Last

End-of-year Open House

 The last day.  Its here.  The last day of Bible Study, the last day of littlebear school, the last day of work… the last day of structure, routine, and predictable next-stepping. 

From here the steps are random, uncertain, unsure.  Are there next steps?  Did the path take a steep dip?  The looking-forward feels empty, sounds quiet—er, looks biggish.  Too big.  Are there any friends, any family, any… body to meet me on a step?  Is there a treat, an outing, a joy to greet me on a step?  Is there a next step?  Am I stuck? 

I’m frightened just facing the space. 

OK

I’ll plan a project, l’ll try to rest, I’ll hope for adventure.  Plan, try, hope.  Not exactly promising.  Or fulfilling.  Or … happy. 

Here it is.  The last day.  The last step without a next in sight.  OK.  I’ll trust.  Again.  Trust promises, satisfies, and happys up the journey.  Because the trustworthy One has already planned the journey.

Trust is never last.  Trust is always the next step.  It’s all I know.  All I have. 

Until the next last day, I’ll plan, try, hope and… trust.

Bit

 Little bit by little bit.

His tool breaks and lands in the dumpster, his engineering calculator finds a shelf at the Goodwill, his Blu-ray disc shows up for sale on an app.  He keeps leaving me, though he left me, he keeps leaving me.  Taking a little bit more of my heart with him.

Just yesterday, his prize, his pride, his stereo sound system, the one he researched, custom built and installed for our room, and pleasured (or blasted) anyone needing a moment (or hour) of impression… was replaced.  “It’s so old, mom.  It doesn’t work anymore.  You need a new soundbar.”  You need new.

Ok.

Little bit by little bit.

Tangled cables, disengaged speakers, a displaced TV unit, together with boxes and bubble wrap, directions and warranties, ties and seals, and one happy puppy smattered (or covered) my floor.  Old and new.  Billandme and… just me.

Little bit by little bit.

So today, my Bill’s stereo system, tossed in the trunk without care of damage, followed me to the electronic dump.  A cage of black, cracked and crushed, metal.  To which, with a silent prayer as if committing to the grave… again… the components were gently added.  I’m sorry Babe.

Little bit by little bit.

The empty trunk and heart and stomach followed me back home.  There goes another little bit.  Why does it sting so?

He keeps leaving me.  I keep letting go of old and adjusting to new.  Little bit by little bit.

Sad

 

My sermon is titled, How to do Sadness Right, by pastor Kath.

You haven’t lived very long if you haven’t felt sad.  Sad goes with life.  Happy goes with life, but sad usually tags behind.  Not just the I-failed-the-course sad, or I-broke-my-arm sad or my-dog-ran-away sad.  I mean she’s-not-speaking-to-me sad or my-son-walked-away-from-Jesus sad or… her-husband-died sad.  Everyone acquaints with real sad at some point.  And mostly, those everyones don’t give a thought about what to do with it.  Instead of taking charge of sad, sad takes charge.  It leads us, yanks us, peats and repeats us and stifles us.  Sometimes we bow to sad.  But there is another way to do sad.

The first thing to do is sit.  Sit with sad awhile.  Let sad settle in, but tell it that you’re getting up soon.  This is only for awhile.  Tissue boxes will not be home decor forever.  Next put on your smart-hat — the one that’s like a smart-phone only without a hard drive.  It can pull up information and resources.  You have one, it’s in your brain closet.  Dig it out.  Put it on.  Listen.

Your primary resource is your Bible.  So before you tuck sadness down, open the Bible, open your mind and read.  Any page, any verse, anywhere.  It is alive and speaks more clearly than emotions.  Put the sad right between the words, and see what happens.

Then leave the Bible open but set it aside and get up.  You’ll be surprised that sad lowered the footrest and lets you out of the sink.  Get up and set your sad mind to serve another sad mind.  Someone needs your comfort.  Little secret… that someone feels better when you just reach out.  While any gesture is welcomed, nothing else is necessary, just you.

Next get busy.  Just say no to too much still.  Walk, call, plant, bake, work, volunteer, write.  If it clings, take the sad with you, but you lead the way,

Release the thank-you bubble to the surface.  Then let it bubble out.  For anything.  For everything.  You have many things for which to feel thankful.

Finally, do this right way again.  And again.  Do it until you’re not sitting with sad as often.

On this Memorial Day, as I remember my dad’s, my brother’s, and my husband’s Heaven-going, this pastor is helping you know how to do sadness right.  Still feeling it.  Still trying to do it right.

Vows

 I, Kathy, take you, Bill, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do us part.

These are the words I said.  I said, but I didn’t think about.  I didn’t think about because we were committed to each other and to our lives together.  What’s to think about?  It’s a wedding with the usuals.  Let’s get married, say the words, exchange the rings and kiss!

And if I had thought… at all… about them, I wouldn’t have thought much past the just-get-through-the-ceremony about the vows.  Certainly not the last one.  The death-do-us-part one.  Does anyone think about this vow when they take it?

Does anyone realize what they’re saying?  Probably not.  But here is what a person making that vow should consider:

One of us will leave the other.  The other’s world will be rocked.  The air will be devoid of oxygen, vision will be blurred, hearing imperceptible, and general moving suspended.  The other will succumb to bouts of weakness, faltering, incapacitation.  Light will disappear, stars will grow dim, candles will lose their glow.  Eventually, one of us will leave the other.

I think another vow should be added to marriage vows.  It should go like this:

To every place, we go together.
But…

Death parted us.  One left the other.  And somehow, even though I didn’t fully consider  the marriage vows, couldn’t begin to realize what I was saying, hadn’t the slightest comprehension, even though…

I would say the words again.  I would make the vows fully knowing the life after being left.  I would vow to give my heart, my whole self until the day when one leaves the other.

Thanks

When a widow is in high alert mode, observation mode, eyes-wide-open mode, she has reasons to be thankful.  Small things become small thanks.  If she will allow them, thanks will work wonders in the sad, the dark, the fearful.

Here are small widow thanks:

– do once-a-week (or once-a-month) laundry

– say yes to this, no to that

– spend less on fewer groceries

– argue with… no one

– eat anytime, go anywhere, do anything

– pursue new interests

– get up or sleep in

– try a different approach

– clean out or pack in

– drink from the jug, eat from the jar

Surely the risk of selfish, self-centered, self-absorbed nesses could gobble up widow-self.  And surely surely, a widow would prefer the bigger share-the food, share-the-day, share-the-experience thanks over the small widow thanks.  Nevertheless, thanks are thanks, and they work happy, light, assured in a widow’s heart if she will allow them.

Grocery

 Who can make a date of a trip to the grocery store?  To get milk and maybe carrots and bacon?  Bill can!  How does he do that?  This is how.

First he invites his wife, his date.  She says, well, OK.  Then he waits in the car, cools it down or warms it up and definitely cranks the tunes while she makes a bathroom trip.  He quickly, or not-so-quickly, says goodby to his phone call as she opens the car door, after all, this is a date.  He takes a not-usual route so he can point out so and so’s for-sale sign, or going out of business sign, or coming soon sign.  He may even treat her to a Home Depot visit first to pick up a… what-is-that?

Finally they arrive at the romantic venue where, and as a gentleman should, he grabs the grocery bags and grocery cart.  He thoughtfully asks his wife if they are in divide-and-conquer mode or stick-together mode so she doesn’t end up walking each and every isle to find him.  Twice.  But if he does get lost, she knows from prior dates she’ll find him kicking it up with the bulk foods manager or the meat manager.  He probably texted him in advance to ask if the hickory smoked bacon was in.  He feels pride when he thinks about his efficiency as a shopper.  Not necessarily a gabber.

She has learned that he prefers the self-check, by him SELF.  Please don’t help; that will potentially… scratch… absolutely ruin the date.  She realizes that this is when testosterone takes over.  It’s one of those territorial things… the scanner.

The best part of the date, and the reason she always says yes to the invitation, is when she steps up and holds onto the back of the cart while he pushes the front like a crazy man, then hops on too.  Together they ride and whoop it up to the end of the parking lot, where the car is strategically parked, and attract everyone’s attention and giggles.  It is both thrilling and scary!  Like they could die, or at least do something really stupid.  But the shoppers wish they could be on such a date.  So it’s worth it.

Then the gentleman loads the bags, returns the cart, and so thoughtfully pumps antibacterial gel in her palm.  What a guy.

And that is how he does it.  How he did it.  How I would give anything for him to do it again.

Jesus

 ”Jesus, Your Name is Power, Breath, and Living Water, Such a marvelous mystery.”

And so, all day long, I repeat His name.  Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.  Oh Jesus.  My Jesus.

I feel alone.  Jesus.

I don’t know what to do.  Jesus, Jesus.

I can’t comfort my own heart.  Jesus.

I am confused.  Jesus.

And so, all night long, I repeat His name.  Jesus.

I long for her to love me.  Jesus.

I want this ache to disappear.  Oh Jesus please.

I need your still rest, sleep, assurance, trust.  Oh Lord Jesus.

I need You.  Jesus.  You, Jesus.

I need more of You.  Jesus.  More Jesus.

 

”You are my everything, And – I – will – adore you…”

Revelation Song by Kari Jobe, Revelation 4:8

Mother's Day

 

Fishing on Mother’s Day

Crayoned cards and handpicked dandelions and pop cycle stick magnets. 

Watercolor hand prints and fill-in-the-blank letters and tissue flowers. 

Mother’s Day 

A framed photo, a tube of hand lotion, pajama/slipper set.

Mother’s Day

Chocolate, a coffee gift card, a necklace. 

These are ways to honor mom.  She appreciates them and puts them in her drawer. 

And then there are ways to honor a mom whose children are her very life.  Whose life without them would fail to thrive.

A face-to-face call, a spend-the-day-with-us, a plan-a-trip-with-us, a this-is-what-you-mean-to-us, a let-me-do-that-for-you, a made-especially-for-you, a-we-love-you out loud all day.

Mother’s Day.  Everyday. 

Is how this mom is able to keep momming. 

Thank you Bears, for sacrificial, genuine, mom-honoring, everyday Mother’s Day. 

Backseat

 That back seat!  The one that holds two but holds only one when there is no two.  The front seats, the driver’s and the passenger’s, hold the husband and the wife.  The back seat holds the husband’s and wife’s friend.  The friend goes to dinner with them.  Or to a church event, or a play, or anywhere they kindly invite her.

This is the part of single life the friend dreaded since the day she became just one.  It will be awkward.  It will be third-wheelish.  It will be lopsided.  It will be so I-wish-I-were-anywhere-elseish.  As the husband and wife talk about sharing an entree.  As the husband and wife hold hands across the console.  As the wife drums up the next question for the friend in the back seat.

Bless them.  They want to do the right thing.  They want to invite and include and carry on the sweet friendship.  They don’t want to trigger emotions, or say something unfitting, or fumble… like they’re doing.  They only want to help.

The friend knows that, and so she determines to put them at ease.  As at ease as two in the front seat and one in the back seat can be.  She stuffs emotions in the trunk for now, she mentions her upcoming trip, she even recalls an antic about the husband who would have sat in the empty seat.  She hopes this will relieve them.  They are doing the right thing, a good thing.

But that back seat!  That half-filled booth, half-filled Ferris wheel, half-filled chair lift, half-filled kayak, half-filled porch swing.  The ones that hold two but holds only one when there is no two.  They just don’t know what to do about it.  They don’t know how to fill the seat or how to leave it empty either.  They hope that somehow they’ll adapt with grace.  They hope the one will fit in just fine.  They count on time and prayer to ease the two in the front seats and the one in the back seat.

Substitute

 Occasionally, scripture rearranges or substitutes words.  It does this for seeking people, hurting people, needing people, rejoicing people.  It has a knack for conveying its meaning through personal words.  I don’t know how that happens… really.  But it does.  Like this morning, this is how Psalm 115:10-15 read:

“O widows, descendants of God-given, beautiful marriages, trust the Lord!  He is your helper and your shield.

All you widows who fear the Lord, trust the Lord!  He is your helper and your shield.  The Lord remembers us and will bless us.  He will bless the children of widows and bless the widows, the descendants of God-given, beautiful marriages.

He will bless widows who fear the Lord, both great and lowly.  May the Lord richly bless both you and your children.  May you, widows, be blessed by the Lord, who made heaven and earth.”

Scriptures are, after all, living.  They instruct, they encourage, they direct, they specify and designate, they… live… 3000 years ago and this morning.  They have substitutional living power.  They are able to replace words that open eyes, and ears, and minds.

This morning I read a passage for widows.  For me.  Wild.  How does it do that?  I’m not sure.  But because it does — it did — I feel seen, spoken to, thought of, personally blessed.

Count

“How did Bill show you his love?”  A friend asked me.  Well, I really can’t count the ways.  But some ways count themselves.

He walked on the outside and made sure I was on the inside.  Always slipping his hand in mine.

Bill led a fast and prayer time for our kids every Sunday morning.  Always putting real, Bill-words before the Lord.

He filled my gas tank.  Always checking its levels and assuming this task.

Bill left me a note before he left for work.  Always signing the note, “Stay close to Jesus.”

He left me a longer note to find after he’d left for a few days.  Always writing he was anxious to be home with me.

Bill called me every day, sometimes leaving voicemail.  Always saying, “I can’t wait to see you.”

He shared an evening dish of ice cream that he scooped and re-scooped when it was gone.  Always topping with whipped cream.

Bill tracked me through the FindMy app, through shared calendars and through prayer.  Always staying as close to me as possible.

He helped me clean the house after company, cleaned the car after rain, cleaned the bathrooms after the week.  Always bearing my load.

Bill exchanged his free-time preferences for mine.  Always giving up chair time for active time.

He liked me to read to him.  Always joining my stories or learning and thinking.

Bill maintained a “cheat sheet” with account logins.  Always always always thinking about me and the future.

He grabbed my waist and pulled me into his embrace.  Always conveying his forever commitment.

I can’t count all the ways.  But they keep counting themselves.  As I think about him, and when I don’t.  Bill showed his love for me in many ways.

Want-you

 

I want you to not fall in the lake.  Please. 

I’ve been thinking about this.

Many people think about me.  Many love me.  I know this because my phone rings.  My mailbox offers cards.  My text messages.  I am loved by beautiful hearts.

I might even find a wrapped gift at my door, an invitation to join, a plant brought by a guest.  For me.  All  are expressions of love by beautiful hearts.

So why do I not feel loved?

But I do feel loved.  Our Bears call me everyday.  My parents afford me trips and housewares and shoes.  My sister drops her work to watch golf with me.  My friend sends scripture and prayers and… love!  through texts.  I am loved deeply and completely by beautiful hearts.

So why does love not feel like love.

But it does.  It feels like care-about-you, help-you, remember-you, hold-you love by beautiful hearts.

It doesn’t feel like want-you love.  Want-you love is the kind that wants to be with you, that follows you, that goes with you, that is always found beside you — at the grocery, in the car, across the table, after church, behind the screens, under the covers, atop the bleachers, on a walk.  Want-you love wants you during mess-ups and ugliness and selfishness.  It insists on making memories and building history.  It sees irresistible.  It longs for the next time.  It plans togetherness.  Because it wants you — all the time.

I’ve been thinking about this.  Love can be sacrificially given in so many ways.  How could I be this far on my walk without it?  But no kind of love takes the place of want-you love.  How can a gal walk without it?

I don’t know.