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.

A Different Time in the Same Place

Mountain climbers?

Every anniversary my husband, C.B., and I have made a good practice of going away for an overnight stay. From Cape Cod you can only go north or west, unless you take a boat or plane. In fact last year we went south to Nantucket by boat, ended up stranded by high winds the next day and flew home in a noisy and very wobbly puddle – jumper, the pilot using something that looked just like C.B.’s GPS. Making memories…

This year we headed north to Woodstock, New Hampshire and because we are both a little blond, we booked a stay in the same B&B we had stayed in five years ago that we vowed to never return to. We even booked the same room. We didn’t realize this until we pulled up.

I don’t like to spiritualize everything but I do know that often God will bring us back to “the same place” in the spirit realm and waits patiently for us to get some things right; issues of the heart, attitudes, responses that run cross-grain with His will, that fall far from Christ-likeness. And He says, “OK, let’s try it again”. Sometimes marriage can be like that too. I can only speak for myself. Attitudes, knee-jerk reactions… yes, sometimes I can be hard to please. I wondered how much I had played a part in the dark memory of that anniversary get- away some years ago. I looked at C.B. and said, “It’s going to be good this time.” And it was.

We left there this morning, stuffed with plum muffins, strong coffee and sweet memories and then hiked a good ways up a mountain, enough so we could get a view of God’s splendid creation. We prayed together on the mountain, breathing in the autumn air like it was more than life and laughed about how our knees hurt now climbing down. Time prods and pokes at your vanity. Marriage must sustain not only the storms of life, which we have weathered our fair share of, but also the gentle pressure of aging.

This year the leaves were a spectacular display of colors, something we had not expected, a joyful surprise. We remarked to the innkeepers that it was unusual to see foliage this late in October. “It’s been a very warm fall”, he said. Now you know I don’t like to spiritualize everything, but I couldn’t help think that maybe God did that just for us, to celebrate making good memories… and getting it right this time.

 

The Road Paved With Grace

Terri, September 2011

My friend Terri is dying. She knows this and is facing it head on. She told me she is only being practical but I see her as being courageous. As the cancer that silently crept into her body began to grow and take over, the doctors that had given her five years in July conceded it was now only weeks, maybe months. We know that God is the Author and finisher of our faith, the I AM of life and death, yet realistically, which is how Terri prefers to see things, the cancer is taking new territory, and these bodies, made of fragile, corruptible flesh, have only so much fight in them. I’ve seen it as a nurse over and over. It’s altogether different when it’s a friend, a sister in Christ.

I don’t know how many days any of us have here on earth. My own cancer diagnosis three years ago keeps me humble, and hopefully helps me retain an edge, a reminder of how life truly is “but a vapor”. It was nearly ten years ago Terri was showing up at my house, taking me for rides, listening to me not make much sense, as the grief from losing my son began to pummel me and tear me down. Her husband Scott worked with Spence, and patiently showed him how to be a good carpenter. He and Terri were there for me, more than I’m sure they realized, stepping into my dark, confused world of pain.

I feel awkward in Terri’s world, like there’s a place she can climb into that I can’t quite fit. As much as I have thought of heaven and my own home-coming some day, I realize that this is a place only Jesus can fit into with us. But still I want to be close by and so do many people who love Terri and her family. I pretend I am of some value because I’m a nurse but I feel more competent making tea for her. Yet I know God Himself is in Terri’s home right now, throwing grace upon our awkwardness, comfort over fear and His strength for Terri and her family as they face each day. We are pilgrims; we are reminded this is NOT our home. But I thank God for His love, His family and the mystery of His sovereign will that allows us to know we are not alone, ever. And thank you Terri, for showing me that the way home is practical, paved with grace.

 

Where’s Your Princess?

Princess Brooklynn

Brooklynn Macleod turns three

I grew up surrounded by three brothers, GI Joes and machine-gun spray, which was mostly spit. I learned to belch, whittle and I know what a half-nelson is. Then I went on to raise three of my own boys, admittedly more secure in their boy-world than my own vague snippets of girl-memories. In kindergarten I took ballet but my body seemed more conformed to tree climbing and cartwheels than pirouettes. I kept the pink slippers and
danced alone in my room.  Barbie and Ken watched
from my shelves, scorned, ridiculed and often dismembered by one of my brothers.

But I believe there is a princess in every girl. I see this more clearly now that I have granddaughters. Brooklynn turned three in August and spent the day in her various princess dresses, even climbing and tumbling in them, uninhibited by any menacing brothers. When she puts on her princess outfits, I see her transform. She understands that she can be beautiful, feminine, and the apple of her daddy’s eye. In the right setting, with a stable and loving father who mirrors her beauty, inside and out, which she is fortunate to have, this is a very healthy insight. In the wrong setting, as the TV show “Toddlers and Tiaras” portrays, it is the beginning of a frightening trend towards narcissism, insecurity and confusion.

Watching her nudges the secret princess in me. Like many other women, I did not grow up with a stable father. It wasn’t until I met Jesus Christ over twenty years ago, that I began to comprehend my value to Him, that I was “an ambassador to Christ,” a woman “worth far more than rubies.” I pray this is sealed in my granddaughters’ hearts. When I look in the mirror, the woman staring back at me does not look like royalty, but inside I
am wearing my princess dress. And I am probably doing cartwheels too.

Check the Fridge

If you want to know what’s close to my heart, check my fridge. Not the inside, the outside. It’s covered with magnets from places I have traveled, photos of friends afar, a picture of me and my mom and some funny sayings I’ve found and captured using the magnets. What got me thinking about my fridge was thinking about this Blog. One of the magnets reads: Everyone is entitled to my opinion. Considering my mother’s nickname for me as a growing and very verbal child was “Last–Word-Lucy”, it’s an appropriate adage for my Blog. And I’m a little embarrassed to admit it.

I’ve always wanted to be demure and soft-spoken, with a meek and humble spirit. Well, not always. Let’s say since I became a Christian and read about the Proverbs 31 woman. Just like I always wanted fine straight hair, wispy and feminine. It took me about five years of hard time in the back forty after I gave my life, the whole  lovely mess, to Jesus, to learn that I was not fashioned that way; soul, spirit or hair. The Potter has patiently turned that wobbly lump of clay over the years, smoothing and refining with careful attention, then often getting out the chisel. The last ten years I believe the whole thing was smashed, brought down to an unrecognizable lump again and remade. What steadfast love the Master has!

I don’t expect you to be as patient with me as my Father. And I still strive to be…well, at least a little wiser with my words. But remember my fridge, OK? If you come back again you will always be entitled to my opinion.