, talked a lot about suffering, and how American Christians are, for the most part, out of touch. We are positive thinking, upwardly mobile go-getters feeling pretty darn blessed by how much we've got. Most of us are generous and giving but we would not choose to invest our lives in a suffering population. And, yet, he argued, to choose not to is to miss out on the heart of God.
Listening to Professor Rah speak, one might easily respond, "We can't all be Mother Theresa." Most of us can't even afford to travel to a place where people are really suffering. Last night, however, I realized I can drive less than two miles to find this population.
Before my ten-year-old friend left the supper, I told her mother that I'd bring her family a meal this week. I love to cook for people, so while it sounds nice of me, it's not difficult. It is, however, a step out of my comfort zone to deliver it. I've stepped into this girl's home before and the memory gives me a heartache. Imagine an episode of Hoarders. Imagine teenage boys "cooking" the meals. Imagine dogs who should be let out more often.
If I really had God's heart, I would show up with a bucket and some Lysol. I would not only prepare the meal, but also stay to eat. I would leave extra time to take my young friend out for ice cream and invite her brothers, too.
Instead, I'll make the nicest meal I can, throw in some frozen pizzas and try not to cry. I'll crack the door to suffering and let a little more of God's heart seep into mine. And then, when that fuller heart prompts me again, I pray I'll be ready to do the next thing.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
30 minutes cracking eggs
I cut an hour off my work time yesterday to help prep food for the community dinner at our church. As I stood cracking 24 dozen eggs, I chatted with an older woman from our congregation who I knew but had never really talked to before. In thirty minutes I learned that her son died of pancreatic cancer at 41; one of her children died at 4 months old; her one granddaughter, now an adult, has been wheelchair bound her whole life with spinal bifida; another granddaughter began life developmentally delayed (sounding much like Elliott) and now in her 20s is still essentially a child; and her husband of more than 60 years died one year ago, also of cancer. Although the stories themselves were depressing, the conversation was warm, heartfelt, even hopeful.
Many days I wish I knew what the future held for Elliott. I wish I knew what he was going to be like as an adult. Will he have the intellectual capacity of an 11 year old when he's 27? Or will other tragedy befall us? After the conversation yesterday, I think it's better not to know.
Visiting with my egg-cracking companion reminded me that life is chock full of sadness and challenge. There is no way to avoid it. We can hover over our children, eat only organics, do everything possible to ensure a safe and healthy life. But on this planet there is no guaranty.
Instead, we hold onto faith, friendship, community. We find ears to listen, shoulders to cry on. We open our hearts and give of ourselves, even when we could be huddled in a corner feeling sorry for ourselves.
May is by far the most glorious month in Chicago. All chance of ice and snow has past. The earth is glowing green. Fragrant lilac boughs drip onto the sidewalks. Yet, in the month of May, I am reminded that right in the midst of beauty is heartbreak. Three years ago this May our neighbors lost their 2-year-old son to cancer. Three years ago this May my dear cousin was informed by specialists that her 37-year-old soulmate really had no chance of survival. And four years ago this May a beautiful, blonde-haired boy emerged in a bright, warm hospital room, surrounded by a family ready to shower him with love. We didn't know the struggles he'd have to walk or talk or understand the difference between big and little, green and blue. It was just a blissful day.
As the story of Elliott's life unfolds, we don't know what will happen next. And that's okay. We choose not to think ahead to the sorrow and struggle that could come. Instead, we find the happiness in today. Because, no matter what, in some form, difficult days will come to us all. Talking to someone schooled in grief reminded me that trying to avoid pain just wastes precious time on this journey. As does complaining, comparing or worrying.
I used to imagine that life would be richest when it was filled with only good and happy things, ideal situations, blessings overflowing. I see differently now. Joy and sadness live together. There is no other way. We can try and fight it. Try to sterilize and insulate our little worlds to know nothing of the grief and sorrow. But that doesn't bring us any closer to what we long for. Because it's from our cracked, imperfect, loss-filled lives that real gratitude, service, joy and big love flow. Every beautiful person I know who has suffered great loss knows this is true. And I thank my lovely new friend, cracking eggs with me on a glorious day in May, for one more reminder.
Many days I wish I knew what the future held for Elliott. I wish I knew what he was going to be like as an adult. Will he have the intellectual capacity of an 11 year old when he's 27? Or will other tragedy befall us? After the conversation yesterday, I think it's better not to know.
Visiting with my egg-cracking companion reminded me that life is chock full of sadness and challenge. There is no way to avoid it. We can hover over our children, eat only organics, do everything possible to ensure a safe and healthy life. But on this planet there is no guaranty.
Instead, we hold onto faith, friendship, community. We find ears to listen, shoulders to cry on. We open our hearts and give of ourselves, even when we could be huddled in a corner feeling sorry for ourselves.
May is by far the most glorious month in Chicago. All chance of ice and snow has past. The earth is glowing green. Fragrant lilac boughs drip onto the sidewalks. Yet, in the month of May, I am reminded that right in the midst of beauty is heartbreak. Three years ago this May our neighbors lost their 2-year-old son to cancer. Three years ago this May my dear cousin was informed by specialists that her 37-year-old soulmate really had no chance of survival. And four years ago this May a beautiful, blonde-haired boy emerged in a bright, warm hospital room, surrounded by a family ready to shower him with love. We didn't know the struggles he'd have to walk or talk or understand the difference between big and little, green and blue. It was just a blissful day.
As the story of Elliott's life unfolds, we don't know what will happen next. And that's okay. We choose not to think ahead to the sorrow and struggle that could come. Instead, we find the happiness in today. Because, no matter what, in some form, difficult days will come to us all. Talking to someone schooled in grief reminded me that trying to avoid pain just wastes precious time on this journey. As does complaining, comparing or worrying.
I used to imagine that life would be richest when it was filled with only good and happy things, ideal situations, blessings overflowing. I see differently now. Joy and sadness live together. There is no other way. We can try and fight it. Try to sterilize and insulate our little worlds to know nothing of the grief and sorrow. But that doesn't bring us any closer to what we long for. Because it's from our cracked, imperfect, loss-filled lives that real gratitude, service, joy and big love flow. Every beautiful person I know who has suffered great loss knows this is true. And I thank my lovely new friend, cracking eggs with me on a glorious day in May, for one more reminder.
Monday, December 20, 2010
how I wonder
This Advent, many have been sharing what they are waiting for on Facebook and on Twitter. Things like this: waiting for the day when food banks are no longer needed...waiting for cancer walks to become obsolete...waiting for the day that living simply doesn't require a 200 page magazine...waiting for immigrants to find room at the inn. Although I haven't contributed to this conversation, I am waiting, too. I am waiting for kindness and compassion, for integrity and peace. I also am waiting for something much more personal. I am waiting for answers and revelation. I am waiting for the unknown to be revealed. I am waiting to see what the future holds for my son.
For three and a half years we've sought answers to Elliott's developmental delays. A few weeks ago, a brain scan revealed the source and according to one specialist, "explains everything." Although our son now has a diagnosis, which is both helpful and hopeful (as it is not thought to be degenerative), we still do not - nor ever will have - the definitive answers we sought. Even the most special specialist can not predict how our son's abnormality will affect his future cognitive functioning. His growth and development will continue one day at a time for years to come. And we will continue to wait and see.
As a result, we rejoice with every learned word, phrase and ability. We tear up when he learns a song and sings it in its entirety. (Twinkle, twinkle is the latest achievement - or, as he calls it, "How I"). We seek out all the therapy he's offered, eating our words and ideas about public school special ed, and choosing instead to give him every opportunity to develop. We hope and pray. And we wait.
As he gets older, the waiting becomes more difficult. The gap widens. Two year olds overtake him in vocabulary and understanding and potty training.
Recently a child asked our six year old, "Why is Elliott still wearing diapers?" And I can't help but wonder and worry what questions Liam might be asked about his brother in the future.
Liam, however, regularly reminds us that there are far more important things we don't have to wait for.
A couple days before Christmas break, Liam brought home and proudly read to us his "Holiday Collection" of essays. Each day for a week his teacher gave them a topic to write on: Christmas, a letter to Santa, a letter to the Grinch, a special gift they received. I expected the last one would be about LEGOs - the only gift he ever wants. Instead, Liam's essay, The Gift, said this:
Dear Elliott,
Thank you for always saying "ma, are you ok?" when I get hurt. I always say "I'm alright." And sometimes you try to pick me up! But always you tug on my arm. And I say ok, ok! And we go home.
Love, Ma
("ma" is how Elliott pronounces "Liam")
As much as Advent is about waiting, it is about the waiting being over. It is about Love come to earth. Love being born - in the lowliest and most unexpected places.
We are, by no means, an exceptional family. We don't have riches or status. We have made mistakes and poor choices. We have a son whose developmental future is unknown. But we have love. And when it breaks through in beautiful, surprising ways, the importance of what we wait for dims. Because what we have outshines it in every way.
God is love. The Gospel in a word is love. Love, love, love, love. All you need is love. In this, there is no wondering or worry, and no waiting.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
amazing grace
Grace Dourte Wolgemuth
August 30, 1916 - March 17, 2010
My beautiful grandma died today and for once I am at a loss for words. I will miss her hugs, her singing, her friendship, her kindness, her applesauce, her hands, her smell, her shredded wheat bars, her compassion, her prayers, her laughter, her meals, her questions, her voice, and her beaming smile. She was truly amazing and I feel tremendously lucky to have been loved by her all these years. I will miss her so, so much. But I'm happy because she's whole now, and finally home.
Monday, November 23, 2009
i think you should read this
It's a radical, convicting, beautiful statement of faith. It's in Esquire magazine. I think you should read it. That's all I'm going to say.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
a destination story
Friday night I went with a friend to hear Donald Miller, an author I love, speak about his newest book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. He said big, provocative, daring stuff. My favorite being that the idea of a blessed existence comes from commercialization. Because, in a nutshell, we are not here to be fulfilled or blessed or even part of some special plan. If you look at it from a global perspective, those are American ideas, not Biblical ones. Ultimately, said Don, we are here to write a story.
As a storyteller of sorts, I like the concept, but swallowing it goes against what most of us strive for - comfort, calm, security, safety, abundance. Because if a story consists of a character wanting something and having to overcome conflict to get it (consider every great story you've known and see if this isn't true), then writing a great story just sets a person up for pain and difficulty, not the stuff we usually go after (and think we deserve, are promised, etc.). And, it presupposes that one might actually want something other than new carpet, more sleep and the checks to come on time.
On Friday, Don told about his rude awakening when a couple screenwriters wanted to create a movie based on his first book, Blue Like Jazz, which is basically a collection of essays, and he realized that his life didn't make a very good story. It was boring and pretty uninspiring. It didn't have the elements of a great story. As a result, he started The Mentoring Project to address the lack of support and role models for fatherless boys. Taking on the project was scary and overwhelming. It takes time and money and energy to keep it going. But, as a fatherless boy himself, Don wants to see these kids loved and helped, and now he's going to overcome any conflict to do it.
The message in church this morning echoed so much of what Don said. I love when that happens. Feeling you are in all the right places at the right time, hearing things that are meant for you to hear. But it's not easy stuff. It would be simple to just nod, sign up to make some more lunches for the local homeless shelter and call it a day. I don't want conflict in my life any more than the next guy. But I think God does.
Think how we are with our children. We want to protect them. We try to keep them from difficulty and painful situations. But aren't we coddling them when we do this? If they don't experience pain and heartache and conflict, how can they ever be an empathetic friend to someone else? How can they ever understand the value of something? How can they ever grow? It pains us to see our children suffer but would we really want them to live a sterile, pain-free existence? I doubt it. And so, I believe, God feels this way for us.
He knows that it's the conflict that makes the difference between a lame story and a great one. But he also knows that it's hope that makes it possible to start writing. Hope like this:
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall be shown mercy.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.
And the list goes on.
We don't have to be shaped by our past, whatever it is. Instead we can be formed by God's future, where there is justice and mercy and unconditional love. We can do big things, scary things, great story things, when we have this kind of hope and future.
The way I see it, God gave us a destination and he gave us a pen. Come what may, the rest is up to us.
As a storyteller of sorts, I like the concept, but swallowing it goes against what most of us strive for - comfort, calm, security, safety, abundance. Because if a story consists of a character wanting something and having to overcome conflict to get it (consider every great story you've known and see if this isn't true), then writing a great story just sets a person up for pain and difficulty, not the stuff we usually go after (and think we deserve, are promised, etc.). And, it presupposes that one might actually want something other than new carpet, more sleep and the checks to come on time.
On Friday, Don told about his rude awakening when a couple screenwriters wanted to create a movie based on his first book, Blue Like Jazz, which is basically a collection of essays, and he realized that his life didn't make a very good story. It was boring and pretty uninspiring. It didn't have the elements of a great story. As a result, he started The Mentoring Project to address the lack of support and role models for fatherless boys. Taking on the project was scary and overwhelming. It takes time and money and energy to keep it going. But, as a fatherless boy himself, Don wants to see these kids loved and helped, and now he's going to overcome any conflict to do it.
The message in church this morning echoed so much of what Don said. I love when that happens. Feeling you are in all the right places at the right time, hearing things that are meant for you to hear. But it's not easy stuff. It would be simple to just nod, sign up to make some more lunches for the local homeless shelter and call it a day. I don't want conflict in my life any more than the next guy. But I think God does.
Think how we are with our children. We want to protect them. We try to keep them from difficulty and painful situations. But aren't we coddling them when we do this? If they don't experience pain and heartache and conflict, how can they ever be an empathetic friend to someone else? How can they ever understand the value of something? How can they ever grow? It pains us to see our children suffer but would we really want them to live a sterile, pain-free existence? I doubt it. And so, I believe, God feels this way for us.
He knows that it's the conflict that makes the difference between a lame story and a great one. But he also knows that it's hope that makes it possible to start writing. Hope like this:
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall be shown mercy.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.
And the list goes on.
We don't have to be shaped by our past, whatever it is. Instead we can be formed by God's future, where there is justice and mercy and unconditional love. We can do big things, scary things, great story things, when we have this kind of hope and future.
The way I see it, God gave us a destination and he gave us a pen. Come what may, the rest is up to us.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
love that undoes
Last night, I got a good look at everything that love is not, and it knocked the breath right out of me. Our church did an incredible, unusual Good Friday service, a drama of sorts, mixed with dark, dark, techno, Nine Inch Nails-ish music (played by a trio of which Andrew was part). In this drama, we met doubt, sorrow, fear, shame, agony, hate and death, each embodied in a person who movingly spat out their story of how they were "there," how they tried to drag Jesus down, get him to throw in the towel and defeat him, and yet how they each ultimately failed. Except for death. Death, of course, thought he had won. The music itself would have had us believe it.
But in the end there was that still small voice. The voice that revealed that it had been there, too. Through every trial, every doubt, every fear, every pain, every rejection, every temptation, every ounce of suffering. This voice never revealed its name, but it was a stark contrast. It was the complete and utter opposite of every dark character we had heard from. It could only be love.
In one day, even in one hour, I can be preyed upon by all seven of those life-sucking realities. They threaten to undo my relationships, my faith, my hope and my sanity. I doubt who I really am. I feel guilty for things I've done and things I've left undone. I wallow in self pity. I worry about things out of my control. I pass off blame onto someone else. I gossip. I harbor resentment. It is not pretty. It should ruin me. But there is always that still small voice, the one reality that overcomes, that gives me a second chance. Again and again and again.
After the service last night I was standing with Andrew and Matthew, our assistant minister who was also part of the music trio, when a man came up and shook Matthew's hand. He fumbled for something to say and then blurted, "I have no words. But I sure am glad I came."
Isn't that exactly how it should be at the foot of the cross? What can we possibly say? But when we are bombarded 1,000 times a day by all that opposes love and light and life and God, we sure are glad we came.
But in the end there was that still small voice. The voice that revealed that it had been there, too. Through every trial, every doubt, every fear, every pain, every rejection, every temptation, every ounce of suffering. This voice never revealed its name, but it was a stark contrast. It was the complete and utter opposite of every dark character we had heard from. It could only be love.
In one day, even in one hour, I can be preyed upon by all seven of those life-sucking realities. They threaten to undo my relationships, my faith, my hope and my sanity. I doubt who I really am. I feel guilty for things I've done and things I've left undone. I wallow in self pity. I worry about things out of my control. I pass off blame onto someone else. I gossip. I harbor resentment. It is not pretty. It should ruin me. But there is always that still small voice, the one reality that overcomes, that gives me a second chance. Again and again and again.
After the service last night I was standing with Andrew and Matthew, our assistant minister who was also part of the music trio, when a man came up and shook Matthew's hand. He fumbled for something to say and then blurted, "I have no words. But I sure am glad I came."
Isn't that exactly how it should be at the foot of the cross? What can we possibly say? But when we are bombarded 1,000 times a day by all that opposes love and light and life and God, we sure are glad we came.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
what made him special
With some people, death brings out the best in them, as friends and family can finally put all the bad behind and do their best to focus on redeeming qualities. This is not so with Ray. This guy was an exemplary friend, brother, son, husband, father and relative. There is nothing to exaggerate. He really was all this:
:: He was a t-shirt-and-baseball-cap-wearing guy who really knew how to dance. When Ray and Kristin were dating, I would go to DC to visit. My favorite memory is going to a Christmas party with all the Hill staffers and watching Ray and Kristin float together on the floor. They had an electricity and rhythm that gave the impression they had been dancing that way forever. I was so thrilled that night, absolutely certain that my sweet cousin had found her match.
:: He totally got Kristin and thought she was beautiful from day one. She was his "it" girl. And, being a romantic, I just loved that. They didn't have a long and arduous courtship. They didn't break up and get back together. They weren't just friends. They immediately sparked - and sparkled - intellectually, romantically, and in every other good way. There's not much better than seeing a female you love really being cherished by the guy of her dreams.
:: After marrying Kristin he had, count 'em, eight sisters. No brothers. Then he had three girls of his own. The only man in every house, he was all guy but so tenderhearted and loving. When I visited the hospital after Kristin and Ray's third daughter was born, I expected maybe he'd seem just a little disappointed. Not Ray. He was as proud and pleased as any dad could be.
:: He never complained or felt sorry for himself through his whole cancer ordeal. Not once (that I ever heard of or observed). In fact, he was always full of gratitude and appreciation for everything anyone did for him and his family. Once when I spent the day with them in intensive care and he was so, so sick, he was concerned that my sister's boyfriend had lost his job. Always thinking of others first. How many people do you know who are genuinely like that?
:: Looking back over the relatively short time I knew Ray personally, I cannot remember him ever speaking ill of another person or putting someone down to make himself look good. I do not remember ever hearing him utter a cynical or sarcastic word. This may explain why his many, many, many friends have loved him so long and so loyally.
:: He had a solid faith, strong values and an unwavering commitment to things that were moral and right. But he didn't parade around trying to prove himself. You didn't find Ray engaging in deep discussions of theology and apologetics. You didn't find him praying loud, long public prayers. You just found him living out what he believed.
:: No one, and I mean no one, doesn't love Ray. Really, this guy has friends. The list spans back to grade school. And those guys remained some of his closest friends all throughout his life. The hole that will be left by his absence is huge.
I cannot attempt to understand, Why Ray? All I know is that we are all better for knowing him. And if my boys grow up to emulate some of these godly character traits of Ray Fitzgerald, this mama will be very, very blessed.
Thank you, Ray, for showing us all a better way to live. You will be deeply, deeply missed.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
our time here
Already fragile from the serious illness weighing on the lives of ones I love so much, this video did me in tonight. But it is splendidly beautiful. And it does a much better job at speaking the truth about love and loss, life and death, miracles and healing, and the blessed gift of every single day than I ever could. Thanks Alysa for posting it so I could find it.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
epiphany
My cousin got married on Epiphany eight years ago. As one of the honored bridesmaids, high on the promise of new love myself, I remember the magical day in detail.
Catching snippets of the wedding video this morning as I fed her girls breakfast and cleaned up the kitchen (they apparently had been watching the DVD off and on for the last 24 hours), the palpable joy and excitement of that celebration came barreling back. I had trouble controlling the tears, though, because the contrast seemed too huge to comprehend. On the day after their eighth wedding anniversary, this soul-mated couple that all the elated, sweaty dancers paused on camera to congratulate, were headed to a medical clinic for yet another drug to attempt to hold my cousin's husband's ravaging cancer at bay.
I was relieved when Nora decided she wanted to show Liam High School Musical 2 Karaoke and turned the video off. The widening gap between the then and the now had become a gulf almost too big to cross.
Yet, as I drove home tonight, weeping as I waited for freight train to pass, my son totally lacquered from being chased around by three little girls all day, I recalled a scene from the movie Shadowlands. At the end of the film, C.S. Lewis, played by Anthony Hopkins, is up in the attic with the young son of his new wife who has just died of cancer. They are sobbing. And the boy, in the most gut-wrenching chocks and sobs, says to Lewis, "Why does it hurt so much?" And Lewis says so poignantly, "The pain now is part of the happiness then." I, of course, bawled my eyes out, as I am doing now. Because truth hurts.
The truth is, there is no gulf or gap between the then and the now. The pain and the happiness are inseparable. There is not one without the other. When we choose to live and love fully, vulnerably, outside convention or appearance or approval, we open ourselves up to the deepest pain imaginable. Are we crazy? Why ever do we do it?
In that Epiphany wedding video, I saw my answer. We are made for it. We are made to love and be loved. We are made to rejoice. Just as we are made to suffer. And, as much as any of us may try, this side of the veil, we are not made to understand.
On the first Epiphany over 2000 years ago, the wise men (probably astrologers) did the strangest thing. They followed a star, based on a prophesy, and risked life and limb to do it. Historians speculate it took two treacherous years of desert travel to find the King of the Jews, and they weren't even Jewish. They brought gold and frankincense and myrrh, to a baby. And it wasn't for curiosity sake that they made that long trip. They came to worship. They rejoiced. What could they have possibly understood about that journey? They were just doing what they were made to do. They were loving and being loved. Faced with pain and delay, ostracism and danger, doubt and unanswered questions, they followed that star straight to the source.
Then, now, not yet. Pain, happiness. Come what may, it's this Love that keeps us going.
Morning addendum: I have been thinking how incredible that Jesus' most significant visitors were not the religious Jewish leaders down the street. They were the outsiders, some of the least likely on the continent. They traveled from so, so far, with the most astounding faith. They must have looked like idiots. Leaving everything, risking death by defying the most powerful guy in their kingdom, ignoring what their logical brains must have told them. They already had everything. They were rich and smart and respected, and yet they chose a path that would involve suffering because it would lead to love. It was these guys in the story. These guys who found Jesus. This year I understand why.
Catching snippets of the wedding video this morning as I fed her girls breakfast and cleaned up the kitchen (they apparently had been watching the DVD off and on for the last 24 hours), the palpable joy and excitement of that celebration came barreling back. I had trouble controlling the tears, though, because the contrast seemed too huge to comprehend. On the day after their eighth wedding anniversary, this soul-mated couple that all the elated, sweaty dancers paused on camera to congratulate, were headed to a medical clinic for yet another drug to attempt to hold my cousin's husband's ravaging cancer at bay.
I was relieved when Nora decided she wanted to show Liam High School Musical 2 Karaoke and turned the video off. The widening gap between the then and the now had become a gulf almost too big to cross.
Yet, as I drove home tonight, weeping as I waited for freight train to pass, my son totally lacquered from being chased around by three little girls all day, I recalled a scene from the movie Shadowlands. At the end of the film, C.S. Lewis, played by Anthony Hopkins, is up in the attic with the young son of his new wife who has just died of cancer. They are sobbing. And the boy, in the most gut-wrenching chocks and sobs, says to Lewis, "Why does it hurt so much?" And Lewis says so poignantly, "The pain now is part of the happiness then." I, of course, bawled my eyes out, as I am doing now. Because truth hurts.
The truth is, there is no gulf or gap between the then and the now. The pain and the happiness are inseparable. There is not one without the other. When we choose to live and love fully, vulnerably, outside convention or appearance or approval, we open ourselves up to the deepest pain imaginable. Are we crazy? Why ever do we do it?
In that Epiphany wedding video, I saw my answer. We are made for it. We are made to love and be loved. We are made to rejoice. Just as we are made to suffer. And, as much as any of us may try, this side of the veil, we are not made to understand.
On the first Epiphany over 2000 years ago, the wise men (probably astrologers) did the strangest thing. They followed a star, based on a prophesy, and risked life and limb to do it. Historians speculate it took two treacherous years of desert travel to find the King of the Jews, and they weren't even Jewish. They brought gold and frankincense and myrrh, to a baby. And it wasn't for curiosity sake that they made that long trip. They came to worship. They rejoiced. What could they have possibly understood about that journey? They were just doing what they were made to do. They were loving and being loved. Faced with pain and delay, ostracism and danger, doubt and unanswered questions, they followed that star straight to the source.
Then, now, not yet. Pain, happiness. Come what may, it's this Love that keeps us going.
Morning addendum: I have been thinking how incredible that Jesus' most significant visitors were not the religious Jewish leaders down the street. They were the outsiders, some of the least likely on the continent. They traveled from so, so far, with the most astounding faith. They must have looked like idiots. Leaving everything, risking death by defying the most powerful guy in their kingdom, ignoring what their logical brains must have told them. They already had everything. They were rich and smart and respected, and yet they chose a path that would involve suffering because it would lead to love. It was these guys in the story. These guys who found Jesus. This year I understand why.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
do not be afraid
This has been a very different Advent. In addition to spending a week of it in 80 degree weather when it hovers near 0 degrees almost daily and rarely ceases to snow here at home, December has been consumed with heartache over Ray, my dear cousin's very, very sick husband. Instead of cramming in all of our favorite traditions the last four days - cutting down a tree and trimming it, paying a visit to Santa, shopping for more than 30 minutes, baking cookies, making ornaments, sending Christmas cards, and happily blogging about it all - I sat in hospital rooms and cared for three sweet little girls in their home while Andrew held down the fort here.
This morning was a mad, mad dash to pull Christmas together. I have been trying to breathe deep, to let go of what I wished we'd done, what we missed, what my kids won't even remember. I have been trying not to worry about other people's expectations over gifts and preparations. Mostly I have been trying to remain focused on what and why we celebrate this season anyway.
It is so easy to pay lip service to Jesus' birth. This year I have really struggled to get my heart around the sentimentality of it all. And, quite honestly, the hard facts often leave me cold. But something happened in church tonight. I heard a different story. A perspective I have rarely considered. Words that reached into the ache, the worry, the fear, the ambivalence, the disappointment and brought me back.
"Do not be afraid."
It is an angel's standard greeting. I knew that, of course. I've heard the story hundreds of times. But this time I had the privilege of being a reader in the service and something about reading aloud, paying attention and longing to hear, I noticed that these words are absolutely essential to the Christmas story.
There is so much pain in the world. For the last four days I have been swimming in it. But the great comforter is telling us, Do not be afraid.
There is so much to worry about every day. From battles with cancer to whether a check will come on time. But the Hope of the world is telling us, Do not be afraid.
There are so many reasons to doubt or flee or choose oblivion. But a personal, loving God is telling us, Do not be afraid.
We have to face the darkness in order to see the Light of the World. But we do not have to be afraid. That, I guess, is heavenly peace.
May your travels through the darkness lead you to the manger, so you can return like the terrified, trembling shepherds, glorifying and praising God for all you have heard and seen. That's where I'm heading.
Merry Christmas.
This morning was a mad, mad dash to pull Christmas together. I have been trying to breathe deep, to let go of what I wished we'd done, what we missed, what my kids won't even remember. I have been trying not to worry about other people's expectations over gifts and preparations. Mostly I have been trying to remain focused on what and why we celebrate this season anyway.
It is so easy to pay lip service to Jesus' birth. This year I have really struggled to get my heart around the sentimentality of it all. And, quite honestly, the hard facts often leave me cold. But something happened in church tonight. I heard a different story. A perspective I have rarely considered. Words that reached into the ache, the worry, the fear, the ambivalence, the disappointment and brought me back.
"Do not be afraid."
It is an angel's standard greeting. I knew that, of course. I've heard the story hundreds of times. But this time I had the privilege of being a reader in the service and something about reading aloud, paying attention and longing to hear, I noticed that these words are absolutely essential to the Christmas story.
There is so much pain in the world. For the last four days I have been swimming in it. But the great comforter is telling us, Do not be afraid.
There is so much to worry about every day. From battles with cancer to whether a check will come on time. But the Hope of the world is telling us, Do not be afraid.
There are so many reasons to doubt or flee or choose oblivion. But a personal, loving God is telling us, Do not be afraid.
We have to face the darkness in order to see the Light of the World. But we do not have to be afraid. That, I guess, is heavenly peace.
May your travels through the darkness lead you to the manger, so you can return like the terrified, trembling shepherds, glorifying and praising God for all you have heard and seen. That's where I'm heading.
Merry Christmas.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
incomprehensible
Tonight I walked outside and was nearly overwhelmed by the fragrance of lilac, rain and flowering crabapple. The sight of spring right at this moment, even in the dark, is indescribable. There are no words to adequately capture the beauty of the Dr. Seuss-like trees swaying and stooped with their dripping boughs or the velvety-petaled, eggplant-colored iris dancing in a patch outside my backdoor.
But just as the beauty of the world leaves me sighing and speechless, the sadness of the day does me in. Our precious neighbor Gabe, two years old on Sunday, died today. It is incomprehensible. There are no words to adequately capture the ache of knowing a treasure of a boy is gone from a family we love and care for. How can we possibly reconcile the pain and the beauty? The agony and the ecstacy? What is seemingly random and wrong and what is so surely ordered and right? How can both exist right here and now on this pinhead of time?
Some neighbors gathered tonight to comfort each other and share our sorrow. The thing that sticks in my mind is hearing from my friend Laurie who was with the family as they said goodbye to Gabe at the hospital today. She said that Gabe's dad was crying because he is worried about Gabe being alone. He kept saying, "But he doesn't know anyone in heaven."
Thinking about that just breaks my heart. He wasn't thinking about himself and how lost he'll be without his son but about his precious boy being lonely and afraid. I have worried about dying myself for just this reason - my kids would be left alone. It is a pain unimaginable. But as I was sitting with my friends tonight, I thought of an unlikely passage of scripture. Something that is read at nearly every wedding I've ever been to but made more sense tonight than ever before. It is at the end of 1 Corinthians 13, the great chapter on love, and goes, "Now we see but a poor reflection; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known."
Tonight Gabe is seeing the unimaginable, the incomprehensible beauty and joy that we only get to glimpse. Tonight he is feeling the total embrace of a loving God who knows him fully. He will never be alone again.
In this life, we muddle through. White knuckled, we cling to our glimpses and to each other. We hope. We pray. With lumps in our throats and tears in our eyes, we trudge on through the beauty and the pain, living in shadow until we, too, get to see face to face. And, on that day, Gabe will give us his huge, bright smile once again.
But just as the beauty of the world leaves me sighing and speechless, the sadness of the day does me in. Our precious neighbor Gabe, two years old on Sunday, died today. It is incomprehensible. There are no words to adequately capture the ache of knowing a treasure of a boy is gone from a family we love and care for. How can we possibly reconcile the pain and the beauty? The agony and the ecstacy? What is seemingly random and wrong and what is so surely ordered and right? How can both exist right here and now on this pinhead of time?
Some neighbors gathered tonight to comfort each other and share our sorrow. The thing that sticks in my mind is hearing from my friend Laurie who was with the family as they said goodbye to Gabe at the hospital today. She said that Gabe's dad was crying because he is worried about Gabe being alone. He kept saying, "But he doesn't know anyone in heaven."
Thinking about that just breaks my heart. He wasn't thinking about himself and how lost he'll be without his son but about his precious boy being lonely and afraid. I have worried about dying myself for just this reason - my kids would be left alone. It is a pain unimaginable. But as I was sitting with my friends tonight, I thought of an unlikely passage of scripture. Something that is read at nearly every wedding I've ever been to but made more sense tonight than ever before. It is at the end of 1 Corinthians 13, the great chapter on love, and goes, "Now we see but a poor reflection; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known."
Tonight Gabe is seeing the unimaginable, the incomprehensible beauty and joy that we only get to glimpse. Tonight he is feeling the total embrace of a loving God who knows him fully. He will never be alone again.
In this life, we muddle through. White knuckled, we cling to our glimpses and to each other. We hope. We pray. With lumps in our throats and tears in our eyes, we trudge on through the beauty and the pain, living in shadow until we, too, get to see face to face. And, on that day, Gabe will give us his huge, bright smile once again.
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