It's in the morning hours upon awakening that my mind is bombarded with thoughts. Thoughts tumble through my mind like water rushing down a mountain stream, randomly consuming my pondering as they encounter the rocks, boulders, and fallen limbs of life.
It's been a wearisome month in so many ways. The thoughts that consume my mind in the mornings can be majestic and fierce all at the same time.
I returned to Budapest this week feeling the toll of this past month, only to fight with a fever on the flights home. A doctor visit confirmed bronchitis and a sinus infection. I've been in bed the past two days. Two days I really needed to regroup after the long haul of everything.
A phone call to my parents today brought the news that my brother's farm was hit by a tornado in the early morning hours with extensive damage to his chicken barns.
There are no guarantees.
No guarantees of what life will be like. Of what is to come.
No guarantees of life or death. No guarantees that tornadoes will evade life or possessions. No guarantees of sickness or health. No guarantees as to how life will turn out.
But this one thing I do know. A sure guarantee. The love of God is unending and His grace and mercies are new every morning. Every morning. (thoughts from the book of Lament 3:21-24)
I have no other place to put my hope except in His unfailing love. Therefore I will not be consumed.
It is in the morning hours that I will surrender. When the spring waters race down the mountain side from the melting snows of winter, consuming anything in its path, it is there that I will surrender. Surrender to His compassion and love. His faithfulness. A lush green valley awaits below. A place where still and restful waters restore.
Great is His faithfulness. Every morning.
4.29.2011
4.09.2011
Little Ones to Him Belong...
I've been preparing my heart for tomorrow when Josh and Kari and Stella, family that is near, and close friends gather at a site amid the Angeles National Forest for a simple, yet meaningful memorial service for Margot.
Though a different setting, certainly a different calendar season, and definitely a different stage in life, I find our loss with Margot drudging up emotions that are always close to the surface whenever an infant dies.
Forty-nine years ago I stood by a baby brother's graveside on a blistery January day. With my small hand in Dad's, the pastor read from the Bible and my two sets of grandparents encircled a little plot of ground on a hillside cemetery near my childhood home in eastern Pennsylvania.
Grasping my parents loss was beyond my six-year-old comprehension. I knew that I had lost a brother. One of two born just days before with no indication of imminent death. This little one, Randy Eugene, lived one day. I never saw him, but that day still stands as a marker in my life. I was old enough to understand sadness - I saw it in my parent's faces - but too young to fathom their depth of grief, the ache inside, of a baby lost to death. My mom still in the hospital with my other newborn brother wasn't able to attend the graveside service. Something I still lament for her today.
Little did I know on that January day in 1962 that a day would come when I would be the grandparent in similar circumstances.
Sunday's memorial service will trigger these childhood emotions as I watch little Stella take in a scene that she can't fully sort out. My heart will ache with, and for, Josh and Kari. I will understand for myself the emotions of a grandparent. Emotions that cradle the generations. The sorrow of a grand-baby never held, layered with the anguish of watching our own kids experience such deep heartache.
Little ones. To Him belong.
Though a different setting, certainly a different calendar season, and definitely a different stage in life, I find our loss with Margot drudging up emotions that are always close to the surface whenever an infant dies.
Forty-nine years ago I stood by a baby brother's graveside on a blistery January day. With my small hand in Dad's, the pastor read from the Bible and my two sets of grandparents encircled a little plot of ground on a hillside cemetery near my childhood home in eastern Pennsylvania.
Grasping my parents loss was beyond my six-year-old comprehension. I knew that I had lost a brother. One of two born just days before with no indication of imminent death. This little one, Randy Eugene, lived one day. I never saw him, but that day still stands as a marker in my life. I was old enough to understand sadness - I saw it in my parent's faces - but too young to fathom their depth of grief, the ache inside, of a baby lost to death. My mom still in the hospital with my other newborn brother wasn't able to attend the graveside service. Something I still lament for her today.
Little did I know on that January day in 1962 that a day would come when I would be the grandparent in similar circumstances.
Sunday's memorial service will trigger these childhood emotions as I watch little Stella take in a scene that she can't fully sort out. My heart will ache with, and for, Josh and Kari. I will understand for myself the emotions of a grandparent. Emotions that cradle the generations. The sorrow of a grand-baby never held, layered with the anguish of watching our own kids experience such deep heartache.
Little ones. To Him belong.
4.03.2011
Comfort...
The past two Sunday's Dennis and I have attended church with Regina. For those of you who don't know her, Regina lived with us the summer she interned at Spring Lake Wesleyan and from that time on she became one of our "other daughters." Thankfully she lives in Pasadena now. Regina, and her brother, Randy, have been kind to take us into their home - not only us, but all of our family members who have visited as well. She and Randy have had such servant hearts in caring for us and our entire family during this time of loss.
We are also blessed to have Jamie and Iris with us for several days. Cuddling little Iris has been therapeutic for us. Mike, Joni, and Miles are driving up from San Diego today. Family is comforting at this time. We look forward to having Julie here over Easter weekend (while I am still in the states).
A song we sang in church this morning filled our hearts. Another comfort for us:
In Christ alone my hope is found
He is my light my strength my song
This Cornerstone, this solid Ground
Firm through the fiercest drought and storm
What heights of love, what depths of peace
When fears are stilled when strivings cease!
My Comforter my All in All
Here in the love of Christ I stand.
We continue to walk this road of grief as we daily await word on Kari's kidney levels and overall condition. The reports over the past two days are showing signs of improvement, for which we are grateful. Kari is beginning to feel her body healing. These encouraging signs lift all our spirits, yet the journey of grief, the emotional healing will be a longer road ahead, especially for Josh and Kari.
Thanks again for all your love, prayers, and support as we walk a road not taken before. I'm reminded of something I heard from a friend of ours whose wife died of cancer last year about this time. He called it "new grace." Grace that we haven't needed before.
New grace.
This I find in my Comforter, my All in All.
We are also blessed to have Jamie and Iris with us for several days. Cuddling little Iris has been therapeutic for us. Mike, Joni, and Miles are driving up from San Diego today. Family is comforting at this time. We look forward to having Julie here over Easter weekend (while I am still in the states).
A song we sang in church this morning filled our hearts. Another comfort for us:
In Christ alone my hope is found
He is my light my strength my song
This Cornerstone, this solid Ground
Firm through the fiercest drought and storm
What heights of love, what depths of peace
When fears are stilled when strivings cease!
My Comforter my All in All
Here in the love of Christ I stand.
We continue to walk this road of grief as we daily await word on Kari's kidney levels and overall condition. The reports over the past two days are showing signs of improvement, for which we are grateful. Kari is beginning to feel her body healing. These encouraging signs lift all our spirits, yet the journey of grief, the emotional healing will be a longer road ahead, especially for Josh and Kari.
Thanks again for all your love, prayers, and support as we walk a road not taken before. I'm reminded of something I heard from a friend of ours whose wife died of cancer last year about this time. He called it "new grace." Grace that we haven't needed before.
New grace.
This I find in my Comforter, my All in All.
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