A Selfie

"Ready to go?  We have to get down to New York in plenty of time to get through the security lines at the airport."  We were on our way to Ecuador to help Jim's brother and sisier-in-law pack to leave Ecuador after forty years of their ministry.

I was very excited about seeing Mike and Carol.  I was anxious to eat good food with the family and shop in the colorful markets (especially in Octavalo).

In spite of all my hopes, I had to admit that I did not feel well.  I thought it was exhaustion from the long flight or possibly altitude sickness (Quito is at 10,000 feet).  All I could think about was sleeping.

After two weeks of sight seeing and going down to the coast, it was time to say "good-bye."  We headed back to the USA.  We had hours and hours to kill in the Miami airport.  Our out-going gate was changed seven times (welcome home).  I was so weak I could not move without Jim's help.  It was the first inkling that something was seriously wrong.

After weeks of twenty hours a day sleeping, I was diagnosed with end-stage kidney failure.  I spent three weeks in the hospital.  During that time I was also shown to have thyroid cancer.

This month it has been six years since this physical journey began.  I lost the use of my legs due to Cushings Syndrome.  The Syndrome also caused my legs to be so brittle that I broke both my ankles and one shin thus spending three months in rehab centers.  I had to have a breast lumpectomy. I struggle with constant neuropathy.  Most recently I have been bleeding internally and losing my hemoglobin.

Because of all these physical complications, I've had to give up my children's ministries at church (being Miss Stephanie).   I had to relinquish my piano teaching and jewelry making.  I  couldn't cook and bake.  I had to stop walking and driving.

Hours and hours I have spent wondering, "who am I without being able to do these things. Do I have a purpose;  do I matter even though my body is an empty shell?"

Do you know who you would be if you could not "do" anything?  If your life was stripped of it's activity, would you have value?  How do you define yourself?

Gemstones

Thirty-five years ago this summer Jim and I were planning our wedding.  We were picking out gray suits for the groomsmen.  I was sewing coral bridemaids' dresses and men's ties to match.  Our friends and neighbors were growing and arranging the bridal flowers (my bouquet was a wild flower bouquet of Queen Anne's lace, which I love to this day).  And Jim and I went to a gemologist to pick out our wedding rings

Mr. Moyer had a charming jewelry shop in Allentown, Pennsylvania with beautiful display cases and all his jeweler's tools and scopes carefully laid out.  The man was so personable and he told us that this was a second career for him and we could tell that he was in love with his new found path in life.  As Mr. Moyer showed us diamonds and settings he explained that he had travelled to the diamond mines in South Africa to see how the mining process worked.

"Diamonds love dirt," our new friend said.  I smiled.  What a funny thing to blurt out, I thought.

Mr Moyer went on to say, "they mine diamonds in vats of grease.  The ore runs on a conveyor belt through three vats of grease and because they are attracted to dirt they get trapped.  All that to say, if you want your engagement ring to look its best you will have to clean it frequently because your diamond will love dirt."

Relationships love dirt.  They are naturally attracted to conflict, misunderstanding, frustration, anger and selfishness.  To have the best and most fulfilling relationships, they have to be regularly maintained.  In the New Testament book of Ephesians, chapter four it talks of this very thing.  "Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry."--maintenance.

I have to admit that while I value my relationship with God as though it were a gemstone, it has needed much maintenance lately.  I have experienced misunderstanding (what in the world are you up to, God), frustration, and even anger.  It takes surrender to the knowledge that God is good and only good to keep this gemstone clean.

The Rain Umbrella

I was five and a half (the half was very important) and it was the summer before I was to start kindergarten.  I had attended my Kindergarten Visit Day and I was very proud of what I learned and I was anticipating the start of my academic career.  I had practiced walking the route to my little brick elementary school (my mom had four children under the age of five and a half and it was unlikely she would be able to walk with me every afternoon--times were different back then.)

I could hardly wait to start school.  I was the oldest sibling in my family and the oldest grandchild as well, so I was the first to embark on the new experience.  My grandmother wanted to be a part of the new adventure and she asked my mother if we could all go shopping so she could buy me a few school necessities.  My mother was delighted for the help so we travelled from New Jersey to Connecticut to shop at the large Post Mall.

Grammie took mom and I to her favorite department store, Reeds.  We walked through the Children's Department.  We picked out a couple of colorful school outfits (most suitable for cold weather).  Then the most incredible thing happened to my five and a half year old self!  My grandmother spotted a display of children's rain gear.

"Stephie will definitely need a rain coat and umbrella, especially if she is going to walk to Mrs. Wilhelm's afternoon class."

Did my ears just hear her correctly?  Was Grammie talking about me having my own umbrella?

The three of us ladies pawed through the rain coat choices on the rack.  We settled on a blue and white check ensemble--a rain coat and a matching umbrella (and not just any umbrella, but a bubble umbrella).  I was going to be the coolest kid in my family, in my grade, in my school, in my town, maybe even the world!

Every night from then on until the night before the first day of school I prayed, "dear God please let it rain on the first day of school. Please, please let it rain."

It did not rain on my first day of kindergarten but it rained plenty of other days and my bubble umbrella and I weathered many rainstorms.

In the past years, I have needed a bubble umbrella to shelter me from the storms.  Psalm 91, verse one says: "Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty."--a protective bubble.

White Stone

"I've got our picnic, blanket and jackets. Do you have the tickets," I said to Jim.

We were able to buy "shed" tickets to a summer James Taylor concert at Tanglewood in western Massachusetts' Berkshire mountains at a deep discount. In my wildest dreams  I never thought we would ever get James Taylor tickets at Tanglewood let alone shed seats instead of lawn seats!

"Wow, the skies look ominous. I hope the rain clouds blow over," Jim and I commented.

Sadly, the farther up into the Berkshires we drove in our old teal green Volvo wagon, the more the raindrops fell.

"Do you think the rain will thin out the crowds? Who wants to sit on wet grass for hours in the rain to listen to a concert," I asked Jim. "Boy are we lucky to have seats under the pavilion roof."

When we arrived at the venue, we had to park in a grassy field. (Little did we know that hours later we would be stuck hubcap deep in mud in that field--an unwelcome adventure to say the least.) We persevered, putting on our jackets, grabbing our food and blanket and locking the car. We walked up the hill only to learn that we could not take our undercover seats until the concert began, so we had to eat our "gourmet" picnic out on the grass under a tree that dripped raindrops on us.  We tried to view the soggy inconvenience as romantic because, after all, it was James Taylor!  We would make it work.

We underestimated the resolve of James' fans. The lawn was covered with folks determined to get a glimpse of the singer and hear his old familiar songs. Even though park rangers moved through the crowd asking people to take down the make-shift tents they had pitched to shelter from the rain, everyone obliged and pressed ahead. (Jim and I felt so blessed to be able to show our tickets and find dry seats in the "shed.")  We were in for a wonderful evening. Despite all the challenges, we left the concert full of joy and and cherished memories. We were so glad we went!

In the biblical book of Revelation it says:

"To him who overcomes, I will  give some of the hidden manna [eternal life]. I will also give him a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to him who receives it." 

I love the idea of overcoming--persevering, hanging in there, conquering, not giving up--so that we might receive a white stone. (White stones were the "tickets/invitations" of the day when John wrote  the words of Revelation.) Going through all the earthly challenges and not giving up gets an invitation to the wonderful banquet God has in store for us. It will be worth it-- like a great concert in the rain.  Hang in there!

Manna

"Steph, I'm taking a calligraphy course, would you like me to show you what I'm learning so you can do it too?," asked my friend, Becky.

"That I would be great," I answered enthusiastically.

My friend gave me lined practice sheets and showed me at what angle I should hold the chiseled calligraphy pen.  The two of us threw ourselves into our newest artistic endeavor.  We made signs for church and beautiful gift tags. We lettered verses and sayings and then framed the pieces to give away as gifts.  Knowing the basics of the pretty penmanship opened up all kinds creative worlds.

When Jim and I were preparing to move from Ohio to New York, Becky took me out to lunch.  Part way through our meal, she handed me a small package.  "Here is a little something for you as you and Jim head off to seminary."

I open the wrapped gift to find a blond wooden frame surrounding the calligraphed saying (in Becky's style), "God has not lost his recipe for manna."

"I thought you might need that reminder," said my dear friend.

That little picture has hung in every home we've lived in since.  And we have needed the reminder that just like God sent daily bread (manna) to his Hebrew people as they left Egypt for the promise land, He will do the same for us.  When God sent food for each day with the morning dew, he told his people to take only what they needed for that day (there was no going to Costco to stock up on manna).  "Give us this day our daily bread."

I am learning that my healing journey has been receiving enough "manna" for one day at a time.  There has been no stocking up.  Jesus says he is the bread of life.  So each day I ask him for his provision and grace to carry me through one more day--manna.

Sun Light

This morning I wheeled myself into the kitchen to cook a "hearty" breakfast to carry us through our busy day.

"It's so beautiful today.  I wonder if it's cold," I said to Jim as he was on his way out for his morning walk wearing his hooded sweatshirt and his ever-so-attractive green fluorescent safety vest.

"I think it's chilly.  I'll be back in a bit," he said as he gave me a quick kiss and went out the door.

I rolled my wheelchair over to the stove and tugged at the bottom pot drawer until I got it open.  I pulled out a non-stick frying pan to cook bacon and eggs.  By now the sun had risen high in the blue sky and there were rays of light streaming through our multi-paned windows into the kitchen.

 

As I fried the strips of bacon, the house began to fill with a wonderful aroma and a foggy bacon "haze" caught in the sun rays.

I rolled back and forth across our wide-planked floors setting the table, getting eggs, toasting bagels and pouring cranberry and orange juice.  And as I did, the bright light of the the sun caught my eyes and suddenly our supposedly clean Shaker cabinets and floors showed every imperfection and every speck of dirt.  "Wow,  everything needs a good scrubbing," I thought.

In the past six years, I have rolled back and forth through my life feeling that in spite of all my physical challenges I have lived a pretty clean life.  It is only when the light of God shines in me that the subtle negative heart attitudes, impatient thoughts, and occasional sulking are exposed.  God my Father is not trying to point out my failures to show me up.  Rather He is shining His light in the dark places so that loving cleansing and forgiveness can take place--a good scrubbing.

The New Testament book of 1 John says:  "If we claim to be without sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us.  If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness."

Step into the Son light.

The Tattoo

Years ago when we began to recognize that our young daughters were wonderfully artistic, we decided to take a scenic ride up through the Berkshire Mountains to the Norman Rockwell museum.   We took the girls through each of the displays:  the story of Rockwell's life,  his early paintings, and eventually into the room with his Saturday Evening Post covers.  "Look at this one," were the delighted words as we looked at the walls of paintings.  We couldn't take in what we were seeing fast enough.

The Post covers, famous to this day, told the life of war-time and small town America.  I love "The Gossips," "Triple Self Portrait,"  "The Problem We All Live With (Ruby Bridges)," "Girl with Black Eye," "The Marriage License" to name a few.  One of our daughters was attracted to "Girl at the Mirror."

I think one of my favorite Norman Rockwell paintings is, "The Tattoo Artist."  It is the whimsical record of a sailor's love life.   Each of the lady's names was tattooed on the sailor's muscular arm and when a new girlfriend came into his life the name of the former girl was crossed out by the tattoo artist.

Recently a niece of mine posted a picture of a tattoo she got.  She has two daughters who she calls her "princesses."  She had each of their names and birthdates tattooed over her heart.  She will carry them with her always.  They will be forever in her mind.

In the Old Testament book of Isaiah, God says, "See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands;  your walls are ever before me."  The same hands that bear the love scars of the cross, bear your name.  He will never forget you or abandon you.  Your name will never be crossed out.

Hot Cross Buns

"Grammie, tell me the story of the hot cross buns again," I said to my ninety plus year old grandmother.

Sitting in her favorite recliner, the tiny woman had on a flowered dress, a handmade apron, support hose and sensible dove gray tied shoes.  On the side table next to her lay her beautiful golden embroidery scissors, a spool of thread and a needle, a silver-colored thimble and her well-worn Bible. Her short gray, permed hair was pinned back with a bobby pin behind each ear.

"Well, when I was a young girl my father owned a horse-drawn delivery service.  He would pick up bread, pastries and rolls from the large bakery in our city and take them to his customers."

"On the Thursday before Good Friday, we set up great big trays on saw horses in our dining room and my father would fill the trays with hot cross buns from the bakery. Chrissy [her sister], Mama, Pop, Auntie Gert and I would count out the customer orders and put the buns in bags to get them ready for delivery in the middle of the night."

 

"Soon after midnight on Good Friday, we loaded up the wagon and saddled our horse, Don.  Chrissy and I road in the back of the wagon and it was our job to jump out with the orders.   Our customers' homes were all up and down the streets by the beach in Milford."

"We knew where all our customers lived.  And we knew all their dogs so we would slip past them and leave the Good Friday buns on the kitchen tables.  As long as Grampie owned a bakery delivery route, that was our tradition."

Ever since my grandmother told me that story, I have tried to make her hot cross buns for Good Friday as often as possible.  I love the idea of keeping the family story alive with something so tangible.  All senses are involved when I bake the buns--the sight of all the buns lined up on the pan;  the wonderful smell that fills the house;  the sound of the oven door opening and closing;  the sticky touch of the frosted cross;  the sweet taste of the soft bread bun.

Anticipating Passover and Easter it occurs to me that God cares deeply about food traditions for the purpose of keeping the stories of His people alive.  He knows how frail our memories are so He gave us meals to illustrate freeing His people from Egypt and sending His Son as Savior to free His people from the bondage of sin.  Today when we eat those meals God says, "do this in memory of Me."

So as you celebrate your holidays, enjoy your family traditions and remember to enjoy God's family traditions as well.

The Bell Buoy

Ask my husband, Jim, about our family excursion to Maine's Monhegan Island and his face will instantly turn pasty white and he will double over clenching his stomach.

We had made this trip before on the Hardy Boat so we thought is would be fun to take our girls to the island that had barely any cars and only about 200 year round residents. Hiking trails ran along the ocean and green, brown and blue sea glass peppered the shore.  A lighthouse was at the peak of the island and with a few summer artisan gift shops. All in all it promised to be a good day.

We grabbed our tickets, sweatshirts, jackets and sensible shoes for climbing on the jagged rocks along the sea coast, ran down the dock and climbed on the boat.  The sky was a bit overcast but as they say in Maine, "if you don't like the weather, wait a minute," so we forged ahead.

The boat loaded with folks "from away" fired up it's engines and slowly left the harbor.  As soon as we cleared the harbor markers the captain revved up the boat's speed and we were on our way.  Jim and the girls went to the upper deck to get the full views.  My aunts and I, choosing the more cautious route, stayed down on the first deck.

As we hit open seas, black clouds rolled in and it began to rain.  The more the rain kicked up more the Hardy Boat began to rock--back and forth, back and forth.  In seconds my "upper deck" family appeared to get out of the rain and to try and get their bearings.  The captain came on over the loud speaker saying, "keep your eyes on the horizon," but the boat was listing so deep and the swells were so high, there was no horizon.  Needless to say our family was lined up along the side of the boat. And Jim's only comment was, "that was a waste of a perfectly good blueberry muffin!"

We spent a miserable day on the island.  The storm did not pass and we knew in a few hours we had to make the return "voyage."  When the time came we walked to the dock and tried to muster up our courage to cross the bouncing gangplank onto the boat.  Finally we sat down and huddled under blankets anticipating the trip back to shore.

Fog, rain, wind, and huge waves were our only focus of what seemed like an endless trip. Fearful thoughts ran through our minds.  Did the captain know how to navigate this weather?  Were we going to make it back safely?  How could the boat's crew possibly tell where we were?

After an excruciating hour of being churned about on the sea, we heard the gentle, calm rocking sound of the harbor buoy.  We were "home!"  We had made it!  The sound guided the captain into the harbor loaded with docked lobstermen's boat.  He expertly brought the rocking Hardy Boat to rest.  We were safe.

We have learned that each harbor has it's own buoy with it's own bell.  In the midst of darkness or storm or fog a captain can tell where he is by the sound of the bell.  He must know his bell's sound or he will be lost.

This year I have been tossed and churned about.  In the midst of fear and anxiousness,  I'm learning the sound of my Heavenly Father's voice who will guide me into safe harbor.

                           

Tantrums

"Sweetheart, I have to run out to the grocery store.  Why don't you grab your jacket and come with me."

My young daughter dressed in her Saturday play clothes--green corduroy overalls, a white turtleneck with flowers printed all over it, navy blue leather mary jane shoes, and a green ribbon bow tied around her topknot--did not take to my plan at all.

"I don't want to go.  I hate the grocery store.  I want to stay home with Daddy.  I'm not going!" she said forcefully as she punctuated her statements with a solid stamp of her little blue shoe.

I tried to coax and cajole her to come with me.  In the midst of the all the messy back-and-forth words, I didn't want to tell her that her best friend's mother had called to ask if she could come and play. I wanted to surprise her.  I wanted to bless her but because she thought she knew what was happening she dug her heels in and nearly missed the blessing.   My six year old did not trust that I was thinking of her, that I had her best interest in mind.

This year I've been asked to follow God unconditionally into places I haven't wanted to go--physically and emotionally painful and frightening places . I've been weak and indulgent in self-pity.  "What are you thinking, God?  Where is your fatherhood?"   I have stomped my feet (best that I could with two broken ankles) and through my tantrums I have told my Heavenly Father, "I don't want to go with you!"  I have not always trusted that He has my best interest in mind and as a result I'm sure I have interfered with His blessings.

In the Old Testament book of Jeremiah God states,  "I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with unfailing kindness."  As I walk on with my Heavenly Father, will I have to courage to believe His words are true, to let go of questioning His goodness?

Erasers

As a little girl in third grade wearing a polyester aqua plaid skirt with a shirt and knee socks to match, it was my week to stay after school and clean the slate black board and erasers. Truthfully for a wild, curly haired young girl wearing brown corrective shoes, this was my favorite job to get of all the chores on the Jobs List.

Every day for a week I got one-on-one attention from my teacher; and every day for a week I got to make order out of chaos, both things that were needed in my early life. When the big hand on the large round classroom clock moved around to 3:10 pm, it was time to snap into action.  On my tippy toes I would begin at the top of the board and erase the day's math, science and homework assignments away.  I worked until there was no trace of the past.  Then to complete the task I would put my jacket on, grab up the two gray felt erasers, head down the wide stairwell, and out the large front doors.  There I would clap those erasers together with all my might.  I clapped and clapped until the poofs of chalk dust were gone.

Back upstairs I beamed at a job well done, knowing the next day could begin with a clean slate--a fresh start, a new beginning.  Certainly our Heavenly Father has the same love of fresh starts--Christmas is about giving mankind a second chance; Easter is about giving humankind a clean slate.  Yet our God knew we could not wait for months for a do-over so He designed daily new beginnings.  In the Old Testament book of Lamentations it speaks of God's mercies being new every morning.

As this new year rolls around, erase the old and with your Heavenly Father's help welcome the new fresh start.