The Gravestone

On a summer morning while traveling back to Connecticut after a vacation trip,  Jim and I stopped at the family grave sight.  It was a modest church cemetery where all the grave markers were flat stones embedded in the ground so the caretaker could easily mow--practicality over beauty.

When we found the grave markers, my heart began to pound.  How would I feel--sad, nostalgic, angry, lonely?    Jim and I found this experience to be very conflicting since one of my relatives buried there had caused our family pain and distress with which we were still grappling.

As I searched for my family members' names, I struggled to see them because the grass had overtaken the flat stones.  Then in a startling act of love, my husband bent down to the stone of that troublesome family member and with his bare hand, he began to clear the grave of all it's debris.  I know Jim would have rather left that marker covered with the grass and leaves, symbolic of that person never existing.  But that is not what he did.  His spontaneous act was a show of love toward me, overtook his frustration, disappointment, and anger with my relative.

In 1 Corinthians 13 the characteristics of perfect love are listed.  On the list is, "love is patient, love is kind...it is not self-seeking...it keeps no record of wrongs...love never fails."  On that July morning, I saw perfect love in action at the hands of my husband.

The Bus Driver

In 1987, Jim took me to Ecuador to visit his brother and sister-in-law. I was very excited because I had never been out of the country (except for one childhood trip to Canada which I found to be a dismal disappointment because it looked exactly like the United States and I had always pictured "foreign" countries as having palm trees and thatched roof huts.)  We arrived in Quito and our family treated us to all the great sites and experiences of their adopted countries.  They also included us in their daily life .

One of the highlights of our visit was a trip up into the mountains to the city of Otavalo.  My brother-in-law drove the hairpin curved road with care and caution.  I gripped Jim's arm for a good bit of the trip as we moved high high above gorges on roads with no guard rails.  The beauty was stunning and the saying "it took my breath away" took on new meaning as we would near the edge of the road to make room for oncoming traffic.

We had a wonderful day in Otavalo.  We visited the most colorful outdoor market filled with the handiwork of Quechua artisans--hand woven cloth, gemstone jewelry, wooden carvings, oil paintings.  We ate lunch at an off-the-beaten-path restaurant while listening to wonderful Ecuadorian musicians.  And as the day began to wind down, Jim and his brother headed back to Quito so they would get home before dark.  My sister-in-law and I went to the house of a friend her's to stay to night.

The next day my sister-in-law moved through her day with ease as she had several things to accomplish.  She seamlessly switched from English to Spanish to Quechua depending on who she was speaking with.  She knew her way around the city and when everything was completed, we had to catch a bus back to Quito.   Getting the bus was routine to her--no big deal.   I was not so carefree as we boarded the bus to head "home."

I was worrying about car sickness and what sites and smells I might encounter on the bus.  The road was concerning and I trusted my brother-in-law's driving but who was this bus driver and was he safe.  I think my sister-in-law must have sensed my unease and so she told me stories of things that had happened to her on some of her trips back and forth on the bus.  She told me how she helped a woman deliver a baby.  She described all the different kinds of animals she had traveled with on the bus.  She made me laugh describing that one of the traffic signs we passed translated said, "speed checked by radar."  (The hills were so steep that speed was not an option.)

Just as I was calming down a bit, I looked up to see the bus driver pull into the opposite lane to pass a Cocoa Cola truck who was passing an oil truck.  I gasped.  A few hundred yards ahead there was  traffic coming toward us.  Where were we going to go?  Did the bus driver have a plan?  Would he protect us and keep us safe?

I don't have the slightest idea how that threesome squeezed themselves back into the proper lane on the highway before there was a head on collision but they did.  The bus driver acted as though he had experienced that scenario many many times and it was not a problem.  If I was going to stay in one piece I had to settle down and trust the driver.

Isn't that what I'm learning about God?  He moves through situations that are frightening and unknown to me but He's been there before.  Am I going to take on worry and fear or can I trust Him?  Can I settle down to enjoy the ride?

The Lighthouse

IFor forty-five summers I have traveled to Maine with one generation or another to visit "our" lighthouse.  The tall white stone structure sits atop large ribbons of granite rocks.  The lighthouse overlooks beautiful ocean waves crashing up against the rocks.

As a child I ran all over those rocks with youthful agility.  I knew where every nook and cranny was to play Hide and Seek with my siblings.  I splashed in the giant tidal pool which trapped sea creatures with each high tide change. I sat on the "couch" rock and climbed in the "fort" rock.  I hunted for sea glass in amongst all the round stones in the inlet below the lighthouse.  I giggled as I fed the sea gulls left over sandwich bread.

I spent endless delightful hours in the shadow of the lighthouse soaking up sea air and sunshine.  I knew the rocks like they were my backyard.  I was comfortable and secure as I played and those were some of my favorite childhood days.

As days turned into nights, the experience changed.  The mosquitoes (affectionately called "the Maine state bird") arrived.  The sound of the waves beating up against the rocks became prominate.  Hooded sweatshirts warmed against the chilly sea breezes.  I could no longer run freely on the rocks because my vision was now limited.  And then the lighthouse light came on--every six seconds a blip of light and then it shut off.

As a child and to this day I do not have the very best balance so I felt too unsure to take a step on the uneven terrain around the lighthouse when there was no light shining.  I do the "dot to dot" version of walking at night at the lighthouse--when the light is on I step, when the light is off I stay.  Step and stay is not the quickest mode of walking but it is the safest.

The nighttime lighthouse is a wonderful illustration of the verse in Psalm 119:105.  "Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path."
When I need illumination and guidance, I go to God's Word.  I pray for understanding.  When I get it, I move ahead.  When I don't, I stay still until God shows me what's next.  In the darkness I look to the lighthouse--each flash of light filled with God's love, mercy, wisdom and guidance.

Nicknames

Do you remember the pet rock craze?  That time when you got a smooth rock painted with a silly face and kept it on your desk or dresser as though it could contribute love and friendship to your life.  And if you participated fully in the trend, you probably called the rock by a name and talked to it as you passed by now and again.  It was a frivolous, stroke of brilliance for some human to take a free, inanimate object and assign value and worth to it by giving it a name and a face.

One of my very favorite things to do is to walk the beach and pick up beautiful, perfectly smooth white rocks.  I have gathered those stones from beaches all over the world and carried them home to my jewelry box on my dresser.  When I bend down and grab one of the stones,  I love their warmth from laying in the sun.  I love their almost human quality of soft smoothness--how comforting to hold the large flawless pebbles in my hand.  I love their pure white color with even whiter veins that run through them giving each rock it's uniqueness.  I love that
the pretty stones reminds me of one of my favorite verses in scripture--Revelation 2 :17.  "Whoever has ears, let them hear what the Spirit says to the churches. To the one who is victorious, I will give some of the hidden manna. I will also give that person a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to the one who receives it."  If I overcome the challenges of life, God has a nickname for me!  A name that's just between us;  a sign of our intimacy and love.

Since that verse was pointed out to me, I have often wondered what the Lord will call me-- my complicated one, my short one, my curious one....  What does God find endearing about me?  When I get my white stone what will it say?

The other day Jim and I were talking about the silly names we call each other.  We were discussing which ones we liked and where they came from and how they evolved from one name to another.  We also talked about the unspoken rule of nicknames--they do not get said in the presence of others--they are private and winsome and a sign of belonging to one another.

How lovely is it to think that God recognizes my efforts to triumph over hardships and challenges by giving me a nickname, a name that signals I am dear to Him and I belong to Him?

Peepers

Last night I heard them!  That welcomed sound that heralds the arrival of Spring--peepers. 

The peepers live in a large puddle that has gathered this time of year at the edge of our property.  We have a creek that flows in front of our large gray rock and then wanders down along the property line through some trees and shrubs that we share with the neighbor. 

I only know the little creatures are there because of their sounds.  Truthfully, I have never seen them and I don't know what color they are or how big they are.  In fact today when I looked them up in Google Images I was surprised to find out they are only an inch and a half long.  Their voices pack a punch for being so little.

Isn't faith just like the peeper?  It is unseen but there is evidence that it exists.  In the book of Hebrews faith is described as  "confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see."  When we hear the sound of the little amphibians we begin to hope for the warmer weather of Spring and the change of season after enduring a long Winter.  We cannot see the little creatures but we are sure they are there by their choir of churps.  Faith in God allows us to be confident, knowing He has plans and the power to carry them out.  We can be sure that God will keep His promises and that He does not change even though we cannot see Him.

The peeper is tiny but his voice is big.  In the Gospels, Jesus says, "Truly I tell you, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.” 

When I was a young girl someone gave me a necklace with a mustard seed in a magnifying glass as a pendant.  The mustard seed was so little it was almost undetectable without the enlargement of the magnifier.  I remember being entrigued by that picture of faith -- the idea that God was willing to accept the most minute amount of my belief to do great things.  I liked that I did not have to conjure up a big bunch of faith in order to have God move. 

Oh God, take my smallest gestures of belief and turn them into a joyful chorus of hope and movement.

Alone

Today is "hump day" of a seven day sequester after another radioactive iodine treatment for recurrent thyroid cancer.  In anticipating this round of treatment,  the aloneness of the sequester was the thing I most dreaded and yet something transformative and unexpected is happening.

The timing of this quarantine (Holy Week) has sent my thoughts to Jesus' own experience of aloneness.  It has caused me to imagine how I would have handled those last days before going to the cross.  First I would probably have made a list..."dispose of my earthly possessions," "make sure the will is up-to-date," "tell the family where the important papers are."  Then I would have gotten busy trying to complete all those tasks that I had always meant to get around to but procrastinated doing thinking I had more time.  I would have filled every day with busyness trying to make sure I left behind some kind of legacy ensuring that it mattered that I once lived.  I would have used endless activity to distract from the terror of what was about to happen to me.

Jesus did just the opposite.  He went into the serene Garden of Gethsemane filled with gnarly olive trees.  He set aside any agenda to be busy. He chose to just "be".  And though He invited His friends to participate in the experience with Him, they could not.   He was alone.  He was alone in the dismay over the physical trauma He was facing;  He was alone in the dread of the separation from His Father;  He was alone in the the anticipation of the rejection of His friends and followers;  He was alone in the sadness He would cause His mother;  He was alone in being misunderstood that He seemingly could not substantiate His claims of being God's Son.  Yet despite it all, Jesus did not budge from spending His last hours absorbed in the relationship with His Father.  There was no list, frantic activity, "wrapping up the details."  There was no "setting the record straight," just intimate moments of transparent honesty between Father and Son.

In my lifetime, I have never before had a time when I literally could do nothing and go nowhere.  I am in our bedroom behind a make-shift "screen door" ( to keep the cat and dog out).  Kindly, friends have offered me videos and books and magazines.  I loaded a book on the Kindle and had a list of things I thought would be good to accomplish during this time of involuntary solitude.  But as the days have gone by I have found myself getting quieter and quieter and I am hearing God louder and louder.  I am experiencing sweet togetherness with God in the quiet aloneness of my room.

Touch

Wednesday afternoon of last week, Jim drove me to the beauty salon to get my hair cut before I had to settle in for my "sequester" after this most recent cancer treatment.  I felt so weak so we decided I shouldn't drive myself and I really wanted to stay on my favorite red couch but I thought that after a month with no haircut I would regret that decision so I went to the salon.

"I'm all set for you!  You can go right to the bowl in the middle."  So I did. After the plastic apron was snapped in place I began to anticipate my favorite part of the salon experience--the shampoo.  Jackie gives a wonderful, brisk shampoo and rinses with water that is just the right temperature.  If I'm lucky she'll do it twice!  I rarely chat during this time because I don't want to miss any of her wonderful touch.  If I was a cat, I would purr.

Now that I am isolated from Jim, our little gray cat, Teddy and our frail old dog, Ellie, I am even more aware of how much I depend on touch.  Each time Jim drops off food my room, I want to reach out and hug him.  I find myself saying, "Kiss me...," and then I remember, "Oh, he can't."  It's not normal!  Even Teddy knows this...the normally quiet cat has been crying out loud because we are separated and he cannot come sit with me.   The lack of touch changes my mood.  (When I was thinking about this treatment, the thing I dreaded most was the physical isolation.)  And on the other side, a hug, a fist bump or pat on the back also changes my mood.

Yesterday, as I was on my way to the hospital I used social media to quickly let people know what was happening.  Before I was even called into the treatment room, messages assuring me of love and prayer began to come in.  There has not been one hour in the last twenty-four hours that someone has not "reached out and touched me" through phone, media, cards and prayers.  Though traditional touch--hugs, kisses, pats on the arm or back--is not available right now, I am being touched. 

Thanks to all who have stopped your busy world and taken the time to step into my world and touch me.  I feel it!