Gratitude

 

On this Thanksgiving Day, my husband’s birthday, my day to offer deepest gratitude, I will sing with Brandon Lake:

On this Thanksgiving Day, my husband’s birthday, my day to offer deepest gratitude, 

I will sing with Brandon Lake:

“So I throw up my hands
And praise You again and again
‘Cause all that I have is a hallelujah
Hallelujah
And I know it’s not much
But I’ve nothing else fit for a King
Except for a heart singing hallelujah
Hallelujah”

 

Thank you, family, for gracing, for loving, for holding me.

 

Thank you, friends, for remembering and comforting me.

 

Thank you, Reader, for joining me.  Feels so good! 

 

Thank you, my sweet Savior, for walking faithfully beside me. 

 

Grateful.  Oh so grateful.

Sliver

 

A slice of pumpkin pie.  Just a sliver please. 

 

The holidays are here.  Family is just ahead.  Smiles and food and gifts.  Puzzles and games and chatter.  Grown-ups and children and pets. 

 

And heartache.

 

It’s such a problem.  I want to join in, to take it in, to submerge in… the middle of it all.  Oh, but my heart, it’s getting in the way.  It can’t find the smile.  It doesn’t want to find the corner puzzle piece.  It can barely hug back.  Please forgive limp arms that can’t seem to hold anything.

 

Little pains accompany the big pains.  Making a monster pain.  She won’t to talk to me.  He disabled me.  Nobody understands me.  Most are made-up pains, but that’s what my brain does best… pretends. 

 

Then my littlebear calls from across the miles.  Tears roll.  “Should I call you back?” “No.  Jesus knew I needed your call.  Thank you.  I love you.” We talk littlebear talk.  We remember Grandpa and holidays with him.  My littlebear wears his oversized shirt and claims his favorite Thanksgiving desert.  My littlebear keeps grandpa in his holiday heart.  And… he helps me find a sliver of joy.  I’ll take a sliver please.  Oh for only a sliver.

Trust

 “We worship You.  We lift You up.  We extol You.  We magnify Your name.” She shifted.  She fought.  She crumbled.  She gave way to… tears.  Again.  The congregation sang out with full sky-parting force, and she slumped down with full earth-bound grief.  Another Sunday.

 

How can I worship, how can I join the exclamation when my heart is splintered?  Why, in these moments, do I feel especially alone, especially aware of Bill’s absence?

 

She digs for a tissue before the scene gets messy.  Then he slips his coffee in her hands.  It’s his offer of comfort, her son.  Then his arms hold her like a snug ace bandage.  They press back against the ache.  They immobilize the break.  She lifts her head a bit.  She’ll be OK.

 

She’ll be OK because she is committed to this walk.  The only road.  The only option.  The only way to the other side is trust.  So I will worship through tears, take a sip of coffee and trust Jesus.  Joy comes one of these Mondays.

Turkey

Story time. 

Several Novembers ago, when I was young and naive (never mind that our children were grown and married), our family spent Thanksgiving at a ski resort in Tahoe.  (Full disclosure here… this Home-ec major has never baked a turkey.) Practical me decided that, instead of adding to the list of to-brings, like a turkey pan, spices, thermometer and of course a how-to-cook-a-turkey-for-the-first-time guide, we’d simply order a take-out turkey and all the fixings for Thanksgiving Day.  Convenient.  Play all morning, pick up the meal, and feast all afternoon.  Meal ordered!  Thankful!

 

Problem.  The play-all-morning thing made for an I’m-hungry-now thing.  Let’s call and see if we can pick up the main event early.  Yes?  We can?  Perfect!  Problem solved.  Go get it.

 

While Bill and Jordan traveled the 20 minutes to retrieve our Thanksgiving in a basket, the girls and I set a festiveish table.  Chatter and anticipation, minus the delectable smells, filled the kitchen.  Thankful!

 

Bigger problem.  Jordan calls from the turkey counter, “Mom, the turkey is frozen.” Silence… like, what did you just say?  “No, it isn’t.” “Yes, mom, it is.  The whole meal is frozen.” One of the girls caught the phone as it slipped from my hand because I pretty much collapsed.  Promptly escaping to the bedroom, I buried my face in the pillow and wailed.  I not only failed the can’t-bake a turkey, I failed the can’t order a hot turkey test.  Day ruined.  Not thankful anymore. 

 

My family, this family of mine, has teased me ever since.  I love it.  Looking back, it became the sweetest, bond-together, rescue-the-turkey-and-the-mom Thanksgiving.  They made it happen anyway with grace and love and lots of it’s-oks.  And my Bill, and my boys… they have made the Thanksgiving day turkeys ever since.  Whew!  So so thankful.

Versus

 Grief

— Thanking God for 40 years of marriage

— Centering in surrounding, supporting family who join me in my sorrow

— Filling up with littlebears’ giggles and wiggles that lighten my heart

— Taking in the Word of God and scriptures that understand me

— Realizing and re-realizing that I am never alone

— Knowing my God and giving Him every ounce of my trust

— Believing in God’s best for my life, for good from this journey

— Looking forward to hanging with my Bill again, laughing with him, doing life forever with him — together with my whole family!

— Worshiping through pain

 

VS.

 

Self Pity

— Fostering discontent

— Nurturing an attitude that others should sympathize

— Excluding others

— Isolating myself

— Excusing and avoiding doing what’s right

— Filling a void that is meant to be filled by God

— Taking control

— Thinking this whole thing is God’s fault

— Asking why why why

— Refusing to engage in worship

 

Jesus, I confess I have to fight against self-pity.  But you own my heart.  Remind me that you are my hope, that you have more for me, that you are my identity.  Show me how to grieve so that you are lifted up.  Let there be no versus for this gal.  I choose you all the way down the road.  You are the best company. 

Connection

My beautiful sister-in-law, Karen

You know what I love about this lady?  Yes, she wakes up morning faster than a bold roast.  Yes, she finds another 4 feet of floor space and 2 more blankets for any overnighter.  Yes, she sets her own feelings on the shelf and tends to flying around ones.  Yes, she says yes.  Always yes.  Light, life, love.  Jesus lives in her. 

 

My husband also lives in her.  The same plan-the-next-meal-before-this-one-is-finished, same make-a-friend-in-10-seconds, same be-2-flights-early-to-the-airport, same honor-their-parents, same walk, same talk, same gestures.  Bill lives inside his sister.  Which is why I love her even more. 

 

This one stood hourly, tirelessly beside his bed, insisting I get oxygen.  She fed him, lifted him, turned him, helped him to Heaven.  I’m pretty sure she is an angel. 

Stay

 She spoke tenderly to me.  This friend of mine listened to my longing to be with Bill.  She witnessed the steady waterfall down my cheeks.  She seemed to shutter with my shutters.  She looked at me with sincere sympathy.

 

Then she said, “Kath, you have to stay.  God wants you to stay here.  I’m sorry.”

 

She’s right.  I’m still here.  I’m supposed to keep living.  I wonder why.  But she’s right.

 

I also wonder why it took this sweet face, this soft voice, this gentle spirit to make the truth real.  I know.  I know God has more for me to do.  But I’ve sort of set that aside ready to join Bill any day.  Any day.  Any day.

 

Kath, you’re staying.  Whoosh.  There it is.  There is the truth.  Can’t be set aside.  Let it land in my mind, settle, convince, and set my heart on staying here.  God, stay here with me.

100%

 “Save our family, Oh God.  A hundred percent of us.” He prayed, prayer after prayer.  “Help us finish strong.” As she sat beside him and held his hand while he prayed, she fervently agreed.  “Yes, Oh God.  Bring each one into Your kingdom for Your name’s sake.”

 

If you’ve played the game of Sorry or Aggravation or Trouble, you know that the object is to get all your pawns home safely.  Each pawn begins its journey around the board at different turns.  Cards or dice send it forward or backward, advancing or slowing the trip.  Or completely halting it, at which point the pawn is sent back to the beginning to start over.

 

Hmmm, sounds a little like life.  Sorry, aggravation, trouble.  Pawns at Jesus’ start line experience growth and setbacks.  And there is an opponent who wants to land on our square and send us all the way back.  But Jesus is there and grants us a new start and keeps our eyes set on home.

 

With strategy and perseverance, a pawn will march its way up the home sidewalk, up the steps, and inside never to start over again.  Home.  Safe.  Jesus.

 

Save us, Oh God, a hundred percent of us.  Bring us all home safe never to face a set back again.  And thank you, for securing one of us.  One member of our family is securely, forever with you.  That feels so good to me.  You are faithful.  And I know you will be faithful to those of us who are close behind.  We will finish strong.  We will join the one and be reunited with him and You.

Seasons

 In the church world, or at least in my church world, there is a rather constant word.  The word is season.  On the family radio broadcast, in my daily devotional, during the meetings, messages, meals, music, and mission announcements, there is talk of seasons.

 

I think about how often I hear the word.  It’s not a terribly important thing to ponder, not like things I should think about like a verse to memorize or a Bible story to re-read.  This morning I’m trying to qualify this word’s meaning.  I typically shun overused language.  But this word caught me.

 

Most folks think of seasons in terms of climate.  Season for farmers means planting or harvesting, for hunters means duck or deer, for sportsman means football or baseball, for TVers means a series of episodes.  For church-goers means, I think, a time of life.  I think.

 

But life seasons have no parameters or defining development.  Unlike deer hunting season or football season, there are no start and stop dates.  Which means there is no mid-season.  That means, it is very hard for me, who even now can’t imagine life without my best friend for the rest of my days, to say I’m walking through a season.  Is it a season?  Or did the happy in my life change for good.  What if I can’t see around a corner because there actually is no corner?  What if, after being repeatedly told, I will get used to singlehood, I never do.  There is no red X on my calendar.  No smiley face.  No star sticker in the next couple months.

 

Because I know my God, and because His word teaches an end to seasons (Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.  Psalm 30:5), I will say there must be an end to mine.  No alert will notify me.  Nothing will necessarily mark the end.  I imagine the end will dissipate into a new season, like a few rays of spring piercing winter clouds signifying change.  I imagine I won’t hardly notice until one day I don’t think of Bill every minute, wish he were coming with me, want him to sit beside me, just plain hold me.  God is faithful to bring an end to, and launch a beginning to… seasons.

Returns

 This is what voting season looked like at our house, led by house speaker, Mr.  Vote. 

 

Pray it up: “God, you know what’s best.  Put our man in office.”

 

Hash it over: Between the tee and the green, during small group desert, upon arriving home from an overdone work day.  Sheesh.

 

Listen about it: Get completely entrenched in dogmatic opinion and feel absolutely sure about it.

 

Forget about it: Enough is enough.  Until tomorrow.

 

Voting day: Go about usual tasks.  Toss all the mailers.  Leave the TV off.  All day.  Throw the stress in the garbage.  Try to keep President Jesus in the White House or I mean on the throne.

 

Returns: Maybe peak.  Go to bed.  Pray again that God does the right thing.  Kiss.

 

Day after: Slump, bum-out or call everybody in your contacts and whoop!  Ignore God or praise Him.

 

This voting season looked different, led by current house speaker, way-out-of-her-element, Mrs.  Vote.

 

Google terms, jot down names (Who was that again?  Where’s my sticky note?), stick foot in mouth, eat delicious humble pie.  And… watch the returns, really watch for the first time, and learn a few things. 

 

This Mrs.  Vote has got to get smarter.  Is getting smarter.  Feels smarter.

Known

    After forty years of marriage — listening, sharing, compromising, arguing, experiencing — no one, save Jesus, knows me better than Bill.  Not my parents, not my kids, probably not even me.  This man knew my thoughts, my reactions, my druthers.  He knew me inside and out.  He made it his business.  It feels so good to be known.

 

It’s been a year since I’ve gotten to be with him.  In that year, I have changed.  Obviously, I’m learning to live alone, to be my own company, to be independent.  Bill never saw me knock on a neighbor’s door just to be friendly.  He would have done a double take watching this homebody join my I-don’t-know-anyone Bible study.  He would be proud that I’m getting around town pretty well, taking in a bit of news, youtubing fix-its.  Forced changes force change.

 

But I like to think that I’m still Bill’s Kath.  My insides, the way God made me, the things that put smiles on my face, the Kath Bill knew, hasn’t changed.  Bill still knows me best.  If he were here, he knows I would want him to drive, pick the restaurant, and get me home early cause I can’t wait to fall in bed.  If he were here, he would expect to wait a minute before I answered his question, give me a couple minutes to wake up in the morning, allow a buncha minutes to get the house straightened just right.  He would take my hand and pray for us, wrap my waist and kiss me, grab his phone and call me… and know that, despite my resistance, I needed it all.  He knew me.

 

No one will ever know me quite like Bill, I think.  But Jesus knows me.  He knows me because He made me.  He made me for Bill to know me.  It feels so so good to be known.

After-church

Don and Gena — Beautiful People

 I love church.  I don’t love after church.  All the after-church parts feel sad.  There’s the say a token hello to my new friend and her… husband part.  There’s the head down as I dig for keys in my purse part.  There’s the look around to see if I know anybody but see only everybody knowing everybody else part.  There’s the oh well and weave to the door part.  There’s the where did I park my car this time part.  There’s the walk alone through the lot part.  There’s the very long 10-minute drive part.  It’s enough to rob the I love church part.

 

Today though, I thought I heard my name during my car search.  Did someone call my name?  Should I turn around to see?  Sure enough, there is Don.  He’s calling me.  He’s looking directly at me.  Me.  He invites me to the playground where our joint grandchildren will embark soon.  I smile and gratefully join him.  We and some others share some minutes joying over children.  Don is part of the I love church part.  He happys up the sad.

 

On the not quite as long 10-minute drive home, I thank God for Don.  That he called my name.  That he u-turned me and erased an after-church part.  I thank God that He is with me after church and helping me thank Him after church.

Vote

 Vote.  Go vote.  OK.  I’ll do that.  But wait… how do you vote?  Whispering… I have never voted.  When I arrived at voting age, last century, my voting responsibility didn’t register.  I think I went through college years completely oblivious.  Then I married Mr.  No Excuse.  He assumed the voting task, studied the candidates, their platforms, their backgrounds and measured these against God’s Word.  He marked our ballots, or sample ballots, and drove us to the polling places where I dutifully transferred the marks to an official ballot, having no idea whatsoever of my choices.  Later when mail-in ballots became the mode, I upped my part.  I put them on his desk.  Essentially he had two votes, and why not?  It didn’t make sense to vote against each other.  I willingly, no gratefully, deferred.

 

I have never voted. 

 

Until now.  I feel like a beginner in so many ways.  But as a voter, I feel like the beginnerest.  There’s a Voter Information Guide!  There’s a Party Guide!  There are Candidate Guides, because I’m supposed to vote based on more than her winning smile and cute outfit.  Where’s the Beginners Guide?  Maybe this 60something voter doesn’t qualify for this guide.

 

So I podcasted, I Internetted, I radioed.  I asked a couple of experienced voters.  I read directions.  Then, I marked, signed and dropped my vote in the box.  Done.

 

Someday I might become an intermediate voter and then an advanced voter.  For now, at 60+, I am a beginner voter.