birthday

August 25, 2021

Spencersmom.com Turns 10!

I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus. Philippians 3:14

Blog: (noun) a website containing a writer’s or group of writers’ own experiences, observations, opinions, etc.

Blogged, blogging (verb)

August 2011, ten years ago, I wrote my first blog. I blogged. I looked it up first, and when I saw I could just throw my opinion out there on the World Wide Web, like casting a trawl net into the ocean, I was intrigued. And so it began. Blogging. You can read my first blog here.

It was inspired by a refrigerator magnet that I still have. It says:

Everyone is entitled to my opinion.

I still think that is hysterical, partly because I believe it’s true. My mother’s nickname for me as a mouthy little girl was “last word Lucy.” My words have gotten me into a world of trouble. Taming my tongue has been hard, even discouraging. But God in His long-suffering mercy is teaching me Grace and Silence too. He has also shown me the power of words that are used for His glory, like an arrow pulled back and steadying its aim.

Spencersmom.com began with those in mind, who like myself, were traveling the hidden path, the hard climb with no map in hand. The loss of a child is unquestionably the worst devastation a life can endure. But I have discovered there are many life experiences that derail a soul. Other losses, betrayals, rejection and loneliness. The craving for hope is as universal as the need for air. So, I’ve taken my words and aimed upward. Through all circumstances, and I’ve blogged through many that would seem “unspiritual,” including the Marathon Bomber, Post Concussive Syndrome and Grumpy Old Men, I can point to a lodestar, a safe harbor – a place of healing and redemption. Same answer always – Jesus Christ. You will find no other on this blog. But you will find an opinion that has been tried. As Job declared:

But he knows the way that I take; when he has tried me, I shall come out as gold. Job 23:10

We live in a world that’s smothered by opinion. I do recognize that mine is not essential. But it seems to me, (in my opinion) that opinions begin and end in the frontal lobe, conceived through intellect and reasoning. Thought out, but never tried in the adversity of lived life. The bigger the brains, the better the opinion. Eventually, you don’t even need your own perspective or belief set – you can just borrow them from others who seem smarter. The danger of “parroting” opinion is that it bears no weight or value. It’s a two-dimensional hand-me-down. Your “view” is a cheap knock-off of the original, and even the original, for all of its glitz and bling, may be faux gold.

Perhaps the best way to discover what you really believe is to suffer, and suffer hard. The refining furnace of pain has a way of whittling away the endless dross of opinion, peripheral doctrine and beliefs. When I buried my son, I was humbled by the house of cards I had built. The neat stack of principles and policies I had constructed for God imploded immediately. In the smoldering heap of ruin, God in His patience and mercy, helped me rebuild. But this time, there would be no house of cards, no neat set of equations and balancing scales. I found that most of my opinions don’t matter. Weightless fluff.

There is a clarity and discernment that is pure and unblemished, a fearlessness of life or death when you finally come through the furnace. It was just Jesus within the fire and there, waiting, when I emerged – more majestic and mysterious than ever. “Follow me,” was my only direction. All obstacles had been stripped away, and the path was clear, His word a lamp for my feet. I find it is most difficult to follow Jesus on a good day – when the sun is bright and the way seems smooth. C.S. Lewis writes, in Screwtape Letters,

“Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one–the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.”

Soon we begin to gather those things we at one time surrendered. Our plans, position, our bitterness and self-pity. Sometimes it’s the “blessings” of God that most incumber us. If we’re not careful, we begin to resent God Himself, and His messengers. We are, on this side of heaven, in the flesh and inclined to pitch our tent towards all that dazzles and draws our hearts away from the rough climb upward. My son Spencer wrote:

“This life is nothing more than a pilgrimage to heaven. This journey is a journey of the heart.”

Ah yes! It is more than just a set of footprints. It is a journey of the heart, and that’s why Jesus knew He was handing us enough with just one simple command: Love one another. Ten years goes by in a flash. And in all of my stumbling and fumbling, have I gotten any better at this? I guess others would have to answer that for me. As my words lift into the clamor of opinion, whether spoken, blogged, podcasted or spray-painted, the question is; Do they matter? And most importantly to me– do they glorify God? Have I “walked in love” (Ephesians 5:2)? Have I hit the mark?

Let your speech always be gracious, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how you ought to answer each person. Colossians 4:6

“Always?” Not me, not yet, but this I still strive for, “pressing towards the mark.”

Thank you, dear friend and reader, for 10 years of following along, or maybe just stopping by once, and sifting my words. Thank you for GRACE. May you find pure gold and words that edify and equip you for this journey – the call upward in Christ Jesus, a “journey of the heart.” And that’s much more than just my opinion. It’s the Way, the Truth and Life. It is the answer.

Ten years later, still on the fridge!

February 27, 2014

What-if on a Would-be Birthday

Both of us trying to figure it all out!

I rolled over and peeked through the shade. Still dark. The clock said 4:28 and I lay back down, sighing deeply. Thirty-four years ago, plus about two hours, my life had just been turned upside down. I became a mother. Spencer Timothy Macleod had burst upon the scene, with two quick pushes, almost leaping from the safety of the womb. And thus life changed forever. At this time, 4:30 a.m. 1980, I was still awake, electric with joy, awed by the perfect baby boy I held in my arms.

Spence would be thirty-four today, I thought as I turned towards the window.

“You alright?” My husband’s sleepy voice pulled me back from my thoughts.

“Just sad,” I said, and he put his arm over me and drew me close.

I started to think about the would-be’s in life, the places our minds go that sometimes are entertaining, sometimes bring sorrow and regret, and usually end in a futile wasteland of never-knows. I can’t say my mind has never thought of what kind of girl Spence would’ve married, what my grandchildren would’ve looked like, if he would-be a great builder, a great father, husband. Or maybe he would-be sick, or hurt or single or in one of those horrid places that every parent dreads thinking of. But he’s not, he’s in heaven, which I thanked God for today.

I also thought of how much blessing has been poured into my life, of my two sons here on earth, serving God, and how happy that would make Spence. In fact, it would be the best birthday present ever for him, because he worried about us all, his whole family and wanted us to just know Jesus.

I never work on Spencer’s birthday. It’s kind of a catch-22, because too much free time makes me want to lie down and quit like the prophet Elijah. But I have the kind of job where I need to think, and my brain is kind of listless on this day, like I’m searching for something but I can’t put my finger on what it is. So I’m baking bread.

“Arise and eat,” the angel spoke to Elijah, as he lay in a heap of depression, maybe some would-be’s thrown in there. I love this common-sense aspect of God’s character. Today I was reading the story about Jesus healing Peter’s mother-in-law, who was very sick with a fever. She was instantly made whole, and then “she got up and served them”. I thought about that. No one told her to stay in bed with a box of tissues and if you feel up to it, have some broth later. She was not a fever-survivor. She did not tell Jesus that she first needed a follow-up appointment with her PCP. No, she was healed, whole and I’m sure very grateful. So she forgot about herself and she served.

I’m making some real Irish brown soda bread so I can bring it to church tonight and divide it up among my friends that I went to Ireland with. And I bought two new bird feeders and filled everything up to overflowing because I love the birds, their simple lives and it’s a long winter this year. Even as I think about the poor birds, I can feel myself unwind because serving takes you out of self, which is wonderful today.

Oswald Chambers said:

“Depression is apt to turn us away from the ordinary commonplace things of God’s creation, but whenever God comes the inspiration is to do the most natural, simple things – the things we would never have imagined God was in, and as we do them we find He is there…Immediately we arise and obey, we enter on a higher plane of life.”

Like baking bread. And I might add on this higher plane there are no would-be’s, or should-have’s or if-only’s. Depression dissipates and a strange joy settles the storm deep within. When you are in God’s will, you are in the whole purpose of life, and like a child, you will gladly go where He leads. Arise and eat. Then serve. Jesus is right beside you, helping.

August 10, 2013

What Matters Most

Happy 2 years old, spencersmom.com!

August 11^th marks the two year anniversary of this website and the very first blog I ever wrote. I still think “blogging” is a strange exercise of 21st century mankind, but it’s grown on me. A couple of years later, it’s become a routine. A writer friend of mine once said, “Writing is like mowing the lawn. You know it has to be done and you hate thinking about it, but once it’s done you say, “Wow. That’s nice!” It’s cathartic. But also dreadful.

If you want to capture thoughts on paper, you have to think about your thoughts. My thoughts tend to wind through my brain like a lazy river. I never thought about my capacity for just daydreaming until my son died. This was one thing I could no longer do because my thoughts would wander into dark and violent places that would catapult me into a gaping abyss of unbridled pain. I was terrified of hopelessness. I had to train my thoughts. I had to keep moving. The luxury of lying on the couch and letting my mind ebb and flow without concern or direction was over.

In hindsight, the discipline was only good for me, because I always daydreamed too much. When I shared a loft in New York City with my brother, he would return from work and find me lying on the couch gazing upward, and he would say,

“Have you moved at all today?” Sometimes the truth was scary.

Writing is like sitting by that stream of consciousness and catching the thoughts that matter most as they float by. I think we all lead lives that provide plenty to catch, to glean the meaningful from the meaningless. And sometimes the meaningless becomes the most meaningful. Jesus was really good at this. He could catch people in their most ordinary tasks and bring down heaven into the plain dust and grit of daily living. The woman at the well, the little man Zacharias up in a tree; the clusters of children that swarmed at his feet. He could cut through the clutter of vanity and display and say This is what matters most! and it would either make you fall to the ground in humility and worship or yell Crucify Him!. In some ways things haven’t changed much.

It’s been a good year for me and mostly for this reason: that Jesus is still meeting me in those ordinary places of my life and pointing out what matters most. Not my opinions, or even my words, but my ability to hear His voice in the midst of my own thoughts, to sense His direction against the steady current of my own will. He’s shown me much about love this year, much about grace, only because I had to stop and take inventory of the poverty in my own heart.

I watched a woman die this week. She was well into her eighties and I heard the doctor explain that this was it. Now you would think that after living eighty something years you might say, “OK, I think I ‘ve had enough!” but it always amazes me how death surprises people, even when they’ve been running from it for a while.

Her shock turned to denial then to resignation. And then she died just like he said she would.

I’ve watched a lot of people die in my nursing career and this is the thing that startles me the most: people forget that we die. It ends, or more accurately, life here ends and then flows into the ocean of eternity. And whether you are eight or 88, it’s short, “as a vapor” the Bible states. I’ve watched old men facing death frantically sift through their lives like they were looking for something lost in a messy closet. Meaning…where is the purpose? They are old, it’s over, and they can’t find the point of it all.

I told my husband that when I die, I want to be buried next to my son Spencer’s body. He’s not there, I know, but we had to buy four plots so I’ve reserved one. And I want a small plaque that says, Spencer’s mom and Jesus is Lord under that. I know I am also Miles and Jake’s mom but I think they may want their own space with their wives. It’s not that important as long as they wait til I’m gone. But what matters most to me is that I had three beautiful sons, who have already glorified God through their hearts and lives, and that they would carry that light into the next generation. That’s legacy and if I died today, I would feel my life was complete.

Spencer wrote in one of his journals,

“This life is nothing more than a pilgrimage to heaven. The road to Zion is a highway through our hearts.”

And in one of his songs (or was it a poem?) he wrote,

Please forgive me

For my apathy, please

Help me to use your talents wisely

Teach me to fear you and to delight

Myself in your name, in your will,

In your presence, just be still.

Remove my sin, heal my wounds,

The hindrances I must give to you

Help me to see with vision

Over the mountain to our final meeting,

Life is fleeting, most is meaningless,

I need to touch

Many.

Well said, Spence. As I move forward into year three of throwing my thoughts out into cyber space, help me Lord to see the things that matter most, to uncover the priceless treasure of Your truth and then to share it with my readers and friends.

August 24, 2012

Building Memorials

Happy Birthday spencersmom.com!

As this website and blog turn one year old this month I have been looking back and reflecting. One year isn’t a very long span of time, which suits me well since my memory is getting a little ragged. But I vividly recall sitting in front of this same laptop and asking myself, “What the heck is a blog and why did I say I’d write one? “

It seemed a little vain. Why would anyone be that interested in Robin Farnsworth’s random thoughts? This led me to regard the deeper side of all of us humans. We are inundated with banal information. We text, twitter, hop, skip and jump through each day in a world that seems ever-more complex and rushed despite promises of the good life, which we translate to an easier life which advanced technology is supposed to deliver. Yet we all long for meaning, connection and HEY, there must be more to life than this!

I loved my brother, Bob’s guest blog last month, Small Wonder, because it pulled back the curtain and revealed exactly what I’m trying to say. A stop-you-in-your-tracks moment, something compelling us off the worn path, sometimes into beauty, sometimes tragedy or both…a flash of color and wonder only God can uncover. We are breathless, filled with all that life is meant for, then it’s gone again. BUT…we are forever changed.

As I scan the titles of my blog entries I remember some of these times; my friend Terri’s death, the Power of Forgiveness event, a graduation, a wedding. Then all the characters that play a vital part of my life, including my aging dog, Rosie. There have been lesser players, grumpy old men, Korean Ajimas, and memories resurrected of ball room dancing, my dad throwing jelly beans around my room and dressing like a gorilla.

I’m still, a year later, not convinced any of this is that important, at least in a news-worthy sense. But the feedback I have gotten from family and friends tells me most people do like to slow down and pull over because we’ve noticed something we never saw before. We delight in the hidden treasure, in the things unseen and the suddenly of God’s voice.

In ancient Biblical times, God would meet with folks in the most obscure, arbitrary ways…a burning bush, a dream, the local well. And often men would build memorials in these places by piling up a bunch of rocks and naming it. Jacob did this and called the memorial “Bethel”, meaning God is in this place. God met him there, in a dream, when he was all alone and on the run. He would never forget that night. Neither would God.

Maybe life is like that; building memorials, places where we know we were transformed, in big ways and in some very subtle ways. I think that’s some of what this blog is about. And sometimes it’s just for fun. That God has pulled me up to a place in life where I can see clearly, and laugh out loud and love boldly again is my miracle. And He gets all the credit, for sure. Spencersmom is my way of applauding Him. And maybe the blog is a series of small memorials…God met me here, and here, and over here again!

This blog has blessed me immensely. I have no clue how many people read it, nor do I want to know. Some of the feedback I have received make it already a thousand times worth every little tale I tell. And it has united me with total strangers from around the world, which makes me say thanks for the World Wide Web. Happy Birthday, spencersmom, and thanks to all of you who read the random thoughts of Robin Farnsworth. I can’t hope that it will change your life, but maybe it can be a moment out of the crazy rush of the day that can help you pull over and say, God is in this place.