hope

Those strange things in life that seem insignificant but later you discover them so very important? How God purposes these little details and knits them together into a story.

This is hope.

Two years ago, exactly two years ago, when our family of three was tucked all snug in a cozy apartment. When we discovered the news of baby taking shape in my womb. When we were most concerned with finding a home to purchase. Our drive to church took us past Forest Hill Cemetary. It had for years but then, a question from a little voice in the back seat. "Do we know anyone buried in that cemetary?"

An odd question for sure, what having driven this route so many times, but she was one for questions. We couldn't give a name, but were certain that there must be someone we had known whose body lay there. Our answer satisfied her, until the next time we passed. Again it came,"Do we know anyone buried in that cemetary?"

We passed this place four times a week. Sunday mornings to and from our place of worship and on Wednesday evenings for AWANA. The question, unfaltering. Every time.

"Do we know anyone buried in that cemetary?" And our answer never changed.

The months past. The baby grew. Our address changed to a little house in town.

And then one day, I woke up to the sun golden through the leaves in the tree outside my window. A golden so bright it seemed strangely heavenly. The morning held an air of expectation. My companion gone to work, I woke slowly and opened Psalm 18 to match the date of the day: May 18.

What odd verses, I thought, wondering if baby would arrive today. It is our family custom to take the Psalm that corresponds with the date and gift it a birthday Psalm. Would this baby have Psalm 18?

"The cords of death encompassed me, and the torrents of ungodliness terrified me. The cords of Sheol surrounded me; the snares of death confronted me. In my distress I called upon the Lord, and cried to my God for help"

It is a fiery Psalm. An incredible Psalm. Words of the power of God.

It became apparent, as the day unfolded, that this baby was to arrive today. Psalm 18 would belong to this active life that found every occasion to kick and move and had waved to me the night before as I sat in a tub of water to ease my aching body.

The day brought baby to our arms, but not as we planned. A little boy with a head of dark hair, he had left us before he met us. With the "cords of death" around his neck, Jesus took him from his safe little place and straight to the realms of endless day. Psalm 18 was his, indeed.

We laid his body in the local cemetary, the one we had passed four times a week for the past 9 months. The question could be answered now, but she never asked it again.

God knew. And in these ways and so many others - He handed us hope. Hope that had prepared us - unseen. And hope that told us this hurt was not meaningless.

"As for God, His way is blameless; the word of the Lord is tried; He is a shield to all who take refuge in Him. For who is God but the Lord? And who is a rock, except our God," Psalm 18:30-31

two wheels and persistence

"Tell me a story, mommy," the little one said, "a story of you." We settled in together, her and I.  A cozy couch and a cool afternoon.

She is the image of me, the little me that once was five. Slight of frame with a head of nut brown hair, I look at her and recognize the features I once saw in the mirror. All wild and artsy and terribly clever. Determined. Persistent.

I pull a book from the shelf of my cerebral library, dust off the cover and page through to find a story worth telling. A story from 1982 when my dad wore bell bottoms and my mom's black hair was feathered back. When technology was the corded phone on our wall.  

"I remember the day I learned to ride a bike," I began and told of a pink Hufffy with a white banana seat. Hours of training wheels led to this moment of two wheels and me and the steadying hand of a grown up on the curved chrome handle behind the seat.  I peddled and they ran behind.  Faster and faster, until the legs of the grown-up with the steadying hand could not keep up. "I'm letting go," they panted and I felt a surge of joy. 

Down the street I flew, the voices of little friends cheering me on. It was tough to keep my wheel straight what with my feet on the metal pedals moving so fast they must have been a blur. The wind teased my short brown hair. I felt invincible. 

It has oft been quoted that "all good things must come to an end." My thrill ended in the gravel at the edge of the street where my right knee made contact. I felt it all through my body, the impact, the skin missing and gravel embedded in the raw, moist surface. There were tears and then the arms of my older sister. She lifted me and we made our way through the crowd of small people who had circled me with sympathy and curiosity. In my absence the crowd leaned to examine the small bits of rock for any terribly interesting fleshy material I might have left behind. 

Dr. Mother met us at the door of our apartment and started treatment. A tweezer lifted the gravel and my wound was doused with a fizzing, stinging flood of hydrogen peroxide before the band-aid was applied. Those plastic strips were like magic and a badge of honor all together. My wound was large so another sterile strip was applied. Two band-aids. This was serious. 

Slight of frame but sturdy in spirit, it didn't take long for my tears to dry. The huffy had to be mastered.  Out the door I went. I made sure to parade my battle scars and then, with bravado, slid back on to that white, banana seat and put my feet on the pedals.

The grown-up that had assisted in my inaugural run was no longer available. It was just me, and that bike. My courage waned slightly and the bend of my injured knee pulled the bandaids tightly against my raw wound. I took a deep breath. The children cheered my efforts.

Success was not swift. It was a process, the mastering, like most accomplishments are. Back on the bike, my feet on those pedals, all wobbly and wild. A few feet of forward motion and then…pavement. The process repeated itself frequently and it wasn’t long before the neighborhood kids tired of my efforts and headed off to play.

And then, I did it. My wild wobbly bike straightened some as I gained momentum. I gripped those handlebars with my scraped palms and cycled past the gravelly spot where I had left my knee skin, past the children and then back again.

It was a ride that ended when I slowed the bicycle and put my feet flat on the ground. I did not feel the pain of my injuries. I did not notice the missing bandaids. Victory was sweet and I savored it.

A little voice breaks in,”Were you okay, momma?” She is compassionate, picturing a small wounded person and wanting to help. The victory was lost on her just then.

It is a big story for a little person – the words between the words. That victory is often won in the suffering and perseverance. Character is shaped by experience. 

She sees me, little me. Wounded and bleeding and triumphant. My words painted a picture.

She sees me…me. The me that still wears the scar on my right knee from that first bike ride. The me that teaches her of life of how to live it. The me she watches plodding through the day to day and the busyness . The me that makes mistakes, and feels afraid and prays for God to redeem my failings.  

We finish the story and she has questions – nothing is lost on her. She inquires of the children, the wounds, and where was my helmet. She needs each piece, an entire puzzle put together one fact at a time. Then, she is satisfied.

I close the book and tuck it away. There will be another day. Another story.

different

"Who are you?" I ask the face in the mirror.

Grief is a transformative process. I have found it to be as visible as it is invisible. The heart cracks wide and sorrow pours out.

And the life that follows grief? As if you play a part in a show where everything changed and nobody told you. Strangely similar and vastly different. But people still need to eat; they always do.

I wear it. In lines where tears have carved their path. I smile and see where sorrow etched a story. These months look like years on my face. And the frame has thinned. I keep them shorter, my curls, so less can paint the picture of more.

I feel it. It wears like a heavy cloak. I can laugh and live and heal but I feel it.

I remember it. May 18th. A day of heightened sensations. Where, in the rush and the broken, my brain took a blow. Words are slower, memories escape. If one could describe dementia; this.

I walk it. This journey mapped out by grace. One piece of a family. A family of three who, quite differently, live the same story.