Redemption

May 30, 2014

Casting Bread

Behold, children are a heritage from the LORD, the fruit of the womb a reward. Psalm 127:3 ESV

Daddy Jake with Eli

At 2:35 PM, on May 23^rd, Eli Hudson Farnsworth was delivered into this world, and my first grandson was born. Thanks to 21^st century technology and my friend and cohort in grandmother-hood, Nana Beswick, I watched him holler with that funny little old man face that newborns have, just minutes after he arrived. I cried. I do that a lot and I wonder if it’s a getting older thing. Anyway, he is perfect, created especially by God, cell by cell.

Strange to think that God sees the boy, then the man, and even the father. I think back to my three births and how I have watched two of my boys become dads. It’s a perfect circle and it makes me feel like I can say “There!” to motherhood and usher in a new season of joy: being a grandma, or “Ama” as I am called.

I started a tradition with my granddaughters a few years ago where I write them a letter on each birthday. I try to capture who they are, before it changes again. I like to think that one day, when they are moms maybe, they will pull out Ama’s letters and remember what matters, how they were loved, how Jesus delighted in them even then. A year from now, I will write my grandson.

Eli can barely focus on the loving faces that bend down to kiss his little cheeks. His body is hitching into gear, all parts perfectly joined, already accustomed to this new water-less world. He turns to mommy’s smell and daddy’s voice. He trusts in every set of arms that lifts and holds him.

“Cast your bread upon the water…” A seemingly hopeless act of throwing your best far from you. (Matthew Henry commentary)

If you know me, you know I love to boast of my grandchildren. It’s what grandparents do. But there’s a deeper side to the picture. I remember a stormy night in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, sitting in my car with the rain pounding on the roof, calling my pastor on the phone. I was crying so hard I could barely speak.

“I have one son dead, and two that are far from God,” I sobbed into the phone. He talked me down as he always does, but I will never forget the hopelessness of those days, and the failure that haunted me.

I had taken Jake, who was almost 16, and put him on a plane to Jacksonville North Carolina with a one way ticket. We had a sister church there, I knew the pastor, a few people but not the family who had offered to take him for us, a six foot two teenager, big with attitude and resentment. But as we stood in the airport, awkwardly saying goodbye, I knew that even Jake understood this was God’s Yes, it was a rescue mission. The poverty and defeat that permeated Pawtucket was taking him down.

I admit that mostly desperation and exhaustion have brought me to the altar of God’s grace, laying my children down, my best, my “first-fruits”. But the longer I live, the more convinced I become that this is God’s desire. The Potter sits at the wheel, waiting. Yet we take our kids and run, sure that we know a better way than the One who made them. Christians are the worst offenders, because above all, we want to look good on the outside, even if all hell has broken loose behind closed doors.

The precious family that took my son moved out to a farm surrounded by cows, on one road that took you for miles to nowhere. They loved him, showed him how to work, and Vicki prayed over his lunch everyday before she packed him off to school. Jake was mad. And there were days when his dad and I really wanted to rescue our poor baby, take him somewhere softer, nicer, not so hard. But we held back. The Holy Spirit gave an emphatic Hands off! And it was there, in the middle of those fields, under the big night sky, that Jake met God face-to-face and surrendered. It was there he discovered His love, a love bigger and better than any mom’s.

His brother Miles took a different road, in fact, around the world, but eventually came to that same place, knew it was right, it was time, and his wife joined him. Now my granddaughters sing a song about God’s’ love being as big as an ocean. Yes, indeed.

Cast your bread upon the water, and after many days, it will return to you. Ecclesiastes 9:1

I’ve buried a child and sat in the silent ash of unspeakable sorrow, thinking, “I gave him to you Lord. And this?” There’s a lot I can’t understand on this side of heaven. But I can say that God continues to bring new life through Spencer’s life and death, in small ways that you might miss if you weren’t looking, and in very big ways that leave me speechless… it will return to you.

When I die, I won’t have much to leave. Some teacups and recipes. Lots of books and blog posts, and too many scarves. But the greatest legacy is what I see when I look at brand new Eli Hudson Farnsworth, secure in his daddy’s arms, and every time I walk past my granddaughters’ pictures. I know that they have been handed down the best, God’s personal promise to us, to our children and our children’s children Here is an eternal inheritance; I didn’t even have to work for it, I had nothing but a mess to give to him. Jesus gave it to me for free although it cost Him a lot. All he asks for in return is that we trust him with our best, whether it is your kids, grandkids, spouse or your very life… let go, and after many days it will return to you.

Listen to me, dear brothers and sisters. Hasn’t God chosen the poor in this world to be rich in faith? Aren’t they the ones who will inherit the Kingdom he promised to those who love him? James 2:5 NLT

April 19, 2014

Jesus and Jelly Beans

Brooklynn and Olive rockin’ Easter!You can blame me for the headbands.

(I wrote this post two years ago, but felt compelled to re-post for those that missed it first time around. Happy Easter to all!)

I did not expect to wake up to the sound of jelly beans hitting the walls and windows. But as I sat up and blinked twice I realized it was true. Jelly beans were scattered across my bed and my father was running around our room yelling, “There he goes! There he goes!”

My brother, Timmy, and I shared a room back then and we scrambled out of our beds and ran with our dad to the open window. Our fuzzy, half-awake heads turned towards where he was pointing and still yelling, “There he goes!” and to this very day I can still see the backside of a huge bunny, cottontail and all, rounding the corner of our house.

Then my dad turned around and scanned our bedroom. “What a mess!” he said. There were jelly beans everywhere. He shook his head, turning back to his two stunned children before he reached the door. “Oh yeah. Happy Easter!” And he left, unable to hide the big grin on his face.

That was 1961. I was five, Timmy was six. And although memory plays some engaging tricks on our minds, I’ve never looked at the Easter Bunny the same since that day.

So what does a Big Bunny have to do with Easter? What does Jesus have to do with Easter? Both of them: A LOT. The question is more like: What do they have to do with each other? Absolutely nothing although I can’t help but believe that Jesus would love my father’s playfulness and imagination. I can even see Jesus throwing jelly beans.

To satisfy all of you Pagan Police out there, yes the bunny is a fertility symbol. Spring, eggs, bunnies…I get it. It makes about as much sense as dragging a live tree into your house and electrifying it with colored lights. Those pagans must’ve needed something to break up the long seasons. And for my part, being raised by a father like mine, who took every opportunity he could to act like a hyperactive child, I am drawn to celebrations. Especially when they come in the midst of darkness and desolation.

So I can’t help but think about two women on a mission almost two thousand years ago. It was a very dark time for the two Marys. Their friend, leader and supposed savior had been brutally murdered on a cross just three days before. It was past the Sabbath and they had come to anoint his body for burial. As they reached the tomb, the earth shook and an angel from heaven appeared. His face shone like lightening and his clothes shimmered in white. As he rolled back the huge stone from the grave, two guards fainted from fear.

Then he said this to the two shocked women, “Don’t be afraid! I know you’re looking for Jesus who was crucified. He isn’t here! He is risen!” The book of Luke says, “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” I love that.

So they ran and told the disciples who must’ve thought they were crazy at first. But Peter ran to the empty tomb, then left “wondering what it meant.” One thing it meant was that Jesus does just what He says He will do. And it means He is alive, not dead, He has thrown open the doors of heaven for all who follow Him, defeating death and the power of hell on earth.

I don’t know how we can pick one day to celebrate all that. I like to start everyday just saying Thanks to Jesus for doing that for us, because I am free and it cost Him a lot. Furthermore, Easter was not a favorite holiday for me as a child because I had to stay in a dress all day and I’d get sick eating all those marshmallow Peeps. Even the smells were gross…hard-boiled eggs, Easter lilies combined with an overcrowded church reeking of Wind Song and Vitalis after shave. I guess that’s why I remember the jelly beans and the giant bunny so clearly. It was unexpected. It was wondrous. It was my father’s best side, a creative, playful love for his kids.

I’m quite sure Jesus does not object to Easter egg hunts and chocolate bunnies. He sure likes seeing any family sit down together and share their homes and hearts. But I think He would also love for you to look at the empty tomb and like Peter, just wonder. Could a place as horrid as the cross become a place of rebirth, renewal and life? He is risen, piercing the darkness with His marvelous light. That is really good news. Worth throwing some jelly beans around; it’s better than big bunnies. Jesus rose for you and for me. Let’s celebrate!

April 10, 2014

Coming Home (or It’s Not My Party)

Friday Dawn

Cross in Ghana

I lay in the dark and tried to locate my two granddaughters by their breathing. Brooklynn, age five, had a slower, softer and more rhythmic breath. Olive, at three, had a little bear-cub growl on inspiration and I could tell she was right below me on the floor. I smiled remembering a few days ago when all three of us shared a futon and Olive seemed drawn to my left ear all night. Not much sleep. Not much sleep this night either. The birds began the dawn chorus as the room took form around me. My eyes locked onto their beautiful faces. Brooklynn had informed me this trip that she would be a teenager someday. Amusement mixed with sorrow tugged at my heart.

Friday morning

The plane leaves at 1:07 and in my usual neurotic manner I watch the clock, pacing, trying to enjoy my last few hours with my family, but I can’t. It’s time to go. Why prolong this? I request BoJangles as my last meal on hallowed Dixie ground and we stop, filling our mouths with greasy biscuits and Bo Round potatoes and swishing it down with iced tea. The biscuit is like Prozac. I kiss everyone goodbye and roll into the small airport.

Brooklynn and Olive told me they were sad I was leaving, a genuine but child-like sorrow that most likely would dissipate about 5 minutes after I leave the car. I love the simplicity of a small child’s emotions. Sad, mad, glad. Sometimes bad. I wish my own palette of feelings could stay so pure and discernible, like a Dr. Seuss book.

I think this is one of the things God had in mind when He matched me up with my husband, because C.B. has very delineated paths of thought and emotion: straight, sometimes intersecting with a vertical response but easy to recognize and sort out. When I get overwhelmed I become gridlocked like lunch hour traffic in midtown Manhattan.

Friday Afternoon

I knew Boston would be a good 40 degrees colder than Raleigh but I still failed to put on enough clothes so I sat inside, waiting for the bus, nervous it would slip past. A woman walked by pushing a cart obscured by garbage bags tied to every free inch of it and plopped down at the end of the hall. I weighed out whether I should get up, go tell her Jesus loves her, maybe give her some money, but I was more interested in myself; my bus, my comfort, my self-pity. The biscuit had worn off. I remember my mom telling me when I was a teenager that the world wasn’t about me, because I just wasn’t that interesting or important, and it stung at first, but it was true. Tender as a wounded tiger, still my mother had uncanny perspective. Life was not my party. I should know better…

Saturday morning

I had to tell God I was sorry as I sat outside the hospital in the dark, trying to pray, and realizing that I had totally blown off prayer the day before. My husband had cleaned the house and he even had fed the birds for me. But I had behaved like a sullen adolescent, withdrawn and self-absorbed. I thought about the lady with the shopping cart in the airport and I knew that God put her there for me, not just so I could help her but because she would end up helping me. I blew it.

Sunday morning

I cried over the ironing board. It tied indirectly into running out of pancake mix, which wasn’t my fault. I took Rosie around the pond at sunrise and asked God, What’s the point here? I feel like I should have an assignment if He insists on keeping me here, on earth, in New England, on Cape Cod where the north wind across the ocean feels like ice is being poured down your shirt. He gave me no answer. He was perhaps waiting for an attitude adjustment.

My husband noticed me ironing and weeping and asked what was wrong, and I repeated my conversation with God. I had no answers. He came over and pushed the ironing board to the side and put his arms around me.

“All I know is that I love Jesus,” I sobbed.

“And that’s all you need. “ he said.

I arrived at church with carefully made-up swollen eyes and a headache. If I’ve learned anything at all after following Jesus for 26 years, I’ve learned to praise Him, whether I feel like it or not, because He is always worthy. And as I lifted my hands and closed my eyes, I saw the cross before me, and the Holy Spirit gently spoke to my heart:

Here is the answer; here is the point of it all.

Terrible and beautiful in all of its mystery and power, it is the place of unfathomable pain and agony, yet immeasurable comfort and peace. I stood alone in its shadow, obscured by it.

Take up your cross and follow me.

How can I bear the weight of it? I step into the light, and every stain of my selfishness is exposed, yet a greater measure of mercy and grace flows from above, covering my shame, turning my sorrow to joy. I am home, in Him and He is in me. My yoke is easy, my burden is light. We turn to leave.

I’ve never read One Thousand Gifts and I doubt I will. It sounds too exhausting, one more impossible bar to measure up to. I’m not thankful for everything, and sometimes I’m just grumpy about being here. Nor do I find God in all things. Isn’t that panentheism? Yet in all things He is there with me.

Sometimes I wander off, like a child at a carnival. But I know the way home, and hungry, thirsty, dirty, He takes me back, fills me and lifts me high upon a rock, where I can see eternity in the distance. Then I need no explanation or plan.

Amy Carmichael, missionary to India, said, “You will find your garden very near to the place where you will be crucified.”

Sad. Mad, Glad. Thank you Jesus for leading me back to where we sometimes must begin again…at the cross.

I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me. Galatians 2:20 ESV

And whom I love in return. CB was right. It is all I need.

November 30, 2013

Tender Mercy ( or No Regrets)

No turning back

It’s November 12th and I’m looking out my window at a winter wonderland. It’s been steadily snowing for an hour and the ground is white, my hanging plants, which are still flowering, are frosted. Back in the garden I can imagine my little baby radishes trembling under the wet snow. The lettuce will likely quit and die, although the kale and Swiss chard are dancing, the polar bears of greens.

It can’t be anything but beautiful, yet a little dismaying. Last night my husband remarked that the Christmas cactus bloomed early this year. Smart plant. Its stunning red flowers wave out of the window at the snow, dreaming of a white Christmas. And the lawn furniture which I insisted must stay out because we can still bundle up and sit outside although I forgot it’s dark by the time we are together every evening, is covered now. Let it go, Robin.

Yesterday was Veterans Day, and I was shopping the sales like a good American. There were kids everywhere, and mothers yelling at them, for them. I heard one mother’s voice become desperate as little Grace refused to answer. Then she popped out from under a clothes rack, delighted with her prime hiding spot until she saw her mothers face. I saw a little boy trying on clothes, around age ten, looking at himself in the mirror, wondering if the other kids would think these pants are cool…or not. Then I spotted a little boy with long blond hair the color my son Spencer had, and he was full of spark and mischief as Spence was too and I stood still for a few moments watching him run, hearing his mom, exasperated, the worn edge to her voice, and I was translated back to the early 80’s, remembering how long some days were with two little boys that were like a blond dust devil at my feet all day, running and falling and climbing; going from scared to mad to just dog-tired. I was a single mom, raking oysters, shucking scallops, driving a mini bus, cleaning cottages, whatever I could find that accommodated two wild little boys.

At night I would read to them and tuck them in as early as I could, then the wine would come out. I drank cheap port sherry for a while. As exhaustion and hopelessness choked my life, I slid into bourbon, vodka and drinking alone at night. I started sipping earlier, inventing a game called “Bar”, as I sat alone at the kitchen table with a glass of Relska vodka, letting the boys pull the kitchen apart, making bar snacks. Then I started to forget how I tucked the boys in. I was caught; trapped in the same vice that had nearly killed my dad. And I couldn’t break free. Terror added to despair.

I shook myself from the darkness of the past. When Jesus gently released me from that trap nearly 28 years ago, and restored my mind, my soul, he said, Robin, you are forgiven. All of it. He was there at my kitchen table, whispering hope to me and when He called, I stepped out, wobbly, to reach for Him. Forgiveness broke those chains. It was a finished work and I have never had another drop of alcohol, or any other drug since that unforgettable day. But the bondage of guilt still beckoned.

Regrets. The same forgiveness and grace that was freely given to me has been an easy choice for me to give to others throughout the last 26 years of my salvation. But the matter of forgiving myself has been altogether different. Particularly for a mother who has lost a child, guilt and regret are universal and usually completely irrelevant.

My mother blamed herself for my brother’s death in 1964 from an unseen congenital defect in his heart. A healthy, active little boy suddenly drops dead, and for all the rest of her years my mother carried a secret burden of guilt. I should’ve known. Every mother who has lost a child that I have talked with, and it’s getting to be many, admits to this same phenomenon…regret. I think it’s that protective instinct that God puts in us, the mystical response that made me turn and catch my son Miles as he was catapulting off of a three story staircase, behind me; that Mommy alarm that goes off for no reason. We just know, or we think we should.

A couple of weeks before Spence died, I sensed God strongly telling me to ask Spence for his forgiveness for my overall negligence and poor performance as a mother in his early years. This request was a little confusing to me because Spence and I had already discussed it, I had said sorry and he forgave. But… Say it again. OK. It’s pointless to argue with God.

Spence came over for dinner one night and as I stood at the stove stirring the beef stew, he came over and stood beside me, leaning his back to the counter. He had his work clothes on and smelled of wood. We talked easily, catching up on things. He had been different, coming over more, hanging out with Jake, his little brother. He talked about calling the pastor, about getting a place with a couple of guys from church. It seemed like he had a peace that had eluded him for several months.

Awkwardly, I changed the topic. If you’ve ever had God telling you to do something, it’s going to feel awkward but you just jump in.

“Spence…I’ve been thinking about the past, when you were just a little guy. There were so many ways you deserved a better mom. I should’ve been there more, I…”

“Mom.” He stopped me. His voice was firm but gentle. “You’ve been the greatest mom in the whole world.” Then he turned and looked at me.

“I’m a man now. Everything I am is my choice, it’s not because of you. I hate the victim mentality. I take full responsibility for who I am.” I stopped cooking and looked at him, caught his light grin and the love in his eyes.

“Okay.” I smiled. Okay. That was the last conversation I ever had with my son. God did that for ME, not for Spence. Mercy saw what was to come. Tender mercy.

One of the things I suggest to moms who have recently lost a child is to plan something in the future; anything but make it something big enough that you can look ahead because the tendency to turn back and regret is so strong and it is deadly. Guilt and unforgiveness destroy. One of my favorite verses in the Bible is Philippians 3:12-14:

Not that I have already obtained this or am already perfect, but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own. Brothers, I do not consider that I have made it my own. But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus. ESV

After many years of being a born-again, blood-bought Christian, I confess I have carried a secret debt of my own regrets. But doesn’t that sweet freedom that Grace gave to me 26 years ago weigh in to my own conscience? Isn’t MY forgiveness good enough? God spoke to me one day not too long ago. How can I testify to His redemptive power and still cling to my own regrets and shame? When I think of that worn out mom of 30 years ago, pulling out the bottle of cheap port when the kids have gone to bed, I see her through His eyes of compassion and then say, You’re forgiven.

Who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies; Psalm 103;4 KJV

The snow has slowed, it has that random drift to it now and the birds have settled into the feeders. They do not even keep their nests from last spring. They just know that whoever made them, will take care of them. It seems to take a certain abandon to follow Christ for we really don’t know what tomorrow brings…snow, typhoons or maybe just another hard day. But we have a great hope and expectancy. We press towards the goal, towards the prize, the upward call, leaving the past at the cross of Calvary. Come to his River of mercy and go in deep. Let the hurt and disappointments of the past wash away. Then put your hand to the plow and press on. As the Message says,

“Now that we know we’re on the right track, let’s stay on it.” Philippians 3:16

September 26, 2013

An Irish Take-Away (or What I Learned From People I Wanted To Teach)

Cohb, Ireland
Looking towards the harbor

From the hill where I stood looking down at the small city of Cohb, Ireland (pronounced Cove) I could just make out the harbor and the sea, which was a light green, spattered with a few small boats. It was Irish weather, a fine mist gave the colorful town an opaque appearance, almost mystical and it was easy to squint my eyes and imagine a sailing ship tied up at the dock, or even the Titanic.

Cobh attracts a mish-mash of tourists with its unique history. The Lusitania, an ocean liner with 1900 people aboard, was torpedoed and sank off the coast here in 1915, with over 1100 drowned. And the Titanic made her last stop in this port before meeting its tragic fate. Cobh was also the port for 2.5 million emigrants fleeing the country during the Potato Famine of the 1840’s and 50’s.

We separated from the tour guide at the Emigration Museum, where photos and faces of the past stared at me. It was called the Great Potato Famine. But many will disagree. Some Irish call it “the Starvation,” as goods, including beef and grains, were exported in abundance from the Irish soil to the English table. To this day, the word genocide drifts through the debate over the past. Well, we didn’t really want to murder them all, defenders say. But it was beneficial to let 1,000,000 or so die.

So some of the starving Irish began walking to these parts, like Cohb, where ships sailed to America, a land of promise, if you could survive the four to six week trip. Many didn’t. Those who did sent enough money home to bring one more over. By the 1860’s, the Irish made up to one third of some cities like Boston, New York and Philadelphia. But others died on the road to Cohb, their skeletal remains found on the road with grass in their teeth. Children and the elderly were the most fragile and the first to go. Disease took down as many that starved. The poverty was indescribable.

I was extremely moved as I read their stories. Something in me felt bowed down with a great sadness as I looked far down the sloping roofs towards the water. The brightly colored homes leaning up against each other as the street dropped to the waters edge looked like something out of Mary Poppins. But there was an undercurrent of sorrow and suffering mixed with great courage that stirred me.

A statue of a young girl with her arm around her two little brothers, one of them pointing out to sea, sits on the dock. She is Annie Moore, age 14 and the first immigrant to be processed at the new Ellis Island in 1892. Her face is brave, but also soft. That’s the Irish. It was palpable, not only in Cohb, but everywhere we went. Yet the Irish people struck me as being buoyant and cheerful, engaging towards strangers, and secure in their identity. And they love to talk.

I was with a team from my church of about 14 people. We stayed in Cork, and were blessed with the amazing hospitality of Pastor Keith and Kerri Sullivan, who are missionaries there. It sounds funny, in a land that has been whipped and torn by religion for generations, that we would send missionaries. But most people there have never heard the gospel and who Jesus really is. You can see the perplexed expression when you just say, “Jesus really loves you.” That was obviously overlooked.

Some of our group were doing some street drama when a man, perhaps in his late sixties caught my attention. He had an Irish tweed flat cap on, and a plain overcoat, and he was staring intently at the actors.

I moved next to him and asked what he thought of the play, and in a way the Irish have that was becoming predictable, he turned my questions back to me. Who was “your God,” he wanted to know? They were good questions and I was thrown off a bit by his jousting and quick mind. He stayed respectful, even kind, but I could tell he was getting ready to drive his point home, that my God, whom he felt was pretty shallow, was not the one he was looking for. I was losing him. Then I pulled out a flyer.

On the front, in large print, it said ”The Power of Forgiveness”. It caught his eye. I slowly turned it over and showed him the back.

“That’s my son, “ I said, pointing to a small photo of Spence when he was in Africa. “He was murdered in 2002.”

I watched his face transform. The anger drained away and a softness and sadness filled his eyes.

“I don’t know everything, sir. But I do know who God is. And you are looking for him and He is here. He loves you so much.”

He stared at the flyer. “You forgave?” he asked in almost a whisper.

“I did. God helped me.” Then he opened the door.

“I was abused by a priest when I was a boy. There were many of us, “he explained. He did not give details. He didn’t have to. But he told me that he had forgiven also, in person.
“Then I knelt with him and prayed.”

The priest died and was buried with only a black cross over his grave. It was then the man told me that he had bought flowers to plant there, only two weeks ago. He hadn’t told anyone this. I took his hand.

“That, “ I said, “is true forgiveness. God loves that.”

He smiled at me and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a smooth black stone.

“Can you do something just for me?” he asked, the charm returning.

“Sure, “ I said, although I was holding my breath a bit because the Catholics have some pretty bizarre practices.

“When you get back to America, can you put this stone on your son’s grave? “

I must’ve paused and looked a little hesitant.

“It’s Irish. It’s a way I can give honor to your son.”

“OK. I’ll do it.” He pressed the warm stone into my hand and we parted ways. I smiled as I walked away. Deep calls unto deep. Somehow, I felt the door to this man’s heart cracked open just enough to allow God to touch that place, the hidden place, that is searching for healing, for His love. I felt good.

This morning I drove down to Spencer’s grave and took the smooth black stone out of my pocket. It had some reddish brown strands running through it and I thought about how much Spence would love the stone and the whole story behind it. A few leaves had fallen onto the grave and I placed the stone beneath the scripture engraved under his name. “Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of the Lord.”

I still get sadder when the summer turns to fall. I miss my son. Actually I am a little mad at him for entering into the joy of the Lord before me. But I remembered the face of the man in the square, the honor of sharing his pain, and thought of the young girl of Cobh with her two little brothers waiting for a ship, waiting to go someplace better. Suffering and courage are inseparable it seems. I want to be brave, to bring the light of hope through Jesus Christ that can pierce the terrible darkness. And for my brothers and sisters, I want to help you to not be afraid of the unknown journey ahead. Thank you, Ireland, for making me feel so at home. I am humbled by your grace.

An Irish prayer as I close:

May you see God’s light on the path ahead

When the road you walk is dark.

May you always hear,

Even in your hour of sorrow,

The gentle singing of the lark.

When times are hard may hardness

Never turn your heart to stone,

May you always remember

when the shadows fall—

You do not walk alone.

July 27, 2013

Meeting Bo

An actual artist’s rendering of the event taken from T. Mark Bartley’s imagination. Well done Mark!

I’m still not sure why Bo and I met. I’ve learned to not question God, or at least not to require an explanation. Sometimes answers, or the way we see it, can ruin the beautiful mystery of heaven touching earth. But before I had a chance to meet Bo, my car had to meet his bike.

It was the Sixth Annual Spencer Macleod Three Point Shoot-Out last Friday night, an event sponsored by my church for the last seven years (one year was rained out) and it seemed more glorious than ever. I try to listen to objective feedback from others because I am Spencer’s mom, and like any mom, I am prone to partiality. I like to see everyone having fun, and Spencer Macleod in big letters. He’s been gone a long time now, so it’s a great gift just to see his name.

I love more than anything to watch the way God has taken what is, without question, one of the worst horrors any person can experience, and slowly rebuild, reshape, rework a thing of incredible beauty, a masterpiece, from a pile of dust and rubble.

At one point, a friend from church leaned over and said, “You are the grandmother of all grandmas!’ I wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but I saw him watching all of the little children running around us.

“Look at all of these kids! Most of them are here because of Spencer. That’s amazing!”

When we step back and surrender our lives into God’s hands, it is the most magnificent thing to behold. And as time moves forward, it is even more startling in it’s splendor, because only God can top the very best with more. He doesn’t stop. For me, Spencer’s mom, it takes my breath away. Yes, all this from a basketball tournament.

Many of us lingered well after the event was over. That happens when God Himself shows up. You want to stay and stay close to each other, in the fullness of His joy. Around ten I climbed into my Camry and headed home. I realized as I made my way into Hyannis that I was hungry, I hadn’t eaten all night and I was trying to recall what I had at home to eat as I made a left off of Route 28 onto a familiar short cut to my house. It was then I saw Bo.

My first impression of Bo as my headlights lit up his face was, He’s as surprised as I am, and then one to two seconds later the front of my car collided with his bike, which had an upside down stroller hitched to the back. I saw Bo fly off the bike and hit the pavement, then he started to roll. The bike slid across the ground, and I saw a wheel from the stroller fly through the air. I think I was saying something profound like Oh No! but my heart was pounding as I pulled over, expecting the worst.

I leapt from my car, leaving the door open, the contents of my purse spilled all over the floor from hitting the brakes. By the time I reached Bo, he had jumped to his feet, like a Hollywood stunt man, and he was smiling.

“Oh my God! Are you all right?” The nurse in me immediately started a trauma head to toe assessment, while my hands glided over his exposed arms, his back, feeling for abrasions or deformities.

“I’m OK, I’m OK! He laughed.

I stopped and looked in his eyes. He was Asian, come to find out Chinese and 73 years old.

“Do you realize this is a miracle?” I said to him, his grin becoming contagious. I might’ve repeated this question, as if he was deaf. My adrenalin was through the roof.

“Yes, Yes! “ he answered. “I’d call it that!” Then he tipped his head towards me and pointed to the front of his baseball cap.

Hooked on Jesus, it said, in bold letters beside a huge fishing hook.

This was becoming more bizarre by the minute. Now I’m laughing.

“You’re a Christian? Me too!” We high-fived each other and I called my husband, joyfully telling him I had hit a bike rider with my car, that it was alright, it was actually a miracle, and could he come help fix Bo’s bike?

While we waited I found out Bo’s name, where he was from and where he was going, still feeling his arms and making him walk for me. C.B showed up with his truck , which I thought we would need to cart Bo’s bike away. We found the stroller wheel and within minutes it was fixed. I started feeling the bike the same way I was feeling Bo’s arms, but I know a lot less about bikes than bodies.

“Let me see you ride it,” I said.

He hopped on and did a few circles. Perfect. We had both been spared, likely for different reasons. I didn’t know what else to make of it. We were all standing there in the dark as cars streamed by, some of them slowing down, likely distracted by this odd roadside assembly, and it occurred to me we were lingering, just like at the basketball court. God was there and probably several angels. I invited him out to church. He promised he would buy reflectors tomorrow, then we waved as he took off , quickly disappearing into the night. He was camping he said.

I don’t know if I’ll ever see Bo again. In the range of divine encounters this one was more than memorable. I’ve told the story to several people and I always start out laughing, saying, ”Hey, did I tell you about the bike rider I hit?

Like I said, I don’t know why God does things like this. I’ve been looking for a lesson and sure, there are some things to learn. Trust Him in all things. He does bring all things to good for them that love Him. And… watch out for bike riders. There’s a gazillion of them on the Cape now, all from other countries where people move slower and drivers are not inclined to feats of near-death just to move 10 feet up in a line of bumper-to-bumper traffic.

But this is what I think. Maybe God did that just to remind me that he cares about me everywhere I go. That the full measure of His joy and His keeping grace didn’t end at a three – point shoot out with a crowd of people around and my son’s name in big letters. He is there, in the obscure places, when no one sees, among people that you would never otherwise meet, unless you hit them with your car, although I don’t recommend this method.

I’m sure He had something to say to Bo too. That’s speculation and none of my business. But God is so creative. Maybe He is rebuilding and reworking some broken mess in Bo’s life. And He sent some angels to arrange a meeting. Who knows? But I’m sure glad he’s hooked on Jesus. Jesus will let you run, but He won’t let you go.