Take Courage

Take Courage

The disciples were in the middle of a raging storm. They were terrified as their little boat was thrashed around by the wind and the waves. Afraid that they will surely drown, they see a ghost coming toward them. Through the screams of the wind and their own voices they hear the ghost speaking. They strain to hear him say, "Take courage! It is I" They recognize the voice immediately. It is I. I am He. The voice of I AM. Yahweh. The sound of breath. A whisper. Calmly speaking. Inviting. In the middle of the storm. 

One of the friends, the one named Peter is so drawn to the voice- when he hears Him speak, he finds himself stepping out of the boat to come closer- drawn by the invitation. Icy water swirls around his feet- wind whips at his face- hair in his eyes and he speaks to the ghost. "If its really you....." he screams into the darkness. Filled with courage, he steps toward Jesus- eyes locked on Jesus' eyes. 

Surely Peter will think of this moment when he hears the crow of a rooster at daybreak- 3 times- and once again looks through a raging storm to lock eyes with Jesus. Peter still asking, "Lord, if its really you....?" But his feet are still sinking.....and Jesus is still asking, "Why did you doubt?" Because he was bold and brazen Peter was filled with courage....but not faith. His courage wasn't enough to save him. When Peter began to sink Jesus said, "You of little faith. Why did you doubt?" and simply reached out His hand to save him. 

Peter doubted who Jesus was not his own ability to walk on water. Its about Jesus not Peter. Over and over Peter is faced with the same question. Does he really believe Jesus is who He says He is. He is bold, daring, and impulsive. Lashing out with his sword in the darkness, cutting off an ear to defend Jesus. Hours later he cowers by a warm fire denying he even knows Him. 

Standing atop a mountain along with a few other friends he has a vision of past and present. He is confused, and clearly struggling with the same question. Jesus stood before them, His face shining like the sun and His clothes glistening, talking with Moses and Elijah. All Peter can think to do is build a cabin so they can all stay there together. God himself speaks from the heavens declaring, "This is My Son whom I Love." and Peter and his friends think he is talking about John the Baptist.

Then there was the time by the shore of the lake when Jesus appears again. Peter remembers Jesus' words when they were coming down the mountain, "don't tell anyone what you have seen, until the Son of Man has been raised from the dead." Peter saw everything. He was there- an eyewitness- but he is still not sure if Jesus is who he says he is. When they had been all together in Caesarea, Jesus asked them who the people there thought he was. Jesus looked straight at Peter and said, "What about you? Who do you say I am?" Now, here he was sitting by the fire, sharing fish and bread again, and still pondering the same question. The same hand that pulled him out of the ice cold water, the same hand that broke the loaves and fish to feed thousands, the same hand that was nailed to the cross- by the hands of sinful men- like me and you- was now reaching out, inviting him to breakfast! This was the third time Jesus appeared to them since He was raised from the dead. They didn't dare ask "Who are you?" They knew it was the Lord. Even Peter. 

Years later it was Peter who wrote to those who believe in Christ, 'The end of all things is near. Prepare your minds for action. Be clear minded and self controlled so you can pray.' 

When the storm is raging around us- 

and we can hardly see- 

and we're afraid we are going to drown- 

and we hear the whisper-

saying, "Take courage, it is I." 

Will we recognize the voice? Will we listen to the invitation? 

Will we stand with the Savior-or sink?

     

The Tenth One

My first run after the tenth marathon.
Thinking back, remembering each mile, each marathon, I began to compare the miles with the milestones of my life. My first marathon. Scripture taught me, run the race before me with perseverance. At the 23rd mile there was an older man ahead of me wearing camoflouge shorts. Singing Amazing Grace. It made my heart smile as I sang along for those last few miles before being greeted at the finish line by 3 little girls and their handsome dad.

The 23rd Psalm came to my mind.
"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want."
There was a time in my life when all seemed right. Birthday parties, family vacations, picture albums filled with happy memories. I did not know 'want'. I ran easily, comfortably, thankfully. With God at my center and friends by my side, we ran together. It was early in the race, running strong, and it felt good. Eyes fixed on Jesus, we run for the joy.

"He guides me through paths of righteousness for His Name's sake."
We continued to run together for a long time. Me and 3 little girls and their handsome dad. The days became harder as our time together grew shorter. We were all tired. Sick. And tired of wondering what would be around the next bend in the road. Each time saying, "Lord, surely not this!" And each time He would answer by saying, "I will be with you."

"He makes me lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside still waters." 
 Leaving him there was the hardest thing we ever had to do. A beautiful green pasture beside quiet waters; family and friends surrounding us. Our legs were screaming at us to stop. Stop running. Stop living. Stop.We were paralyzed. There was fear. There was anger. So lost in pain we couldn't find each other. The cloud of witnesses surrounded us, almost suffocating at first. I just wanted to lie down with him. Crawl in beside him, and lay next to him in the grave.

And God quietly said to me, "I will restore your soul."
We looked around to find each other. All of us devastated, crying out in pain. Stopped.

"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death......"I will fear no evil, 
 for You are with me....."

The 23rd mile.
Amazing Grace, for us, for today. I knew we couldn't stop. We needed to keep running.To keep living. We reached out our hands, and one by one held on tight.....
and began to run together again. Me and 3 little girls.
God at our center. Family and friends by our side. With renewed strength, we ran together. Remembering the words of promise that were left on the stone,
the stone beside the quiet waters,
"Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength,
they will run and not be weary, they will walk and not faint." Is. 40:31

"Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life."
My tenth marathon. I didn't want to 'just' finish, I wanted to finish well, better than ever before. I had trained hard, and come so far, and was hoping for a personal victory of finishing in under 4 hours.  The 23rd mile. I was 'walking on water,' and then I began to doubt. To doubt that I could keep going. Like Peter, when he stepped out of the boat to walk on water, as soon as he began to doub, he began to sink. My legs were screaming at me to stop. And God literally sent an angel to run with me.

"Your rod and your staff, they comfort me."
 His shirt read Coach Marty. He saw the look in my eyes from the sideline and asked me what is it that I really want to do. He said, "It's going to hurt, but if you really want this I can get you there."  He stayed just a little ahead of me, keeping me going when my mind said to stop. Just like I had done before.  Then he was gone.
And there it was. 26. Three more turns and I saw the finish line up ahead. I was picking up speed as I ran downhill. Street lined with people, I saw three faces....cheering for Mom. Tears of joy streamed down my face as I stopped my watch at 3:57.  and thanked God for the victory.
We continue toward the finish line together. God has helped us to overcome so much and has given us victory.  The 23rd mile is always the hardest.

LIVLUVD

But because of His Great LOVE for us, 

God who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ, 

even while we were dead in transgressions- 

Eph. 2:4,5

Out for a six mile run in the civil war battlefield one sunny morning, 

I was almost home 

when I saw a car with a license plate that read 

LIVLUVD.

 It reminded me of a movie I had recently seen 

where the main character was grieving the death of his six year old daughter.

 Some time after her passing, he began writing letters. 

Letters to Love, Time, and Death. 

These were described as 'three abstractions' that are always with us;

 part of who we are. 

Interesting.

It is quite natural for us to think 

life begins with love, 

ends with death, 

and time is everything in between. 

 love+death+time=life 

Love is our friend, 

death is our enemy, 

and time....

well,

 we just don't know....

what to do with time. 

The message on the license plate is a good one. 

Makes me stop and think:

 LIVLUVD.

 Live LOVED.

Before our life began, 

before love,

 we have this life line, 

this cord, 

that feeds us, and comforts, and sustains. 

And when time is up, nature takes its course. 

Space is crowded, walls are thin, painful contractions 

deliver into the hands that cut the cord. 

Separated.

Death begins. 

Think about this for a minute.

 From the moment we are born, we are dead in our transgressions. 

Separated from life. Separated from God. 

And we spend our life striving to become more alive. 

Reaching for that cord. 

The cord that supplies the life blood. The scarlet cord of hope. 

Rahab dropped it from a window- 

giving hope to all who are separated- 

the scarlet cord that gave lifeblood to generations after her 

until the cord reached Jesus Christ, 

descendant of a prostitute, 

the Son of God, 

who bled his own lifeblood to be our life line. 

We reach for the cord-

 the bloodline of Jesus-

 and we find the way to life. 

New life. New love. 

And life begins.

We are delivered into arms that hold. 

And then there is breath. Oxygen filling lungs. 

Love filling hearts. Love begins. 

Days go quickly, trying to slow time down.

 Live for today.

 Enjoy the moment. 

There was a song I heard a few years ago. A beautiful song.

 Gentle sounds of the piano keys soothed my heart 

and I had to stop. 

To sit still and let the notes

 comfort my aching, closed up, broken heart 

that could barely beat anymore. 

As I listened, 

I became vulnerable, 

not expecting the words that came next. 

Their beautiful sound penetrated deep, 

ripping my very being into pieces as they said to me-

 'tell your heart to beat again'. 

Reminding me-

'you don't live there anymore'. 

But I didn't want to let go. 

Time had stopped.

I could feel myself breathing, but didn't feel alive. 

I knew then, it's not death 

that takes our breath away, it's life. 

To tell our heart to beat 

when life threatens to take our time- 

or is it time that threatens to take our life?-

I knew I needed the strength

of the arms that hold me,

the arms of LOVE.

We spend our life learning to love.

 Looking for love. Looking for God. 

God is love.

This is how God showed His LOVE among us: 

He sent His one and only Son into the world

that we might live through him. 

1 Jn. 4:9

And in the end, 

time begins.

If we have found love, we have found God. 

We leave this world 

for eternity, 

time, 

with no beginning and no end. 

So, when we stop to think

about how to LIVLUVD

could it be  

time is first, 

then life begins- 

with death, 

and we remain dead,

separated from LOVE 

until we become alive in Christ,

 alive in LOVE, 

and when we find LOVE, 

we are alive 

for eternity.

For as high as the heavens are above the earth, 

so Great is His LOVE 

for those who fear Him....

As for man, his days are like grass, he flourishes like a flower of the field; 

the wind blows over it and it is gone, 

and its place remembers it no more. 

But....

from everlasting to everlasting 

the Lord's LOVE is with those who fear Him.  

Ps. 103:11-17

A Planting of the Lord; for the Display of His Splendor

May 8, 2017. Scrolling through my inbox this morning I found it.

 5:15 am and I can't see without my glasses. Raindrops falling on the sky lights. Waiting for coffee, dripping to fill the empty pot.

 I tap the word 'edit' in the top right corner and begin to delete, selecting 32 messages that i don't even bother to open. 

This one says, "For When You're Just Surviving-Remember This". 

I had forgotten all about it. But there it was, post marked at 5am on May the 8th, my birthday, with a message that read 'just for you, for today.' I almost missed it- but it really was for me-and I remember now. The story was for me. When I needed it most.

The original blog post was written by Rachel Anne Ridge. Here is her post that I first saw a few years ago:

(I'll continue MY STORY when you get to the end.)

I planted it more than a decade ago.

A lavender plant in a four-inch pot that held a tiny dream.

I was so hopeful back then. We'd moved to the country from our suburban neighborhood, and I imagined that someday I'd have a beautiful lavender farm on this place.

I could just see it: row after row of fragrant purple mounds that would be part of our new life and business.

But first, I'd see how well lavender would grow in the hardscrabble ground. I knew it wouldn't be easy. People told me it didn't have a chance. I chopped a hole in the rocky soil and set it in anyway.

"Go, little baby," I urged it. 

And then life got tough.

The economy tanked.

We had to work hard to make ends meet, all while trying to finish raising our family in the whirlwind of high school and activities. The stress made my chest hurt at times. My husband and both lost sleep. We were exhausted, spent.

I abandoned the lavender farm dream, and went into survival mode.

The little plant was nearly forgotten in the years that followed, but somehow it hung on through blistering heat, record-setting drought, ice storms, and finally, torrential rains.

Every now and then I'd pass by it on the path, and see the small mound of silvery green foliage and marvel at its tenacity. Though alive, its growth was stunted by both the elements and my lack of care.

Not once did it flower.

It just survived.

It was like all of its strength was used up to simply stay alive, and there wasn't a single drop left over for something as frivolous as a bloom.

I understood, only too well.

Sometimes, just staying alive is the best you can do.

Surviving is victory.

 It is victory enough.

Then the other morning, Tom pulled me outside. "You'll never believe it!" his eyes danced with a secret. 

Our footsteps hurriedly crunched down the path on the hard ground. He brought me to a standstill in front of the lavender and pointed with a flourish. 

"Take a look at this."

''Aaaaaahhhhh!" 

My breath escaped in an awestruck sigh.

Fresh purple blooms floated above the green mound like a tiara. The warm breeze made them dance, tethered on their stems lest they frolic away.

I sank down in front of it and slowly rubbed the colorful florets between my fingers. The distinctive scent immediately permeated the air and lingered on my skin, and I had to smile.

Baby, you survived.

You made it.

Just look at you.

The ground around you is nothing but rock that doesn't hold water.

And yet you found a way to put down roots.

The drought nearly killed you, but you clung to life anyway.

The harsh elements seemed to stunt your growth, but braving them made you resilient.

You didn't let neglect stop you. 

You just kept going.

Year after year.

And even when no one gave you any hope of surviving...

you did it anyway.

You are strong.

You are brave.

And you are spectacular.

Sometimes, just surviving whatever it is you're going through is victory enough.

You've got to just hang in there. Keep on going. 

Cling to life.

Hold tight.

Because there will come a day when your roots will hit water, and your leaves will open, and you'll send up new shoots that are made to hold flowers like banners.

The sun will come out...and you. will. blossom.

Your day will come.

Maybe it's already here.

It's the day when "just surviving" is over, and your flowered tiara will float above you in a fragrant testimony to all that you've weathered.

Victory, my friend.

Remember this:

You will survive.

And you will bloom.

 

The desert and parched land will be glad; the wilderness will rejoice and blossom.

Like the crocus, it will burst into bloom; it will rejoice greatly and shout for joy.....

they will see the glory of the LORD, the splendor of our God.

Isa. 35:1-2

Oh, the strength I found in those words: You will survive, and you will bloom!

Steve and I were in Cape Cod, celebrating the first anniversary of our honeymoon and took a little bike ride to Cape Cod Lavender Farm. Such a cute little place nestled in the woods at the end of the dirt trail. Rows of beautiful lavender cascading across a sunny field. Dried and tied in clusters hanging inside the tiny old shack. Soaps, lotions, bath salts and tea for sale. I tell the friendly girl at the register about the story. The story about surviving.

We took our treasures with us. Wrapping them carefully in brown paper as we began our journey home. Down the winding path, pedaling across the small New England town back to the Inn. I had my own story to tell. My own story of surviving.

It has been six years since losing Fritz. Back then I didn't think I could survive his death, nor did I want to. I wanted to spread myself out over the place where they laid him and sink down into the ground with him. The six years that he was sick were long and painful-

but not nearly long enough. 

The disease had a way of changing our perspective on time. It was a progressive disease- which meant the only way to measure progress was to measure his decline. We couldn't look forward, only back. Yet we knew, with the passing of time, time was growing short. We held on to every drop of every day, hoping for more time together.  Six years.

Months and years passed. I lay there under the cold and dark. Seasons passed. There was pruning; hard painful pruning. Winter frost. 

Drenching rains that were sure to drown me. 

Somewhere down in the hard, rocky soil my toes began to find water for my thirsty soul. 

One day the sun began to shine, warming my tender, fragile heart.

It makes me think of those I love-

 living your own story- 

trying to survive. 

Lying on the cold, hard ground, wishing you could sink down into the dirt- 

to hold their hand and hear them speak- 

once again.

Those who feel the painful cutting of the pruning shears- 

taking you in a new direction 

you never planned to go. 

Those who wait for winter's wind and cold to pass, the bitter pain of frostbite, 

feelings of loneliness

 taking tender shoots right off.

Those I love who struggle to survive because at first,

you don't even want to survive.

And then you know, 

you want this pain to end, but you don't want it all to come to an end. 

Like the butterfly, growing wings,

it is only in the struggle to survive that we become strong enough to survive.

My sweet smelling lavender treasures came home with me.  I found another lavender farm out in Harrisonburg, and another in Leesburg. A beautiful drive in the country to discover more treasure. I bought two. And planted them in my front yard. 

And today, one little 4" seedling has a beautiful purple crown.

This one survived.

Six long years later-

my heart blooms, once again.

Buried Treasure

June 25, 2011

Isaiah 40:31

Buried deep where no one can see. Covered over with six feet of earth. Grass grows. Birds come to sit. Quietly hidden, deep within. Painful times one can hardly bear, laid to rest. Lying still. Jewels tucked inside. Terribly beautiful jewels. The pain is so raw, I cannot bear it. The emotions so strong, it is frightening. Loneliness, heartbreak and fear. My feet are planted. I cannot move. But if I don't, the pain will consume me. Tomorrow threatens to come.

No one truly sees. The world does not know. The world lies. But God does not lie. From the bottom of the sea, inside the belly of a whale, Jonah prayed. "In my distress I called to the LORD and He answered me. From the depths of the grave I called for help, and you listened to my cry."
One way or another, I will walk among the living. So I close the door to my heart. Put joy on the outside.

Gather the treasures. The ones that sparkle and the ones that tear me in two. The ones that bring laughter and the ones that bring tears. And when the tears come, gather them too. Don't try to stop them. Let them fall. Feel the pain and lay that too in beside the grief. Grief that doesn't end with the passing of time. Rather the passing of time allows the grief to become part of who I am. Tucked in along with peace and strength. They grow together.

Five years. The world says the time for grief has passed. That I can't grieve and find new happiness at the same time. The world lies. Time is ripped from my hands as days are ripped from the calendar. Pages fly. A day, a week, a year. Time flies. Five is so long and twenty five is way too short. Twenty five years of love and joy, hopes and dreams, success and failure. Twenty five years does not 'nicely fit' into the time the world allows for grief.

So it goes in the box. The treasure chest. Buried. Only to be opened when a memory invites itself. Driving across town, traffic is stopped for a hearst and the procession of loved ones that follow close behind. Suddenly, unexpected, and uninvited. It comes like a waterfall. The weight is heavy. Crushing. It takes me to my knees and I feel it again. I am there in the middle of this ocean and I can't even breathe. I feel it-all of it. I choose to feel it and not push it away. Because that's all that is left. Let it come, remember till it hurts- and never forget.

I know now what I didn't know then. The pain of remembering keeps him alive. I wipe my face. I am OK. I close the lid once again. I bury the treasure deep in my heart. And I realize the pain of remembering keeps me alive.
God sees my heart. He sees the depth of my pain. He hears. He knows. He comes close to my broken heart and heals it. And He promises, "I will give you the treasures of darkness, riches stored in secret places, so that you may know that I am the LORD, who summons you by name."  Is.45:3

Tribute to Fritz

The path of the righteous is like the first gleam of dawn,

shining ever brighter till the full light of day. 

Proverbs 4:18.

Is it OK if I just ramble a little bit this morning? Today is my birthday and I have so much to celebrate! I am so thankful for all God has shown me and the path that He has lead me down. Heart aches and all. 

Last night I got a facebook message from a sweet young lady who became part of our family as a teenager. She was always one of the kids' favorite babysitters and attended every youth group event and mission trip we ever took. When Kathryn was in kindergarten we were planning a party for her 6th birthday. Guess who was tops on the guest list....Keri (who was 18 at the time). Now the two of them share an alma mater as graduates of Radford University.

Keri is now married with two girls of her own and is a school teacher at Farmington Elementary School in Culpeper. This is the same school where Fritz taught for several years before going into youth ministry. (Same school where Fritz taught Nancy's son Brian when he was in the 6th grade. And the same school where Sharon taught before leaving teaching to pursue another path.)

So when Keri sent me a link to the newspaper article that featured her story of becoming 'teacher of the year' my heart leaped for joy. And I was so blessed to read her words giving tribute to Fritz. His birthday falls on Mother's Day this year. I can't wait to share this story with his mom and dad who will certainly be blessed as well. They knew Keri like a grand-daughter. 

His life lives on, shining ever brighter till the full light of day.

We continue down the path of life even when its hard, knowing we can place our hope and trust in the Light of world and we will not walk in darkness but in the light of life. 

Let your eyes look straight ahead, 

fix your gaze directly before you. 

Make level paths for your feet and take only ways that are firm.

Proverbs 4:25,26

God's Love Reaches

Ann Voscamp once said in her book 1000 Gifts, 'Why all this running?' Of course that question got my attention. She didn't literally mean running. She meant running around. Running from. Running to. She was asking herself where is satisfaction in life- why always running for more, for better? What do you run from? Who do you run to? My mind immediately went to all the miles my legs have logged. Why do I do it?
Because I can.
But mostly because that is when I hear God speak to me.
More and more so in recent years I spend much of my time alone. Not by choice. My challenge in this season of my life is to not allow loneliness into my head. God has called me into this place of being alone, but it is the devil who invites loneliness to come along. I am learning the way to victory in this struggle is in giving thanks, all the time, for all things. One of the ways I am learning this 'eucharisteo' thanks is through the running.
The sun has warmed the air of spring. New life is coloring the world around me as winter waves goodbye. I am excited to run and become part of the landscape- to see and hear, to smell, to breathe deep- and thank God who does all this. So I run through neighborhood streets, past Tulips and Daffodils, past dogs barking from backyards, across the highway lined with fields, fences and tall grass. Geese flying home. Deer grazing by the edge of the woods. I turn at the brown sign announcing the entrance to the Civil War Battlefield. The road is narrow and peaceful, winding down and around and up again. Deeper into the woods, across the creek. Only the sound of the breeze blowing in the tops of the trees.
I am alone...but loneliness did not come with me. I pray-"God will you speak to my heart? And help me to listen so I will hear you. And help me to look so I will see you." I look for Honeysuckle. It is tangled and twisted along the side of the road. Fragrance is bottled behind the blooms that have not yet burst. White Dogwood blossoms are sprinkled along the road and far into the woods. No wonder they are named the state flower of Virginia.  A long time ago the wood of the Dogwood tree grew straight, strong and tall but as the legend goes, their trunk is now gnarled and twisted. Some say the Dogwood was used to make the cross that Jesus hung on. Who knows if that is true but it is interesting to think of the symbolism associated with the Dogwood Tree. If you look closely at the pure white flower you can't help notice it is shaped like a cross, with a crown in the center. At the ends of the cross beam, where the nails would have held Jesus' hands, are small holes in the petals, with a drop of red dripping. Almost looks like it tore, by mistake, and then you realize every single blossom is like that, torn. Dripping. Every single one. No mistake.
It's perfect. God's simple design in the flower of a tree to symbolize the beauty of the King reaching out to me. To the world. Good Friday has passed. Resurrection Day has passed. God has a story to tell.
The blossoms are high in the trees. It's difficult for me to see the detail of the flowers as they reach for the sun. My eyes follow the small branches, winding around and through oaks and maples and weeds, looking for the trunk of the tree.The branches are long, they bend and twist. The trunk of the tree is nestled in the leaves, far away from the edge of the road, among much bigger trees. The trunk is firmly planted, roots growing deep into the ground, giving life to those beautiful blossoms that have grown toward the sun. Blossoms that have grown toward the SON. God's love reaches me.
I see it clear. From the dark place, deep in the woods, into the light. His love reaches. His love IS THE LIGHT. The white blossom at the end of the long branch tells the story of the One who is the Light of the World. It tells of the vine and the branches. The one who does not remain in the vine bears no fruit. We, like the blossoms of the Dogwood have a story to tell.
God's love reaches for me. I see Him. I hear Him. His voice is the only sound. He reaches me and I am not alone. God reaches through the trees in the forest. He reaches into dark places in our life. He reaches across oceans. Across time. Across hurts and failures and cross words. He reaches into brokenness. And brings healing. Beauty. Light. New Life.
I find a branch that is hanging low. I pinch off a twig with two day old blossoms. I carry it with me as I run all the way home. I place it in the vase on the table, empty ready to fill.