Mind-boggling

 If you’ve given contemplative thought toward the mind-boggling intricacies of the mind, its probably because you’ve had a mind-boggling experience.  While Bill and I were tending each other, especially rounding the end of his days, we had just such an experience.  It left us both so completely awed, unable to explain it.  Certainly the Holy Spirit invaded Bill’s mind.  God took over up there.

As a young couple, we joined thousands singing Maranatha worship music in the 80s.  Enraptured during a service when the entire body of Christ sang song after song, we could not get enough.  The music spilled out of us during the week.

If you’ve been part of church life over decades, you’ve noticed worship services and worship songs evolve.  As newly inspired music is written, taught and memorized, the oldies take their place among the set-asides.  We don’t hear them, sing them, remember them anymore.

Unless… you are Bill preparing for Heaven.  Something quite amazing, even miraculous maybe?  happened in those last weeks.  From absolutely nowhere, Bill sang old, very old worship songs.  Verbatim.  Each time, I turned to him in surprise, and after a bit of listening in, I joined in.  The words and tunes vaulted back.  They hadn’t been there in years, yet there they were.  We sang them out loud.  “Father, I Adore You,” “In His Time,” “There is None Like You,” “One Thing Have I Desired,” “Jesus, What a Wonder You Are,” “Isn’t He?”  And many more.  It was wild.

Everyday a new song would hit the play button.  I marveled at the very real presence of the Holy Spirit.  I mean, nothing else can rewind like Him.  Today, without the help of a YouTube video, I don’t think I could remember past a phrase.  God created our minds; He can invade them to create a Jesus-loving, God-glorifying, mind-boggling experience.  I have forgotten the lyrics again, but I will never forget worshiping with Bill.

Work-day

 

I got to go a-surveyin.  Jordan surveys properties, shoots invisible guns, and carries a machete.  Who wouldn’t want to see that action?

Mom wants to!

But if dad were here, he would trump mom.  He would be the mom on take-your-mom-to-work day.  And no one would challenge him.  No one would remind him that he’s not the mom.  And this mom would gladly defer.

Dad loved his boys, loved what they do, what they ate, what they wore, all their hobbies, and all their friends.  He made their business his business.  (Not annoying.  Not annoying.)  They were his phone call, his plan, his next outing.

I got to go on take-your-mom-to-work-day.  I got to be the mom.  We both thought of Dad and knew he would be bonkers to be beside his boy.  But this time, I got to be the mom.

HIm

 

Oh!

There he is!  It’s him!  Coming toward me!

That walk, toes aimed outward, bit of a swagger, a bend at the top of his back.

And that’s his ball cap, his short sleeve over long sleeve shirts, his loaded down cargo shorts with more pockets than pants.  Yip, and even dark sunglasses strapped around his neck.

His barely beard, his boat feet, his skinny legs.  It’s him!

Oh!  Gasp!

I almost run to him.  I almost call his name.  It’s him!

But… he walked by me.  It’s not him, is it.  It can’t be him, can it.  It’s not him.

Today I thought I saw Bill.  But he didn’t see me.  I lost myself for a moment.  I don’t know what happened.

Comfort

    I think I’m noticing something about comfort on this walk.  At first, the Comforter UNcomfortables me.  He takes away, He introduces unfamiliar, He challenges, He inserts steps, He exposes, He allows heart-wrenching ache.  Sharp rocks.  Boulders.

I don’t know what I’m doing, where I’m going, who is that, when is then.  I don’t know.  It’s so uncomfortable.  But this sense of discomfort keeps me before God.  It keeps me flexible and honest and pursuing and discovering.  Because He knows.  The Comforter knows.

Then, as I look back on the introductions, exposures, challenges and aches, as I step over edges and boulder the boulders, I receive counsel, an opportunity, a place of belonging, a developing skill, a pleasure.

I notice comfort as I look back and see His work.  I am assured of eventual comfort from the uncomfortable moments and days.  He knows what I don’t.  He’s leading.  I’m following… this uncomfortable comforter.

Shimmers

Speaking of a new president, and a new year, and a new puppy, and a new friend (Woohoo!  A new friend), let’s speak of other kinds of new.  I see new on this walk.  Among the gravel, shimmers of possibility catch my eye.  New like this…

The nightstand tissue box moved to the bathroom.

Books on topics besides Heaven cracked open.

Real food cooked a real meal.

A travel opportunity might hop on the calendar.

Home is home.

Church found her in a seat, by herself.

The stalled garbage disposal didn’t panic her.

A party kept her for 2 whole hours.

A difficult appointment made it on the schedule.

A potential online class intercepts her thoughts.

 

Maybe not entirely new, but entirely possible.  When gravel reflects the Son, a shimmer causes pause and wonder: is this new?  Is it for real and to stay?  Is new healing my heart?  Does my heart want healing?

I think so.  I’m willing to give new space and try more new.  I’m catching shimmer.  New shimmer.  Shimmers of possibility.

Proud

 We parents just can’t help it.  We feel proud of our kids.  The Bible calls pride a sin, so I’m whispering about it.  If you whisper, it’s not a sin.  (The Gospel according to Kath.)

But just listen.  Two of our 30-somethings finished full marathons today.  Mine!  They belong to me. 

A marathon is from the dam all the way to the bridge.  Up hills.  Down hills.  Killer hills.  Today wasn’t even the gnarly part.  The months and weeks and days and hours in the dark and freezing and rain and alone… that’s the tough.  But, the tough got them across a finish line and in photo moments with medals around their necks and stories to tell. 

I stood aside and felt the proud in my throat.  For a moment I let it roll down my face.  It nearly got in the way, but instead friends and husbands and kids swept it back.  This was not my moment, this was theirs.

And mine.

Our lives are a finisher-race, and our Father wants us to finish well.  Through the dark and alone.  Through slower heart rates and stronger muscles.  He knows the tough.  He cheers us.  He gets us to the finish line. 

I even think He feels proud.  We’re His.  We belong to Him.  He put a medal around Bill, a finisher.  I think proud rolled down His face when Bill arrived.  It was the Father’s moment.

Today our kids finished a marathon well.  Ssh…I’m very proud.

 

Mailman

 A mailman delivers mail to a home -- a mailman by name only.  A REAL mailman is one who receives the mail.  No...  one who waits for the mail..No...  one who eagerly leaps for the mail as it drops into the box.  That’s a mailman.  I lived with a real one.

Our box was situated two steps from the front door, or one giant step by a real mailman.  Bonus!  And.  And and and a kitchen window showcased a panoramic view of the walkway enabling a real mailman to track the mail on its way to the box.  It gets better.  A mail truck parked in front of our house, which meant our mail was delivered first!  Is that the ultimate?  Christmas every day except Sundays.  We suffered through holidays.

A real mailman is serious about his daily mail-retrieving task.  He knows the time of delivery, the fake mailman’s name of course, his wife and children’s names of course, his vacation weeks, and why he might have been an hour late on Monday.  He also knows what will be in the stack of mail, because he requested notification through USPS.  A real mailman utilizes this service upon waking.

The best part about living with a real mailman, besides constant amusement, is that I forgot about mail.  No need to remember; the mailman would get it, sort it, read it, toss it.  It was in good hands.  Such a luxury.

When my mailman became sick I became his assistant.  He would kindly tell me everyday at 2:00 that the mail had come.  Which meant get the mail as soon as you possibly can please.  Or sooner. 

Now I’m the mailman, but I’m not a real one.  Which is why mail stacks up in the box.  Not because I don't appreciate letters and cards and bills and all the junk mail.  I do I do.  I just flat don't remember.  When my neighbor offers to get my mail, I'm ashamed of my brazen deficiency.  (I think she's a real mailman.) I'll never be the real deal.  A seemingly small responsibility is actually a big one.  I know that now.  For the first time, I am grateful for my real mailman who loved mail and loved me.  Thank you, Mailman.

Two

 

Two are better than one. Ecclesiastes 4:9–12

 

You broom the debris, I’ll hold the dustpan.

You air the tires, I’ll fill the water bottles. 

You load the groceries, I’ll return the cart.

You blow up the mattress, I’ll get the blankets.

You move the furniture, I’ll vacuum the floor.

You hold the umbrella, I’ll carry the packages. 

You steady the ladder, I’ll dust the fan.

You hold the picture, I’ll set the level.

You trim the bushes, I’ll pull the weeds.

You wheelbarrow the oak, I’ll stack the cords.

Two are better than one. Always be glad when God gives another. 

Voicemail

Thee most faithful...  Ron and Nikki

 “Hi Kathy, good morning!  Hey I just was calling to check in with you.  I was out for my morning walk and started thinking about you and just wanted to call and, yeah have a very blessed day and hope everything is going well.  I’ll give you a call back later today.”

 

Hold everything.

Ron takes a morning walk.  On his morning walk he thinks about several things, and I am included among them.  OK and then, instead of hurrying on, he pauses to call and tell me so.  OK and then, because I don’t answer, he leaves a kind blessing with the promise to call back.  Which he does.

 

Let’s give voicemail like this, a place in the Hall of Comfort.  A big ol honorary room.  Somehow a thought of me intercepted a morning walk, and now my day is better.  It’s actually good.  It’s actually blessed.

 

I let messages pile up in my voicemail box.  I replay them and soak in them all over again.  Bill’s are in there.  My mom’s, sister's, Bears’ and Littlebears’ are in the voicemail box.  The voices, the words, the songs, the giggles and heartfelts.  They say, you are thought about, Kath.  Comfort.  

 

...when a thought of me intercepted a moment and became my blessing.

Healed

 When a puppy gets sick, really sick, the no-answers kind of sick, the failing-everyday kind of sick, the puppy’s “mom” can hardly watch, can hardly pray, can hardly bear another…

 

But sometimes, the puppy will actually recover.  God will provide the puppy all that he needs— an expert doctor, medicine, and a knowledgeable care-giver.  And then the puppy’s mom can hope again.

 

The puppy’s mom wonders why God heals some but not others of His creation.  It’s silly, she knows, to wonder about a sovereign God, but she can’t help it.  Why a puppy and not a husband?  Why a fellow from church, why a child in a children's hospital, why a friend's friend, why a friend?  And not a husband.

 

She won’t let God’s plan perplex her for long, on the puppy’s first night back home.  Because he walks again!  He puppys again.  He’s healed.  She’s thrilled that God gave this creation to her and back to her.  This time He healed His creation.

Presents

 

When you're walking, you move slowly.  You notice things like pebbles and puddles and ponds and peaks.  Or patterns and pleasures and purpose and...  presents.

 

You notice that presents, from ones who know you well and love you most, are things you really need.  Or really want.  You don't even wonder how they saw your secret wishlist that you haven't seen yourself.  Because they're part of you.

 

You may have had a birthday...  yesterday, and after your favorite homemade fajitas, and homemade, gluten-free birthday cake made by your littlebear, it's present time.  You open sensitively and carefully chosen present after present as if your name was embossed on each one.  You’ve been wanting something for that bare corner; it's so perfect.  She noticed your house needs a spruce.  And your puppy needs a toy.  He knows you need coffee.  It hasn't been mentioned in awhile, but they remembered the concert of your dreams and bought you a ticket.

 

When you're walking, you notice things.  You notice that they notice.  Your eye sees the considerate, attentive present so carefully placed on your walk right by the patterns and pleasures.  You feel thankful again for those who are part of you.  Those who love you.  Those who present you.

Ask

 

Got what I asked for.

 

"Keep on asking."

 

Lord Jesus, please may I have a new friend or two, someone to adventure with, someone to baseball with, someone to salad with.  And God, please help me get used to this single life.  Stay my heart and its longings.  Content it.

 

"Keep on seeking."

 

I will listen to those who love You.  I will pleasure in Your Word.  I will mean what I sing.  I will give myself away in Your name. 

 

"Keep on knocking."

 

Find me faithful as You are faithful.  When he makes a wrong choice, I will trust You.  When she denies your healing power, I will pray.  When weeping overcomes me, I will wait for Your comfort.  When hurt happens, I will remember Your hurt. 

 

"For everyone who asks, receives.  Everyone who seeks, finds.  Everyone who knocks, is welcomed.  ...how much more will your heavenly Father give good gifts to those who ask Him." Matthew 7:7

 

Lord Jesus, please...

2025

Hope Dwellers

 2025… is just a number.  It’s just the day after 2024.  Kinda like when our oldest son was 17 one day and 18 the next and not the least bit more adult.  How does a new year make a difference?  How does a morning after an evening mean “new” and “change” and fill us with anticipation and excitement?

 

I’ve been thinking about this. 

 

New Year’s resolutions are great if they don’t lose their stick.  Bill and I would “probably-talk” through projects, maybe a trip, and ways to serve God.  God lays an anointed word on my Kaela.  The word was “hope” the year our Bill left us.  We stitched that badge in tight.  We wore, repeated, prayed, and bound ourselves to hope.  The entire year we Romans 15:13ed. 

 

This new year lifts my eyes to pay attention — better attention to what God is doing.  John 5:17 tells us He is always working.  Moving.  Preparing.  Achieving.  Completing.  I need to notice.  Observe.  Perceive.  Detect.  On this walk, this new walk, I want to see God, because when I see Him, I love Him more.

 

I’ve been doing this awhile.  I think I’m improving.  Which is really what a New Year should be about.  Begin a change or adjustment any day of the year.  Let the old year find me practiced and the new year find me ready for tuning. 

 

On a January 1st, I will ask God to show me what He’s doing now and in the days to come.  It usually happens that I spot Him pretty quickly.  That!  That is excitement for a new year. 

NewYear'sEve

 

A New Year’s Eve walk with sister and nieces

 Whadaya wanna do for New Year’s Eve?

  

Idonknow, whadayou wanna do?

 

… we would ask up through New Year’s Eve Eve and then New Year’s Eve afternoon.  I mean… we’re supposed to do something, right?  On our young Dec.  31’s we peopled, gamed, banged pans, grubbed and midnighted the proper New Year’s way.  Somewhere along the way, we lost the New Year’s skill and thrill.  But funny, because I think, without saying out loud, we preferred our new skill and thrill… each other, a little take-out, sometimes a little sparkling cider — woo, a little ice cream, and a little early bedtime.  Let the neighbors boom and splay the night sky.

 

We preferred each other.  We preferred the you-ARE-my-new-year of each other.  Each other.  The favorite way to celebrate… anything.

 

Tonight, I am home, in the same chair, in the same pajamas, in the same celebration mode — preferring Bill.  I don’t have another skill and thrill for this celebration.  I’m not moping, I’m not grouching, I’m only remembering, reminiscing.  I’m only missing.

 

I am so thankful for the many side-by-side New Year’s Eve celebrations with my preference.  My favorite.  My skill and thrill.