SelahV Today by hariette petersen

It's One of Those Nights

You know the one--wide awake at midnight.

It's when sleep is just far enough beyond your mind's grasp that it cannot hold onto it.

And so, you think.

Your mind wanders down paths of yesterday, where regrets are hidden in silly memories--where losses crowd your thoughts with sadness. You long for a moment with that person who knew you almost better than you know yourself.

You wish you could hear their voice-- the one that excitedly greeted you, just because it's you at the other end of the phone.

I miss my dad,

my brother,

my son.

Each was always thrilled to hear me call. I can recall conversations with them as clearly as if it were today. None of them was too busy to take my call, nor did they ever wince that it was me on the other end of the line--or let on that I interrupted whatever they were doing. With all my heart, I know this to be true. And I really, really miss them because of that.

Sometimes, in the darkness of the night, I wonder if anyone will miss my calls when I am gone. I'm sure my husband will. But midnight darkness has a funny way of illuminating stark realities, sometimes. Brings to mind a quote I once read:

“When it is dark enough, you can see the stars.” ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Think about that a moment. City lights often hide those stars.

Daylight is too bright to notice the light that rests beyond the sun. Often, darker, quiet times reveal what lies hidden from our view.

Daylight is so filled with busyness and noise. We fail to see the value of familiarity amid the crowd of fresh faces in everyday places. Schedules, duties, appointments, and lifestyle demand our attention. We do not stop to contemplate that someone we care about may not be there tomorrow--or that they might enjoy hearing from us today. We're just so busy living life, until...

...until life ends for that someone dear-- then we stop long enough to grieve and wonder what was the last thing we said to them.

The last time daddy talked to me, he sang me a song he made up about loving God.

The last time my brother talked to me, he told me he was afraid to die. Not that he feared for where he was going...he believed he'd be seeing Jesus, our deceased brother and my son. He just didn't know what would happen to his daughter and wife--and he didn't know how painful the cancer would get before God took him home. I remember saying something like, the same God you trust to greet you, will meet the needs of those you leave behind. And I cried.

The last time I spoke to my son, he said, "I love you, momma."

Tomorrow I'll try and talk to my dear loved ones-- in the midst of their living. When I do, I'll savor the moments and store their words within my heart and mind. Will you? ~selahVtoday

 

Save

Save

Wish I'd Had THIS song to share with my son on May 7th 2005

God sees what we cannot

And when we least expect it, God brings things into our lives to fuel us, empower us and strengthen us. Sometimes He mixes yesterday with today to give us exactly what we need to step into tomorrow.

Today as I sat amid piles and piles of paperwork, trying to get a list compiled for our insurance company regarding the losses in our recent robbery, I felt discombobulated.  Ever felt discombobulated? My stepmother use to say that all the time when she felt totally perplexed and helpless to meet the challenges before her.

It was mind boggling trying to remember when items were purchased that were stolen. It was exhausting rummaging through boxes and drawers trying to find information about my belongings to put on the list. It was frustrating that I couldn't remember the exact model of things I owned and used every single day.

As I pressed forward in my searches, I wondered why the man with whom I set up an appointment for a quote to replace my damaged doors, had not shown up... had not even called to say why.  I wondered why another contractor had not called me back.  I wondered why the security company I called never returned my call.

Then a lovely Corrie ten Boom quote came to mind, "Every experience God gives you, every person He places in your life, is the perfect preparation for the future, that only He can see." 

I can't see the future.  I can't know why people fail to do what they say, or the reason for complexities in life. I don't know why a complete stranger would choose my home to pillage and destroy.  But God can. And God does. And I take comfort in that.

Not long after that quote came to mind, my doorbell rang. Expecting to see the man with whom I'd made the appointment to fix my doors, I was surprised to discover my pastor standing on my porch. He'd come to encourage me, to pray with me, and also to deliver a love gift from some unknown person. Such a humbling, sweet God-sent surprise.

A little while later, as I rummaged through a box in the garage, I came across a little group of cards my son had sent me years ago. One was sooo funny. He told me how great I was in every way, yet never could throw a "knuckleball". The sweetest one talked about how "as moms we know how to support each other".  It was a Mother's Day card from 2004 in which he wrote, "Thank you for helping and showing me how to be a lil' mom in the dad that I am.  However things turn out with my time shared with my girls, I owe it all to you. Love you mom, Chadder." 

Isn't it amazing, that in the midst of all my aggravation with the robbery, because of the robbery, I found some cards I had tucked away that my son had given me so long ago? and those very cards came forth today to lift my spirits? to give me worth? Indeed, Every experience we have, God will use again and again to move us ever onward to the goal He's set before us.

A Butterfly Greeting

Just as I bent to add purple hydrangeas and tiger lilies to my son's grave arrangement, a bird started singing in a nearby pine tree.  The entire time I added flowers to fill the spaces, the bird continued its serenade.  I kept looking into the trees and couldn't see what kind of bird it was; then all of a sudden it flew to a different perch and started singing again.  It looked like a mocking-bird, but I'd never heard a mocking-bird sing like that.  Nowhere in the Bible is it written that a person can issue forth birdsongs for a loved one on earth.  I know that.  But I couldn't help but wonder if God wasn't blessing me a little more than normal on this 7th anniversary of Chad's entrance to heaven.  I laughed at the thought, that Chad was elbowing Gabriel and saying, "See her? That's my momma, putting those flowers out."

I began taking pictures to post on Facebook for my granddaughters to see the new arrangement.  And just as I began snapping photos, a spotted butterfly came and landed on one of the yellow roses.  Again I laughed.  The Lord sent us a butterfly to remind us of the new life Chad has in Jesus now.

"but God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. Since, therefore, we have now been justified by his blood, much more shall we be saved by him from the wrath of God. For if while we were enemies we were reconciled to God by the death of his Son, much more, now that we are reconciled, shall we be saved by his life."  Romans 5:8-10

I took a few more pictures and noticed an array of yellow, striped, and small orange butterflies flitting from one yellow daisy to another in the cemetery and adjoining field.  The daisies reminded me of how much Chad loved to pick wildflowers alongside the road with his girls.  In fact, Abby (now 10), remembered that when she spotted some Texas Bluebonnets on the side of the highway just last month.  It was a good memory.  And that, my friends, is exactly what all those little acts of love created while Chad was here with us.  Sweet loving memories of his presence--memories to cherish today as we wait to join him some day.  One of Chad's favorite sayings was "Don't forget, take time to smell the flowers."

So, in honor of my son, I began picking daisies, and Indian Blankets for an arrangement at home.

Life is a beautiful thing...and memories are blankets of God's mercy in times like this.

I love you, my son...

Momma

 

The MERCIFUL Thing To Do

Last week was a low-point in my life.  As sixty-three-plus years flew by, I’ve witnessed death in many forms: cats poisoned by neighbors, favorite dogs hit by cars and trucks.  As a minister's wife, I've spent many hours at the bedside of dying family members; and sat with them alongside caskets as friends came by to show their respects for the life they knew.  I've hugged teens who lost grandparents, parents and siblings. I've hugged parents who lost their teens and spouses.  Death...From grandparents, to my own children, strangers, friends.  From accidental deaths to suicides.  I buried my granddaughters' daddy.  Death is no stranger to me.

You'd think I could handle putting a suffering dog out of his misery.  Such a humane act seemed like the merciful thing to do.

I've written quite a few times about Rowdy over my blogging years.  He's provided great subject material and given me several analogies for life (see below).  His spirit and stamina are second to none other dog I ever knew.  Even the amputation of his front leg did not deter his determination to root out Oklahoma armadillos, skunks and snakes.  He literally kept coyotes from the door.  When his lone, front leg finally failed to support his 91 pounds of mete strength, it broke my heart. No longer could he lift himself to walk.  He scooted on his belly, pushing himself with his virile back legs.  From the porch to the field, he pushed himself in an effort to relieve himself away from the house.  Then he'd push himself back to lie in the shade for the day.  I carried water to him and fed him hotdogs stuffed with extra-strength Tylenol by hand.  Each time I came near, he wagged his stubby nub of a tail.  He looked into my eyes with all the trust and devotion he’d shown since I loaded him in my Astro van and hauled him back to my daughter's house to live with us following my son's death.

I knew it was time.  I knew his days had come to an end.  I sat and patted his head, scratched his ears, and listened to him groan with pleasure.  His buddy, Minnie, stood guard by him and seemed to begin a mourning process of her own.

I drove down to Texas to get my son's daughter so she could say goodbye.  I made the appointment with the vet.  It was the merciful thing to do.  I took pictures of him with my two youngest granddaughters so they'd have a tangible memory to hold.  My eldest grandson drove a tractor in the woods and dug out a 4-foot grave.  I prayed (as did other internet friends), that my grandson's broken foot would not be damaged further by his act of compassion for me.  He and my daughter loaded him into the back of her Suburban, so we could take him to the vet.  I placed an old quilt in the trunk which my granddaughters once used on their beds in Texas. We'd wrap him in that after...

The vet's staff carried him in for us so my grandson didn't have to stand on his booted foot.  Waiting for the vet to treat other animals was not easy.  Rowdy sat there staring at us, whining, then panting wildly, coughing now and then.  His ears perked up and he wagged his stub.  It was hard to believe he was so sick.  I rubbed his ears to keep him calm.  My grandson talked soothingly to him and patted his thick neck.  We chatted about different things to avoid talking about the obvious.  The merciful thing to do.

Tears rolled down my face in waves as the vet shaved Rowdy's front leg so she could find a vein to insert the overdose of anesthesia. Rowdy didn't have a good vein...I suppose he was already "shutting down".  I'd so prayed the Lord would take him so I wouldn't have to do "the merciful thing".  The vet explained to me what would happen with Rowdy and told me I could pet him as she inserted the needle in his vein and put him to sleep forever.  As I patted his head and stroked his ears the last time, I recalled the sweet memories of him, and the annoyances. I pondered his connection with my son.  No words can express how my heart felt to watch the act of mercy.  One second he’s staring at me…the next his eyes closed shut, his breath stopped, and he is gone.   Lifeless.  And it was my choice to do it.

Oh, yes…Rowdy was suffering--how much, I do not know; he could not say.  I know when he tried to stand on that front leg he whimpered in pain.  His labored to breathe.  He choked each time he ate the third piece of hotdog stuffed with Tylenol.  He choked and sputtered when he drank from the pan of water I kept near his chest.  Yet, to order Rowdy’s death crushed my heart in a million pieces.  My son's teenage daughter told me it was like "losing another part of Dad".  I don't know how long I'll struggle with what I did--the thing of mercy that feels so unmerciful.  I still haven't reconciled myself with the fact that I had Rowdy’s life snuffed out.

It made me consider the heart of God when He gave His permission for soldiers to nail His only begotten Son to a rugged, humiliating cross.  He watched him suffer a sacrificial death and make the payment for our sin. God in His mercy, gave His life, in Jesus, so we might live eternally.  And on that dark day, I sincerely doubt it made God feel any better than I--even though it was the merciful thing to do.  selahV

ONE FIRE KINDLES ANOTHER

BANDAIDS DON'T FIX EVERYTHING

I CAN'T HELP IT, HE IS FAMILY

HOPELESS SITUATIONS

 

Cries At the Cross and Thoughts to Ponder

No other could know the agony as well, nor experience the pain of loss as much as Mary, the mother of Jesus, on the day we call Good Friday.  Long before she gave birth to the Holy Child in Bethlehem, Mary pondered the monumental change growing within her womb.  More than the physical changes...more than the cultural challenges, Mary pondered that she, a lowly Hebrew virgin, would conceive the long-awaited Messiah...the Savior of Israel.  Her first child.  An awesome responsibility for any woman to have a child, but Emanuel?  God with us?

I can't imagine all the thoughts Mary carried throughout her lifetime of her first-born son.  I relate only to those I hold inside my heart and mind for my own son.  Though my first I only saw through a plate glass window 15 hours before he died, I was gifted with my second son for 33 years.  The same age as Jesus when He gave his life on the Friday, we call "Good" in remembrance of the crucifixion.

Needful to say, Mary probably did not feel so "good" that day as she followed her son about to be accused, tried, beaten, mocked, spat upon, nailed to a wooden cross with spikes that tore into his flesh.  As horrific as it seems to me the death I am told claimed my son as his head was crushed, beyond recognition when he met boulders on a bank when the driver of an ATV rolled the 4-Wheeler over and instantly killed my son, it is nothing compared to that which the mother of our Savior experienced as she watched in vigil at the foot of the cross as Jesus drew his last breath and said "It is finished".

What went through her mind?  How unfair did it seem to Mary?  How many memories of joy and laughter and hugs did she recall?  How many tears did she shed?  Did she kneel there in fear for herself by being the mother of the Man from Galilee? How did she feel as she watched all the things she may have expected to occur be destroyed that dark and lonely day on Golgatha's hill?  What did she think would happen? Had she been forewarned?  Could she have fathomed the heartache she would have to endure because her son would have to die that she could live forever with him?  I do not know.

But as I contemplate this day, I know I will some day.  I will know why my son lived only 33 years...before God took him to live with Him for eternity.  I will know, as Mary, why we mothers were left behind.  And it will be a good day.  The best day among all.  And I know then and there, I will have no more sorrow, no more pain, and no more emptiness for the void left behind when my son left me to join Mary's son.  selahV

FREE to Choose

He escaped again.  For some reason, of late, Snappy the Red-eared Slider was no longer happy in his aquarium on my granddaughter's dresser.  He wasn't satisfied with greeting their fingers as soon as they came near his glass case.  It was so cute to watch him tread water and open his mouth the moment he saw their fingers with dried food squiggles.

Snappy began his life with Abby and Brooklyn, when they were just three and seven and he was little more than the size of a quarter.  (A story I've shared before.)

Snappy was instrumental in adding to my older granddaughter, Brooklyn's faith when she was just 7.  She and Abby were playing with him one day.  As children are common to do, they got distracted by something else, and forgot about leaving Snappy on her bed.  When they remembered, he'd simply disappeared.  They searched and searched for him.  Brooklyn was devastated.  She was certain their dog, Allie, had found him and eaten or killed him.  She was so worried she called me.  I assured her that her chihuahua had not eaten Snappy and said I'd pray about it. Within a few minutes, she called back and told me her mother had found Snappy beneath the bed in the corner of the wall.  Immediately she announced that she knew it was God, because she had just prayed that they'd find him and her mother came out and announced she had.

FAST-FORWARD Seven Years:

Snappy recently became rather testy about his environment.  He wasn't happy to stay in the plastic rectangle tub my granddaughter, Abby, had placed him in to await daily visits and water-changes and feedings.  He wanted more.  He wanted to explore the carpet. She'd taken him out of his larger aquarium because it was getting dirty too quickly and very difficult to keep clean.  Snappy had grown closer to the size of an I-Hop pancake and his water got dirty much faster than when he was tiny.  Again and again he'd escape and Abby would find him trying to climb her bookshelves.  Did he want to read?

About two months ago, Abby called and asked me if I thought they should let him go free into the turtle-friend pond near her home or if I wanted him.  I thought seriously about it.  I did want to keep him...but, I asked which she thought would be better for Snappy.  She chose freedom.  Thus a couple of weeks ago--when I arrived to pick-up Abby for a weekend visit--she wanted to know if we could take him to the turtle-pond that very day.  It was a beautiful day in Texas.  I took my camera and we fed Snappy some food. We placed the large plastic rectangle bin into an empty Huggies diaper box to avoid the slosh of water onto my car's carpet.

Emotions warred within me, as Abby battled her own when we got to the park.  I was tickled that Abby and Brooklyn saw the wisdom in letting Snappy go to live free in their town's public pond.  Yet sadness and sentimentality claimed a portion of my heart as she held his tub and stared at him.  After all we'd shared life with Snappy for a very long time.  During those nearly 7 years, the girls had diligently cared for him and watched him grow--just as I had watched them grow.  We researched red-earred sliders at one point and discovered he could live for 50 years, or more.  Because we found him in my daughter's swimming pool, hardly two months after their daddy had died, I think we all kinda connected the two events.

We did exactly what my son would have done, had he been alive when they found him squirming to get out of the pool's filter-drain.  We rescued him and vowed to protect him from the world.

At this phase of Snappy's life, I imagine Chad would have built a tiled pond in their back yard, so Snappy could grow happily.  He would have gone turtle hunting and brought Snappy some friends.  Alas, he wasn't here to build the tile-pond--or to find him friends.  So, we did the next best thing.  I really didn't want Abby to know the melancholy feelings surging within me as we went through motions of Snappy's release.  I made it a great event.  We chatted about how wonderful a life he'd now have with his new-found freedom.  She told me how clean the pond was because the park-attendants came and cleaned it near the fountain in the center of the pond all the time.  She got excited thinking about Snappy meeting other turtles, but wondered if they'd be friendly or mean.  I assured her that they would be happy to welcome him into their world.  Who wouldn't love Snappy?  I told her he'd meet a lady turtle and probably have baby turtles.  She'd return to the park some day and see Snappy again with his happy family.

My assurance carried a double meaning for my sweet granddaughter.  You see, she is moving soon.  Away from the home she's known since she lost her daddy.  She'll have to make new friends in a new school.  She wonders how they will treat her, too.  I am sure all these thoughts were rolling around through her mind, and heart, as she prepared to release her green friend into a strange new world.

Abby gave Snappy his last meal at the park.  He ate it all before she showed him his new domain.  She placed him on the ground near the edge of the pond and he sat there a moment, then took off faster than lightning into the water.  He moved so quickly my camera seized and I missed the shot of him scooting into the pond.  At first he popped his head up from beneath the water's surface as if to say thankyou and good-bye.  I barely blinked before he dove and submerged himself in the mucky water below.  I took some pictures of where he burrowed, barely visible, into the pond's muck.  His color matched that of the muddy bottom.  Abby dumped some turtle food on the ground near his entry point, and we took a few more photos.  As we walked away, the ducks came up and began eating Snappy's food.  Abby protested.  I assured her that God gave Snappy special instincts to know how to get food from the muck in his world. "He'll provide him food and friends and a happy time."

Abby chattered on and on about this and that while we drove the hour from Texas back to Oklahoma for the weekend.  I couldn't help but smile and think how my son was in his new Heavenly home.  I felt he was probably cheering us on as Snappy raced into the water and Abby learned a lesson in love.  If you love someone, you want the best for them--even when our choices are hard for us to bear.  Just as we were free to keep or release Snappy, God gave us the freedom to hold onto him and keep him all to ourselves, or let him go to live in a world where he'd be happier and free to be all he was purposed to be.  I think we chose the right path, don't you?  selahV  [Click on photos to enlarge.]

Heart of Clay, A Whisper from God

Sometimes in life God whispers to me.  He solidifies my thoughts and affirms my walk with butterflies, honeybees, and well...this time, a clay heart.

Since my son died in 2005, I have felt an incredible burden to continue doing things I know he would want to do with his daughters.  Chad absolutely adored his girls and loved doing things with them.  He loved to take them to feed the ducks, bike-riding, the park.  He crammed more things into an hour than I normally do in 6.  He loved life.  He didn't just take his girls to the park.  He sat in the sand-pit and showed 3-year-old Abby how to push sand into a styrofoam cup with her little hand because it would crack if she tried to use it as a scoop.  He played on the monkey bars and slid down the slides.  He sat in the swings and swung high in the air.  He spent hours on the beach pointing out different crustaceans as he collected the shells with his girls.

Chad loved to take his girls to picnic on Mt. Scott in Wichita Mountains.  There, he would hike through the boulders.  When they tired, he'd rest beneath the gnarled trees and stare at the clouds.  He was infatuated with life.  He shared that infatuation with perfect patience when it came to his daughters.  He often stopped along the roadway and picked wildflowers with the girls.  He climbed trees with them.  He showed them the moon, the stars, and played in the rain and rain puddles with them.

I feel so inadequate in sharing life with his girls.  I want them to love life as he loved it.  I want them to see life with the same curiosity, pleasure, expectation, and joy that he did.  I want them to know that side of life in all its fullness.  However, as I age, there is less and less of me able to do this.  I often wonder if my efforts are enough.  I wonder if I am foolish to want this for them.  I wonder if I'm stuck in some kind of psychotic frenzy of grief-reconciliation.

When I took the girls on a walk through the woods at our new house, I wanted them to capture a chunk of joy and happiness as we went.  I didn't know if what I'd show them would matter at all.  I knew Abby, ten, would enjoy the fallen trees I'd discovered.  I knew she'd love to climb them.  I believed Brooklyn would, as well.  However, Brooklyn is now fourteen.  Her life is full of social interaction, soccer, track, basketball, and volleyball.  Grass does not grow beneath her feet.  Would a walk through the woods mean anything to her?  Would she be bored?  Was I foolish to want to share what I felt their dad would have wanted to share with them?  Could I  connect?  Chad's words echoed in my mind, "They don't need alot to entertain them, Mom.  They love little things."

Those are some of the thoughts running through my mind as they both climbed tree-trunks and balanced themselves as if on tightropes.  I showed them a thorn-tree with 6-inch thorns.  As we walked further, we found more thorn trees.

Brooklyn found a shovel at the shack in the woods that her cousin had built.  She found pleasure in digging into the thick layers of grey and adobe colored Oklahoma clay earth.  I snapped pictures of giant billowing cumulus clouds in the background of their explorations.  We laughed, we talked, we reminisced.  I felt happy.  I knew they were, too.

Just as we were about to leave, I spotted a rock on the ground.  It was tan with an imprint of adobe red in the center.  It was an abstract heart.  I felt like the Lord put that heart right there, just for me to find that very moment in time.  It was like God was whispering.  Yeah...Chad is glad you're doing this, my child.  Help his girls see the joy of little things in life.  Of quiet times.  Of nature's peace and My handiwork.  Remind them that I am good, I am with them in every area of their lives.  And remember: "Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, "This is the way; walk in it." Isaiah 30:21  Remind them of that, too. selahV

Mother's Day In Review

For many, yesterday was a day of remembering Moms.  In fact, on Facebook (the world-wide social network site), I saw precious tributes.  One gal even asked everyone to change their profile picture and replace it with one of their mothers til Monday.  I thought that was sweet.  I didn't do that.  I have no idea where any pictures are of my mothers.

My biological mom is barely a memory...she abandoned us when I was just three, the three or four times I saw her afterwards leave fanciful feathers fluttering in my mind.

Step-mother #1 stirs memories of sadness as a whole--although, one cannot toss aside the years in which she washed my clothes and cooked meals.  I have to give her credit where credit is due.  Most of what she was in my life was not her fault.  Albeit hard to suffer the anguish of abuse, mentally ill people need our forgiveness, especially when they let you pull taffy on a cold winter night.

Step#2 didn't really consider me much more than my father's daughter. She and her children got some of the better parts of my dad's time, money and affection.  Enough said.

Step#3 was a gem.  I do call her blessed for giving my father the best 4 years of his heartbreaking 82 years of life.  When I watch others share how much they miss their mothers, the heartbreak they have without them, I often think I may be more blessed for never having known the joy of moms. In a sense I have been spared that kind of pain.  Admittedly, it makes it harder to empathize with another's burden...that makes it easier for me to understand how folks feel who cannot fathom my loss of a son...two babies.

Given the post I shared on Mother's Day, and due to the prayers so many offered on my behalf, I thought I'd take a few moments to tell you how things went for me yesterday (and also share some family photos).  Before I do that I want to acknowledge the gorgeous flowers you see pictured above.  My son's dear childhood friend (and a former youth I taught in the first pastorate we were blessed to serve), sent them to me.  She's been rather faithful to me as a friend and sister-in-Christ since Chad's death.

[Karen Pollock contributes to Devotional Christian now and she wrote one of the sweetest tributes to my son (HERE).  But make sure you subscribe to Devotional Christian while you're there so you don't miss any of her moving devotionals.]

So...the flowers come in the middle of the night, at about 8:15 on Saturday night.  Such a gift I stumble to explain.  You see, Karen doesn't know this, but one of the hardest times I have through the Mother's Day extravaganza is May 7th...the night before Mother's Day.  That was the night six years ago I last spoke to my son--last heard his voice.  As usual, he had a story to tell, and part of it was his joy in going to see the Texas Rangers play ball in Dallas.  That evening at around 10:15 was the last time I heard his sweet words, of good-bye and "I love you, momma."  So often at that hour of each Saturday before Mother's Day, my heart fills with a bitter-sweetness of gratitude and regret.  Gratitude that God gave me that last "I-love-you, Momma" --- Regret that we hung up before I said I love you too, my precious son.  It's hard to forgive myself for that lapse in motherhood.

So, Karen...you are, my friend, another portion of Chad's never-ending story of a life. The love he shared with you nearly 30 years ago in friendship, blossomed into a basket of roses and daisies for me on a day only Chad, and I, and God would know is a day I find especially difficult.  Your flowers blessed me more than you'll ever know.  It was like a gift from heaven above.  I can almost hear my son say, "forgetta bout it, Momma; just stop and smell the roses today."

Secondly, my friends and new readers, that is just one facet of what I call God's divine interventions in life...a comforting Balm through a love cultivated years ago in a little country Kentucky church.  Corrie ten Boom was right when she wrote, "Every experience God gives you, every person He puts in your life, is the perfect preparation for the future, that only He can see." 

Thirdly, My daughter did what she does naturally for her--she loves through acts of service.  She prepared a brisket dinner for me and her own family.  Every single Sunday (for the most part) she makes Sunday dinner.  I couldn't help but think of how much I appreciate her gift of love.  A menial task, some might say.  But special because I have her in my life to share my heart, to embattle, to love, to plan stuff, to undergird and etcetera, etcetera.  Some folks wonder why I don't write much about my daughter.  I realize that it a curious thing considering the attention I give to the relationship I had with my son.  I'm simply following orders.  You see, as precious as my daughter is, and as much as I would love to give you all the nitty-gritty details of her life and her older children, Holly is a private kind of gal.  She makes me keep my thoughts closer to my chest, my fingers holstered, and for the most part, pictures stored in scrapbooks. 

To say she doesn't like to call attention to herself rather belies the kook she is at ladies' retreats. But she doesn't like to announce to the world all the things she does as she serves the Lord.  She doesn't tweet, friend, or blog.  This world is rather foreign to her.  It's doubtful she even reads a single thing I write--go figure.  But she owns a humongous portion of my heart, always has, always will.  I'd die for her.  She could have both kidneys and my liver.  I know she loves me...and while she's never stood up in the city gates and called me blessed, I know.  I know she cares.  I know because no matter how heated we may get over trivialities of life, she and I are on the phone talking and sharing by 10:00 a.m. the next day.  It's just the way we are.  It's not how we've always been.  And most of that is my fault.  I have learned a lot about motherhood from my daughter.  I think most mommas do.

Lastly...yesterday...Mother's Day was one of the most peacefilled, comforting, blissful, and God-infused days I've had in a long long time.  Here is just a sampling of things that held my attention.  Most of it is pictures.  I hope you have as much fun looking at them as I had cropping and adding captions today.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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So among others, these were some of the sweet memories the Lord brought my way because of you, my friends who prayed for me.

Life is not always a happy time.  It's not always perfect.  It has moments, though -- snapshots in the course of living which we need to be vigilant not to miss.  Moments flash before our eyes, and can be blurred before our cameras grab the perfect shot.  Often in our desire to have the perfect day, we waste time trying to catch the perfect smile, the perfect pose.  Then we miss the seconds of love and lose a memory we could capture and lock inside our hearts forever.  Enjoy today.  Enjoy tomorrow.  Be like my son...stop and smell the roses.  Smell them today.  selahV   

When the Inconceivable Falls on Mother's Day

I wondered how I'd feel today.  It's been six years since Mother's Day exploded on May 8th.  Each year, I've had a bit of a respite from that horrific anniversary of my 33 year-old son's death and Mother's Day celebration.  The past few years I took some solace in the fact that this day sanctified as the day for honoring mothers didn't fall on May 8th every year.  For some reason I assumed it would take 7 years for it to fall on the 8th again.  I thought I had one more year before facing it.  I was wrong.

It's not the first time.  It won't be the last.  No one really expects the inconceivable to occur.  At least, not to them.  Inconceivable happens to others.  Others are have tornadoes, floods, and fires destroy their homes.  Others lose their children.  Others.  Not us.

We all live in a world of preconceived complacency--we think each day will unfold in a fitted form.  We blindly plan our lives without a thought to the unforeseen.  Routine is our security blanket.  Change is most often a threat...any deviation from the typical normal schedule creates temporary panic.  Extreme change stops us dead in our tracks.  That was made clear on September 11 in 2001.  Planes stopped flying.  Flights were canceled.  Marriages ended.  Wedding plans changed.  America inhaled horror and forgot to exhale.  The impenetrable was penetrated.  Security was breached and government was paralyzed until we caught our breath.

Such is similar when one gets the news on Mother's Day that their own child is dead.  We cannot breathe.  We can't even imagine breath without the inclusion of our child's heartbeat, laughter, and smile.  But we do breathe.  Eventually the horror fades, the inconceivable settles in, and reality breeds another norm, another typical, another routine of sorts.

Others talk about closure when people die.  Closure buries their dead.  Closure shuts the door on funeral home visits.  Closure slams the coffin lid shut.  Closure throws away the key.  Closure stops reading the book; the story ends.  Closure decides where 33 years of memories are stored, where clothes hang, where memorabilia is placed.  When someone we love dies -- someone as big as life itself -- the box is too big to close.  The door won't shut.  The key is never lost.  Especially when the one who dies is a child.  There is no closure.  The book writes itself, chapters are still written.  The character lives on in the hearts of those who carry his memory as they walk on in life.  Questions linger.  Thoughts probe the heart.  Each answer provokes emotions.  Each thought stirs a memory.  Each memory opens another door, unlocks a feeling, stirs a dormant pain or fills a need.

For me it was my son.  This year he'd turn 40.  I wonder if he'd still be planning to go shark fishing in the Pacific Ocean?  By now, he'd probably be chasing whales.

I'd love to hear what he'd say and think as he bragged about his beautiful daughters.

I'd love to see the adoration and pride sparkle in his eyes as they walk into the room.

I'd love to watch him play with his little nieces, and grand-nephews and grand-niece.  I can see him growl and run from them as he plays hide-and-seek.

He'd so enjoy his niece's husband, his nephews' life choices.  Instead, I imagine what he'd still be doing.

He'd still be taking risks beyond appropriate for his age.

He'd still be bouncing on trampolines, riding bikes, and bungie jumping.

He'd still be stopping on roadsides and picking wildflowers for his daughters.

He'd still be calling and leaving silly phone messages in foreign dialects.

He'd still be playing pranks on new friends and probably still be trying to get in touch with old friends.

He'd still be trying to play softball, golfing, and encouraging everyone on the team.

He'd still be tiling other people's houses, McDonald's, What-a-Burgers, and anyone else to whom he'd given a business card.

He'd still be wearing his scripture embroidered cap that said "His death gives me life". Romans 5:9,10.

And most likely, he'd still be planning to do something for Mother's Day.

I wouldn't be feeling guilty because I was in too much physical pain to make a new floral blanket for his grave. I wouldn't be standing in the cemetery feeling like the chapter of my book would never end happily ever after on earth again. Nor will I hear my children rise up to call me blessed.

No, there is no closure today.

But then, closure is highly overrated in my book.  I rather like to think of Chad in terms of the seed that falls to earth and dies and produces a hundred-fold to live on and on and on.  When I think of him, my heart beats a bit stronger, my perseverance finds another way, my hope looks forward to a day when we will see each other face to face and he places my hand in the hand of Jesus, the One who makes eternal life possible to those who believe.  When the inconceivable falls on Mother's Day, you cry, you die to the way things once were and live on and celebrate the way things are, and dream of the perfect way things will be...eventually for an eternity.

 

THIRTY-NINE YEARS LATER, I still remember

It was 2:00 a.m. when my water broke and began the most amazing, gratifying, joy-filled, gut-wrenching, heart-rending 33 years, 5 months, 13 days and 2 hours of my life.  My son, Chad, was born this day, August 25th and I so miss the sparks, flames, and warmth that his life kindled in my heart.  I cannot begin to write what I truly feel.  I just know that though the world keeps turning, the moon keeps shining, the sun keeps rising, and his two little girls keep changing shoe sizes each year, I still remember how vital he was to my life.  How much I miss his hugs--of seeing the joy he grabbed from every moment of life.

I long to be with him in glory.  I long to see his face once more.  Occasionally, the Lord gives me dreams of him--such sweet moments in the stillness of my nights.  Sometimes I recall a particular phrase he eternalized in my mind.  And I smile.  I remember one in particular that he coined from some movie, I've been told.  But when I felt defeated and thought I just couldn't go on anymore with a situation, challenge or task, he would change his voice and say, "You can dooooo it, Momma."  And it gave me the energy to tackle life with his spiritual wind at my back.

That tad of encouragement has often come to me in moments when grief seems too much to bear.  When seeing his girls grow up without him.  When I need to be a part of something that he should have been in attendance for--my heart wants to run.  But I hear his voice--"You can doooo it, Momma."  And by the grace of God, and through Christ who strengthens me, he is right.

"Happy Birthday, my son.  Tell Jesus thank you for making it possible for us to see one another again when my days on earth have come to a close."  Love ya, bunches and bunches, and until then I'll just keep on "remembering the good times".  Momma