Spencer's Mom

Except a kernel of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.

Feeling Young Again

*** I am so pleased to once again, share a  post with you from my son and favorite guest blogger, Miles Macleod. It is a beautiful and insightful take on Matthew 18:3. You can follow his family blog on macleodsonthemove.weebly.com. Enjoy!

 

Can you find the monkey?

 

So it’s been about six weeks in Malaysia and I’m feeling young again. But don’t get too jealous. I’m not talking about the grip-life-by-the-ears-and-drive-off-into-the-sunset-with-reckless-abandon type of young; it’s more like the I-can’t-read-this-menu-do-you-have-any-photos-of-your-food-so-I-can-point-to-the-pictures young.

It’s infuriating at times and good for a few laughs at others, but mostly it’s just embarrassing. Like the time I couldn’t figure out how to turn the water back on in my house and had to seek my neighbor’s help, or the time I drove down the wrong side of the road (they drive on the left here), or the time I did that again, or the times I pick up Quincy from daycare and can’t understand what his teacher is asking me to do so I just smile and nod and leave and don’t do what they ask, or the time I accidentally drank pond water from a spigot and the nearby guards laughed before showing me how to get filtered water, or how it’s taken me two weeks (and counting) to replace the only lightbulb in my bathroom (Erin showers in the dark every morning), or how I sometimes say “Good morning” (“salamat pagi”) to my neighbors when I see them walking in the evening (“salamat petang”).

Whatever confidence I had gained as a successful member of society while living in the States has quickly disappeared. Now, I’m more unsure, more unaware, and more pensive. More child-like.

There is a verse in the Bible, somewhere in Matthew, where Jesus tells a bunch of people to be more like children. It will help them, He says, get into Heaven. Whenever I’ve heard this verse mentioned, I assumed he wanted us to have more faith — child-like faith — a faith rooted in trust and untainted by the limitations of empirical evidence and the cynicism of adulthood.

Now, though, I’m thinking I had it wrong. Why would He want us to have the same type of faith that led me to put my trust and my bloody teeth and my cookies and milk into appeasing some mythological creature (see tooth fairy) or cultural apparition (see Santa)? That can’t be the same faith that He wants us to have, right? I would think He wants a more adult-like faith than that, one that has been tested and refined. So why be like children then? Well, in light of my six weeks in Malaysia, I’m thinking what Jesus likes so much about children isn’t so much their faith; it’s their helplessness.

I think about Quincy and his own helplessness too. At one years old, he relies on me for pretty much everything and because I come through more often than not, his love and his trust for me grows. I’m there to carry him on my shoulders when he tires and grab him from his crib when he wakes. To kiss his boo-boos and read his books; to teach him boundaries and open his doors. To him, I am everything. My identity — in his eyes — is defined by his own limitations.

And so it goes with world travel. For those who have yet to do it, I strongly encourage you to give it a try. There are numerous benefits, but perhaps none more so than the spiritual clarity that comes with it. My can-do American attitude has quickly been replaced by a please-help Malaysian posture. And through this transition and in the midst of my helplessness, my Father’s identity has been redefined by my own limitations. He is made strong in my weakness. My place in this crazy, amazing world has never been more clear. I am child-like. But for my Father, that’s okay.

Quincy in Cambodia making a new friend

 

Fox Hunters and Heart Keepers

Wanna party?

Catch the foxes for us, the little foxes that spoil the vineyards, for our vineyards are in blossom.” Song of Solomon 2:15 ESV

         “It’s my fault,” my husband admitted as we scooped the garbage into a new bag. “I should’ve put a lid on it.” He says it’s squirrels but I like to think something a bit more menacing could cause such a mess, like a Gruffalo. Whatever it was had a big, bad party in the back yard and didn’t clean up. I like to picture them hiding in the trees, paws covering their dirty snouts and chuckling while we schlop their mess back into the can.

            Life is full of loose ends, like a giant junk drawer. I think it should be, that a life that’s too pulled together is dangerously aseptic. It’s like the Good Bacteria/Bad Bacteria theory that explains the explosion of super-bugs. We need to be a little dirty. God ordained it. When life gets too spic-and-span, it becomes something incompatible with life on earth. Sterile and phobic, we close the glass door behind us and watch the world go by.

             But the other end of that spectrum is the junk drawer that morphs into the junk house. I remember looking at hoarding pictures snapped by a rescue team that extricated a woman from the only space left in her home. Piles of papers, dishes, boxes and broken lamps covered what was once a home. You could not make out where a couch or counter was. She had been consumed by her own mess.

            Somewhere in-between lies sanity.

            I’ve thought along these lines lately, reflecting on some of my own near-misses, where vanity and self-interest have collided with truth, I mean Truth. Many years ago, as a new believer, I became offended by something my pastor said and decided to go out on strike. I’ll show them.

            One week went by, two, three…

            Then around week four, as the phone stayed eerily quiet, and the mess from my pity-party was starting to stink, the Holy Spirit spoke these words:

My kingdom goes on, with you or without you.

Ow.

            And I have never missed church since. Was I “right” to be offended? Maybe. But my rights pale in the light of the cross, don’t they? God’s scorching rebuke saved me from derailing and also taught me a lot about my place in His kingdom. It’s not my right, it’s my privilege.

            The little foxes will nip right at the root of our salvation. God is nurturing and training our crazy branches into something beautiful and even fruitful, then a little critter called Offense, or Jealousy or Resentment begins to gnaw at the tender vine.

            Jesus said He had to go home to heaven so that He could send us all some help. He must’ve known we’d need it. And the Holy Spirit is the Helper. He wants to help us grow and learn and start to teach others. Some dirt, a seed, then water. And lots of light. But we have to be the keepers of our hearts. He will warn, even rebuke but will we hear? And obey?

            It should humble any believer to see what was once a healthy, thriving and vibrant Christ-breathed life wilt and die, weeds twisting and overtaking a once powerful testimony. Or perhaps the tender vine was crushed by the newer, prettier replacement – a trophy gleaming in a cabinet, a reminder of what once was.

But all too quickly the message is crowded out by the worries of this life, the lure of wealth, and the desire for other things, so no fruit is produced. Mark 4:19 NLT

            Like I said, there’s balance. The critters will get in every now and then and wreak havoc. It’s the rhythm of a corruptible life. If there’s life, there’s the potential for death.

“Search my heart, O God!’ He will. Can we hear Him when He answers? Can we throw stuff away before it starts to stink and draws more rodents?

           My theory is that most hoarders knew at one time they should just get rid of stuff, that the stuff they held was beginning to hold them. But they refused. “It’s just a lamp,” you say. “Besides, what if I need it someday?” And the slow death begins.

 Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. 1 Peter 5:8 ESV
            Or sometimes he dresses up like a cute little fox. The point is let’s be watchful, with hearts turned towards the light and ears towards heaven. I don’t want to be a trophy. I want to be just one of His beautiful crazy branches that Jesus delights in, with fruit that bears His glorious name.

C’mon, let us in! We are so cute!!!!

And Be Thankful

 

                                          Got crumbs?

Grateful.

The rain falls straight and dense, hammering the gutters and bulkhead doors in a staccato rhythm. Stay in. It’s November, it’s the day before Thanksgiving and two days before Black Friday. Traffic is thick and edgy.

My husband and I just celebrated 20 years of marriage by spending five days in Bermuda. As we sat on a balcony overlooking a clear aqua ocean, we said, “It’s hard to believe we will be eating Thanksgiving dinner next week.” We planned to invite some folks from church, people who like us, are far from family or maybe have none. But since we were absent during the strategic pre-Thanksgiving week of planning, everyone we know has found a home, a table and the beauty of a real church – family.

Our first day in Bermuda we met some friends. A sparrow lit upon the rail of the balcony, about three feet from where I sat and looked expectantly at me.

“Hello little friend,” I said. Soon some of his family came over and I could entertain the small crowd. I was so delighted by this because here, on Cape Cod, I pour some income into three bird feeders out in my backyard, drawing mostly sparrows, but they never even say Hi. Any sound, like the gate closing, causes a sudden Whoosh! into the nearby trees, where they peek and wait for me to disappear.

The Bermudian sparrows, it turns out, are just cuter counterparts to our seagulls. They’re looking for a handout, although a large crumb goes a long way. Seagulls look like they’d scoop up your grandchildren if you weren’t watching. They’d certainly snatch the lunch out of their sticky little hands. Still, they charmed me. The longing I have for another dog is somewhat abated by my bird friends. So I was grateful for the sparrows that actually came to me in Bermuda.

This morning as I was praying in church, a young man who has been coming to church for about a year bounded into the room and fell to his knees. I love listening to him pray. He is loud.

“God, I just love you and I want to thank you for picking me up when I was all dirty! You’re still cleaning me up Lord and I love you for that!” he yelled.

Once, after several minutes of enthusiastically praising God, I heard him say, “Jesus, I just want to give you a big hug!” This man is my brother, God-given, and his grateful spirit brings me joy.

“Let the peace of God rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful.” Colossians 3:15

Members of one body. Family! As I look out across my church, I see a mish-mash of colors and ages and cultures. Sometimes I hear more Spanish than English and I love that. If it were up to us we would carefully hand pick a homogenous group within our social strata. Admit it – we just want to be comfortable. But God loves to shake us up. Iron sharpens iron.

Gratitude. At the jail last night, I hesitated bringing up Thanksgiving since it was obvious all plans were off for these women this year. But something nudged me to ask about favorite foods and soon the room was vibrant with descriptions of turkey stuffing, real versus jelly cranberry sauce, apple crisp with whipped cream and an eggnog drinking contest (yes, it was a family tradition for one girl and she said she usually won). I realized that gratitude sometimes is carved out of the darkness, out of the “have-nots.” I remember a phone conversation I had years ago with a dear friend who cut my pity party short by declaring that there is ALWAYS something to be grateful for. I was silent for a moment while I scrambled to throw out some cliché like “I’m grateful I’m not dead,” or “that I don’t have scabies,” when she said,

“You can always be grateful for coffee creamers…you know the little ones.” And I still ponder that truth every time I pull one open and dump it into my coffee. I’m grateful.

On the shuttle bus to the airport we rode with another couple who stayed at the same resort. We all agreed that it was a lovely place. Incredible view, food, relaxed atmosphere.

“Except for those stupid little birds,” the woman said. “I could’ve done without those!” My husband dared not speak, and I couldn’t look at him because I knew I would laugh. He wasn’t crazy about the little feathered beggars either, but he loved how happy they made me. We have several pictures to prove it. I smiled and looked out of the bus window. They say one man’s ceiling is another man’s floor.

We still have no Thanksgiving plans but we can be creative. One year my mother made spaghetti and meatballs and we brought it to the beach. I guess she was tired of turkey and dishes. Two years ago we walked downtown and told people about Jesus. The only people on the street were lonely people. We prayed with one man who cried. And he was grateful.

So this Thanksgiving, whether you sit at a table filled with turkey and sweet potatoes with marshmallow fluff (who thought of that?), surrounded by family who will say they ate too much pie, or in a jail cell with turkey roll on a cold tray (although they do have coffee creamers – I asked them), let the peace of God rule in your hearts and then look around at the crazy people God gave you to love…

And be thankful.

Just one crumb…please!

Finished and Famous Already

Olive, promoting my book without her front teeth!

 

Many are the plans in a person’s heart, but it is the Lord’s purpose that prevails. Proverbs 19:21 NIV

Yesterday was a big day, according to my granddaughter Olive. Two events made it so: Number One, she lost another tooth. Number Two, her Ama (me) became “famous.” Her word. A text came through from my son Miles, showing Olive pointing to the space in her mouth with one hand and holding up my book with the other. Something inside of me settled when I saw it. I was at once humbled and set free.

So I wrote a book, I published the book and now I am telling you that you can buy the book here:

The Greater Weight of Glory

I started to write this book eight years ago. I knew God wanted me to write it because it is really His story. But He decided to use my son Spencer and me as the main characters. Try describing one of your children in a book! So I went to a Christian writers conference to learn some things and meet some other writers. Here’s how it went:

Lunch time. You grab your tray and move through the line, making small talk with others. Hey, we’re all Christians here, so the ambience is kind and non-competitive. Nice. I turn and look for a place to sit, inhaling and holding my breath as the room begins to spin a bit and my hands start to sweat. I remind myself this is not ballroom dancing class in sixth grade. There I stood pinned against a gymnasium wall while a wave of really short boys fanned out in front of me, picking all the short girls around me for the next waltz. I pick a table of middle-age ladies who are laughing.

“Sure! Come join us!” They scoot around the table to make room for me.

“Where are you from?” The conversation is light and fluffy.

“What are you writing?” The question makes its way around the table.

Amish romance, one woman reveals with a wink and a naughty glance around the table. Every head nods in approval as we dish more pasta salad into our mouths.

Nutrition and fitness according to the Old Testament, another woman pipes up. Did you know honey has healing properties? No, I smile. That’s so interesting. Heads bob up and down. Mmmm, yes!

What about you? All eyes are now turned to me. I inhale again.

I’m writing a memoir. Exhale. Oh! Although it’s more drawn out, like Ooooooohhhhh….then here it comes, my shoulders hunch up waiting, while I play with the noodles on my plate.

What’s it about?

Deep breath. It’s about my son’s murder. It’s about all of the amazing things God has done through my son’s life and death. It’s about forgiveness and how faithful God is, it’s about…

But I lost them, right after “my son’s murder.” I feel the air disappear, the forks resting on the plates, chairs squeaking. I look up but no one will look at me.

Oh, well that’s very interesting, someone will say, a brave person, and then the topic will switch to wondering what they have for dessert, although I really don’t need any! Laugh.

And exhale.

I came home and put the book high up on a metaphorical shelf for four years and blogged instead. And it was good. But I knew it was there, calling me. The voice was soft at first, like hearing a baby talking to himself, but then it got louder. Come pick me up! It was time to finish.

At the end of the book I acknowledge my brother Bob who humored me with pretend Writer’s Group (just Bob and me with our lap tops in a coffee shop, trying to look like writers do) and my sons, who reminded me of why I write. Jake, for being my best and most faithful blog fan. And it was Miles, last winter, during the peak of my anxiety over finally finishing the book and then what? suggested that maybe I’m writing for a great – great grandson who will need to hear the Story someday. I pictured an exasperated Brooklynn, my 9-year-old granddaughter, as a mother, or maybe grandmother, taking an old dog-eared paperback off her shelf and handing it to a scowling teenager. Here – this is God’s story, it is our story of deliverance and legacy.

What could matter more?

In Embracing Obscurity, the anonymous author makes this point: God intentionally calls us Nobodies, you and me, to be His vessels of honor, so that no one can boast in ourselves. That’s refreshing to me. This book is His gift to you that was poured out through me. For that, I won’t ever despise it. It is my offering, like your gift or work or motherhood, or straightening chairs in the sanctuary, or the time it takes to have coffee with someone who is struggling. Whatever gift He has chosen to place within you. It’s all pretty lame until God says, “Yep, I can use that.” The goods are His. Our purpose here, dear brothers and sisters, is to simply show others the way with whatever we have.

So, no press release or balloons. And if you want the book, you just click three times and it activates probably another three clicks somewhere in a huge warehouse on the west coast. A paperback book is spit out with my name on it. Enjoy!

As for me, I’m famous already – in the heart of a 7-year-old girl who carries her tooth in her pocket. I think Jesus would really love that. And if it’s good enough for Him, it’s surely good enough for me.

 

*** special thanks to Robert Lyon for the cover illustration and Paraclete Multi Media for the design. Well done!

 

A Time to Every Purpose

Who's holding who?

Who’s holding who?

But godliness with contentment is great gain, for we brought nothing into the world, and we cannot take anything out of the world. 1Timothy 6:6-7(ESV)

 The huge disco ball slowly spun, raining colors across the walls while a song thumped out a 70’s disco beat. My granddaughter Brooklynn skated beside me.

“Ama, when was the last time you roller skated?”

I could tell she was a bit apprehensive about this. At age 7, she had not reached the maturity to be thoroughly embarrassed.

“Uh, about 50 years ago.” I answered. Before disco was even invented.

She skated silently along.

“So you were 10?” Ok, it’s easy to subtract from 60.

“Yeah, about that. But I ice skated two years ago, and it’s pretty much the same, so I think I’m good,” I spoke hopefully.

Actually two years ago I had ice-skated with my two sons, their wives and both granddaughters, and had taken a sharp fall backwards on the ice. Only Jake, my younger son, saw it and helped me to my feet. Nobody knew about my Post Concussion Syndrome until I blogged about it.

“Mom, you had a concussion? How come we didn’t know about it?”

Now I know why my mother hid things. Pesky kids.

I really hadn’t intended on rollerskating; I pictured finding a nice rink-side bench, but the guy in front of me, who seemed to be about my age, rented skates for himself and his two grandsons. The young man selling tickets nodded and smiled. Yes, why not?

The day before I took the girls to a beautiful outdoor park with trampolines, toboggan slides, paddle boats and playgrounds. There were benches placed around each area, and I noticed the benches were occupied with mostly us grandparents. Parents nervously circled their children, policing for fair play, ready to dive like a hungry hawk into the foray if the need arose.

“Madison, that’s his toy! Let him have it!”

“Jason, wait for your turn!”

“You kids are playing too rough! Watch out for the baby!

In the meantime, us grannies and grampies just smile, blissfully content just to sit and leave the work for the parents. We will give them ice cream for breakfast and bathe them only if they smell. Time stretches out like a cat in a sunlit window. We are in the moment.

I gave my son a refrigerator magnet last year that depicts a dad yelling at his small children.

“Listen up, and listen up good cuz I’m only gonna say this a million times!”

I smiled, thinking of this as I listened to the parents.

Out under the disco ball I notice the grandpa with the two boys has on roller skates with four wheels, where I had roller blades. I panic for a split second – was I presumptuous?

Then I laugh to myself. You can do this! Maybe it’s a 70’s flashback but I feel pretty good out there.

Then I fall, a gentle rolling fall sideways while taking a turn, like cow-tipping. Brooklynn skated over and assessed her fallen grandmother.

“Old lady down!” she said just loud enough for me to hear, suppressing a laugh. She offered to help, but I said I was fine. It was not a graceful climb back up onto my roller blades and I hoped the Four Wheeler hadn’t seen me. Brooklynn took my hand as I recovered and we skated on.

Turning sixty is a little like going to heaven. You have to die first. It begins by looking in the mirror and saying,

“My God, I’ve become my mother!”

You must face aging squarely, taking inventory of mistakes, regrets and loss of lean muscle tissue. Then embrace the future with grace and much humor. The grace part takes on new meaning, especially after falling down so much.

Grace: from the Greek, charis; the New Testament meaning from Strong’s: the divine influence within the heart and it’s reflection in the life. Charis simply meant joy and delight. The apostles used it to describe the undeserved goodness and favor that is poured out upon God’s children. That treasure is carried in these earthen vessels. I would say the longer this vessel stays on the earth, the greater the treasure, the deeper the well and the fountain that flows from within. Shouldn’t the life of an older saint become a reflection of God’s grace?

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. Ecclesiastes 3:1 ESV

 Now is what I have, whether hobbling or skating or finding a lovely bench, there is a God of Wisdom who goes before me, and sometimes helps me to my feet.

I look at my sixty year old hands. Hands that strapped on metal roller skates to Keds sneakers fifty years ago. Hands that held my grandmother’s hand, hands that stole, hands that gave, that held my babies, then their babies. Knotted, wrinkled, but still working. Hands that praise the One who made them and the whole idea of Me more than sixty years ago. I want to be content wherever He leads, but never satisfied with enough of Jesus. Help me Lord, to go deeper still.

I told a lovely ninety-year-old woman who sits in front of me in church that I turned sixty. She smiled mischievously and threw her head back, the eyes sparking. “That’s nothin’ ”.

For you have been born again, not of perishable seed, but of imperishable, through the living and enduring word of God. For, “All people are like grass, and all their glory is like the flowers of the field; the grass withers and the flowers fall.  1Peter 1:23-24 NIV

Imperishable. That’s the heaven part. Maybe one day I can share a bench with Moses, or someone obscure, like the widow who gave everything. One day, when a day is as a thousand years and time is no more, I will see Jesus face to face. Until then, let my life be a fountain of grace for the sojourner. Let my life point the right way home.

Brooklynn and Olive, watching out for Ama.

Brooklynn and Olive, watching out for Ama.

Surrender

Dear friends,

Please forgive my blogging vacation. I am finally writing a book and making reasonable progress, so I have approached a few of my favorite writer friends to be my guests. This one is from my favorite writer/friend and my precious big brother, Bob. He asked if it was “too personal”, but to me, a quest for God is never too personal, although it is what makes us each as different as snowflakes from the next soul. It is, in my opinion, the only thing in life that matters, and if we can’t be sometimes painfully honest in our journey, if we can’t say, “God, where are you?” then we have stopped searching and have settled for recliner religion.

So here it is. Thanks Bob, and your little sister will continue to pray, will love to pray, for you to know God’s perfect will, and of course, to meet Jesus face to face.

 

Church eclipsed by Empire State Building (Photo by Bob)

Church eclipsed by Empire State Building
(Photo by Bob)

 

Surrender

When both of your parents die – if you have been lucky enough to have relatively sane and loving ones – you lose more than those dear souls who have seen you from cradle to who you are now. You lose the only sources of unconditional love you have on this planet.

 Your mother and father, though they may judge, will never stop loving you no matter what mistakes you make, no matter what you’ve done, what level of depravity you’ve sunk to, who you’ve hurt, how much damage you’ve done to yourself and others.

My mother is still living though she ceased to know who I am some years ago. When she was cognitive there were doubts about her sanity and even about the extent of her unconditional love for her children. Her famous line – that she had trotted out many times for at least my sister and myself – was:

“I don’t even like you.”

Those words, though, were belied by her tears and worry when we were in trouble. I felt, underneath it all, unconditional love. I felt it from my father too though his fear often caused him to cover it with anger.

My father died in 1980 of esophageal cancer. My mother suffered several strokes in the last ten years, which has left her as a little child with no understanding of her own children or their lives. Good thing I haven’t needed unconditional love in the past ten years, except…I do right now.

I also needed it thirty years ago – though I didn’t know it at the time. I was sick and depleted from drinking a bottle of Jack Daniels a day. Every day I could somehow get by, working as a pantry cook and drinking myself into unconsciousness at night, but I was sleeping on the floor of my brother’s abandoned apartment and I was thirty-three years old. That is the point that my mother came to visit and told me she could not bear to lose me and that I must either get myself to AA or she would commit me to a hospital.

Love. The bonds of love are all we have. I believe I was put here with the sole purpose of creating and maintaining those bonds. Strange, but at the time my mother expressed her unconditional love and the good people of Alcoholics Anonymous expressed their kindness and support, I became open to another source of boundless affection and caring. It was at once like a distant memory and an old friend.

I have heard many times from friends, from TV, from articles on the web that the only people who believe in God are those that are raised – ‘brainwashed’ – in a religion or those who have suffered such a crisis that they believe God is the only solution – a ‘crutch’ for the lame.

The crutch theory makes perfect sense to me. Only those that need God, see God. My atheist friends mean the term to point at a sort of hallucination of necessity but it fits me well. I only seek God – see God – when I am desperate.

I am desperate now. It has been awhile since I talked to God. My voice is hesitant and unsure, “Excuse me…Are you there?” and my prayers are pathetic “God, I need you to love me”.

I am almost 64 years old. I wear jeans to work, my co-workers are young and hip and my office is in the heart of ‘Silicon Alley’. I can almost forget that I’m well…old. The church pews of the cathedrals on Fifth Avenue are spotted with the dim forms of the elderly, the ones long missing their earthly sources of unconditional love. Who is there to love them now? And this is what I think, who is there to love me now?

My dear sister says God will love me, has always loved me. She has offered me up in a prayer but though deeply moved I imagine the answer is something like “You, beloved Robin are doing my will…your brother, well…”

I can almost see the path I was meant to take over these last five years; it is barely visible trail plotted with bright points: do not put drugs into your body, turn your attention to those you love, learn to be a worker among workers, keep your life an open book so that those bound to you may read it. There it is, steady and straight beside the one I took, the path of secrets, fear, and arrogance.

The prayer I make in the full confidence of desperation – they call it the ‘gift of desperation’ in AA – the one I ask right now on the train to Katonah is simply: “What?” The answer is: “You are beloved; you are on my path.”

*************************

You will seek me and find me, when you seek me with all your heart. Jeremiah 29:13 ESV