When God Smiles His Cat Grin

The cat drama continues.

We finally brought home three new kitties the end of June and the kids were so excited.  But just as life was settling in for cats and kiddos, two of the kittens took a ride somewhere never to be found again, leaving only Max to brighten our days.  Through the course of friends finding out about our children’s sadness and desire for kittens, we inherited two more, Whiskers and Oreo. 

As Caleb was doing chores this morning, Daniel sent Nate to the other farm, leaving Caleb alone with the coon dogs.  Caleb thought he had latched Copper’s kennel door and stepped in with Sissy and locked himself in.  He soon realized Copper was loose and hollered for Nate, not knowing Nate was already gone.  By the time he got out of Sissy’s pen and up to the house to alert Daniel, Copper had already gotten a hold of Max.  By this time, Katie is beyond upset and Caleb is doing his best to hold it together as he was the one trying to drag Copper off Max. 

The morning was not what any of us planned. 

Emotions soon subsided as our children have already had to learn the cycle of life . . . and death on several previous occasions.  With hearts still sore, they bucked up and occupied themselves with playing while I dug a hole in our ever-growing pet cemetery.

On our way home late tonight from a campfire with friends, we spotted a kitten as we were driving through the bottoms.  All of the children were already asleep, but Nate and Katie quickly came to life when they heard me say, “That looked like Sammy.” 

Daniel backed the truck up and to our surprise the cat was not only still there, but willingly let us catch it and bring it home.  I am not sure I can explain how very lively and excited Nate and Katie were at the prospect of this kitten being theirs, especially since it is identical to one of the cats who took a ride somewhere never to be found again?

God smiles on us when we least expect it.  And even if this cat is someone else’s and we have to return it, it was still a great reminder tonight that we are never alone.  Even in the midst of hurting or sorrow, He sees all and cannot wait till just the right moment to shower us with reminders of how much He loves us and is looking out for us, even if it is only a simple thing like a cat on the side of the road.  So tonight I am beyond grateful for a cat grin that somehow looks very much like God’s smile.

Finding Home

You found me tonight.  I expected it to be just another drive home:  late night, all asleep but me and the radio, fighting hard to stay awake and make it safely home.  I knew early into the drive it would be different.  Wide awake on 164 with my thoughts alone to seek you.  And you found me. 

One of those moments we live for.  Thank you for finding me.  Thank you for seeking me. 

As I watched her stand on her own two legs tonight, you reminded me that You are the strength on which we all stand if we are ever able to stand against the winds and rains of this life.  I know not why you gave us this precious gift of time, more time to learn and grow and experience life together, but I remain humbled at your gracious mercy.  You ARE Good.  And You DO still work miracles.  And I am amazed that you invite me to witness these miraculously divine interventions, to be part of Your plan.

She has much left to teach; I am ready to learn.  She has much left to give; I am ready to receive.  She has much left to live; I am ready to partake. 

For now, she remains captive there, as she herself said.  But I know very clearly from our time together tonight that You are preparing for her a great day ahead when she will make it safely home, back here to us, until the day when You decide it IS time to call her home.   Why you gave her more time here we do not yet fully know, but I desperately ask that we would all seek you earnestly so her fight will have not been in vain.  Help us all to learn, to receive, to partake of You, to find You like we’ve never been found before.

A Change of Weather

It’s still raining.  The aftermath of the storm.  We knew it was coming.  Storm predictors warned us of the coming tropical storm as it carved its way toward us, heading on out but leaving behind overcast skies, gloomy weather, and still more rain.

A little over six months ago, storm predictors blew a cloud over her family as the diagnosis was grim.   A short rebound, chemo pills could replace chemotherapy, a short gasp for air.  Then the rapid decline.  It has spread to her brain and spinal fluid. It’s the worst kind.

And we knew. We knew she had been in much more pain than she would ever let us know.  We knew our time was short.  Too short for a mother-in-law who was in all ways her other mom.  Too short for her husband who was her lifelong partner, not just in words, but in heart and deeds.  Too short for her daughter-in-law who was in all ways really the daughter she never had.  Too short for her 8-year-old grandson who knew in his heart how much this hurt, but was too young to have to go through this.

She was too young to have to go through this.  Sixty years of life on this earth.  A life of love, a life of giving.  For if Sharlyn was anything, she was a giver.  The countless hours spent providing for her husband who suffered from strokes well before his time, a mother who too died of the wretched disease that would too soon claim her own life, a mother-in-law who fell too much, broke too much, and now spends her living moments in the confines of a wheelchair.

She gave.  She gave of her time.  She gave of her heart.  And then You came and took. 

“You give and take away.  You give and take away.  Yet my heart will choose to say, Lord, blessed be your name.”

It is true You took her, but in taking, we know You gave so much. 

You gave her time.  Just enough time.  Not too long to suffer too much from the cancer that stole her body, but long enough so it couldn’t steal her soul. 

You gave her a daughter who braved the fear of how she might respond in her final days, how it might end as a broken relationship.  But in that courage, you made a broken spirit whole.  You gave a moment, a prayer, a heart open to Your Word, and a heart to share the very Love of You with a dying woman who needed nothing more than You.

And I watch her now.  Now that Sharlyn’s gone.  And I praise you for her.  I praise You for opening the doors wide open so she could save a soul. 

I watch her now as she grieves.  And my heart cries out to you.  Father, please.  Continue to open her eyes so she sees another door wide open.  For when you took Sharlyn and closed that door, you gave another door for us to walk through.  A door that is daily open into Your Very Presence.  A door that opens into our hearts, that wipes away our tears, and gives us a greater hope for each coming day.

For though it’s raining today, it won’t rain forever.  Time will heal.  And the storm that blew in months ago, leaving an aftermath of overcast hearts, gloomy spirits, and still more rain will not last forever.  For You always promise that in the rain will come the Son, and with the Son comes a change in weather.

“And everything in time and under heaven finally falls asleep.  Wrapped in blankets white, all creation, shivers underneath. Still I notice you when branches crack, and in my breath on frosted glass.  Even now in death, you open doors for life to enter.  You are winter. . .

And everything that’s new has bravely surfaced, teaching us to breathe.  And what was frozen through is newly purposed, turning all things green. So it is with you and how you make me new with every season’s change.  And so it will be, as you are recreating me.  Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring.”

This was her song.  I happened upon it early after her diagnosis.  I prayed earnestly, passionately for her to soften her heart and ask You, the God of all seasons, to come into her life and change her winter of disease into a spring of eternity. 

And she did.  As she sat in her hospital room just a short time before she would pass, she asked my sweet sister to lead her to Jesus. And they prayed to You.  And she cried.  And in that moment, even then in death, You opened doors for life to enter, and You continue to open doors for those of us left behind.

Left behind, we feel the thickness of the winter cold.  But I’m praying time will heal quickly so all can pass from this season to the next, to the season where a new beginning dawns on the horizon, and all can once again breathe, and not just shallow breaths to get through the day, but deep, wholesome breaths that fill lungs anew.  I’m praying to soon find all things green, in a new spring.  For though the foundation of that family is gone, you can recreate.  And I believe You will.  Because I believe although you take way, you also give, just as she gave. 

And I believe this rain is not the end.  For in all rains, you give promise.  Promise to send your Son to shine upon us and usher in something new.  So we wait.  We wait for you to give and take away.  To take away the rain, the pain, the tears, and the longings.  We wait for you to take away this emptiness and loneliness.  But we also ask You to give, to fulfill Your great promise and send some sonshine.  To take this rain and turn it into a rainbow, giving us brilliant colors of You to fill our hearts, and brighten our days once again.   So Father, although you give and take away, may our hearts choose to say, Lord blessed be your name.  And Father, please send your Son to take this rain and create a rainbow for us all to see, for we really could use a change of weather.

Spoiler Alert: You're not REALLY a Mom

I must warn you before you continue reading.  Proceeding may cause irreversible damage to the way you see yourself when you look in the mirror, or at least try to look in a mirror that is smudged with handprints and water splotches.    But if you consider yourself among the brave, the courageous, continue on, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.

You are not really a mom.  It is a lie, a myth now debunked.  You . . . are you ready for this?  You are actually a reporter.

Yep.  That’s right.  All good reporters know they must drop everything they are doing as soon as a story arises, whether it is good, bad, or ugly.  And they must run to the scene of the crime, be in the middle of the action so they can get the story, the full story.  And you, my fellow mother friend, do just this.  Your stories are created by the angels and monsters, depending on the day, who live and breathe and somehow really did come from you.

And we all know a good reporter cannot simply stop there.  She must continue on to report.  And report is what I do all day long.  I report to my husband’s initials on my caller id.  I report to the frantic screams from the child who’s being chased with a dart gun.  I report to the dishes, the laundry, the bills, the yard, and the list goes on and on and on.  But most importantly, and I think you’ll agree, there is one thing I report to numerous times a day that keeps my life halfway on track.  Without it, I am totally lost, as are my kids who will never end up at school with the appropriate necessities if I fail to report here.  And not only must I report once a day, but hour after hour, because the list on that report is so long, and my memory so fried from motherhood, that I’ll forget important things like Katie’s friend’s birthday party or Caleb’s snack leader day or Nate’s swimming trunks for his PBIS party. 

So if you’re still confused, go check your calendar, report to it, because you probably failed to do so first thing this morning, and so now you don’t realize today was the day you were supposed to reinstall your mind before proceeding with the day’s activities.

When I report to my calendar, I see a plethora of events, responsibilities, activities.  Most of them, if I really think about it, are actually quite trivial in the big scheme of life.  But there is one activity I list on there that never fails to have lasting impact.  Camping.

Maybe your calendar doesn’t say camping.  But I hope it occasionally says something that denotes you intentionally setting aside time to have fun with your family.  Life is busy, as our calendars so clearly relay, but life should never be so busy for us to fail to make memories with our children.

I remember camping with my grandparents very well.  My grandpa died 8 years ago.  My grandma died 4 days ago.  And as we laid them to rest, memories flooded over like a sea of joy.  My grandparents understood the importance of family, and they took time to simply be with us.  In an ever-increasingly, speed-of-lightning paced world, it is hard.  I know.  But I also know I didn’t stand at my grandma’s casket and remember fondly all the dishes she washed, all the laundry she folded, or all the bills she paid.  I remember all the love she showed when she simply spent time to connect with me on a very personal level.

Connect.  We all know in our minds that we need to connect with our children, especially as calendars fill to the brim.  But do we really know the lasting legacy we leave?  When our children are called to also become reporters, reporting on the events of our lives and the memories we left them with as we go on to meet our maker, how impacting will their story about us be?

I want my story to be one to write home about.  I want the pages of my life to fill them even after I’m gone.  I believe as moms, we all want this.  But somehow, we report too much to the trivial and not enough to the treasured.  So we must stop in the midst of that story of chaos, and pursue a better story, one that will make headlines for years to come, a story to write at home about.

Grandma's Dancing Shoes

The circle of life dances round us all.  It turns and sways and dips to a beat of its own.  And we enter the dance knowing not how it will end, but hoping we’ll learn the steps before it twists its confusion into our world once again.  And then the cycle repeats.  Falling hard, finding your feet, steady now and hold on, hold on for the dance. 

She danced well. 

She had this aura about her.  Always kind.  Always giving.  Always welcoming.  Always teaching simply by the way she lived.

She taught me to love a good book, a good campfire, and a good picnic, even if the flies were driving Grandpa crazy.

She taught me that it is possible to love to shop, but still remain frugal as she watched her pennies so she could be a good steward of all God provided.

She taught me to keep a ready supply of cake or pie ingredients so that at a moments notice, she could whip up her famous white cake for Mr. Matt, and all the others who would then fight him for a piece, or my personal favorite, banana pudding pie in graham cracker crust.

She taught me to feed a man’s stomach was to feed a man’s understanding of your love for him.

She taught me that if I ever hoped to truly love my husband, I must be willing to submit-submit to him and submit to growing a faith deeper than the eye can see.

She taught me to be strong, even when your lifelong partner leaves you much before you’re ready.

And she taught me to love.  To love others more than you love yourself.  To love deeply, to love richly, to love the way only God can love when He lives in us and through us.

And she loved to dance.  From her jewels to her dresses to her purses, she was a beauty to behold on this dance floor called life. 

Until time stole her health, leaving her confined to a body that just couldn’t function well and a mind that left long before we said our final goodbyes. 

But now she dances again. 

I can just picture her.  She’s wearing a red dress, lipstick shining and eyes sparkling.  She rounds the corner and slips her arm into his.  And together they enter into the Presence of the King where, finally together once again, they will dance on the streets that are golden.

Because if Grandma taught me anything at all, she taught me this.  Life is a dance.  Dance with your friends and the students you meet in your work.  Dance with your family.  Dance with your husband, and hold tight while the music lasts.   But in all steps of the dance, hold your faith dear as the center of your dance floor.  You will fall, life will be hard, but the dance goes on.  And if your roots go deeper, your faith goes stronger, you will rise above to dance like you’ve never danced before.

Today, she’s dancing like she’s never danced before.  And I’m counting on her saving a dance for me.

In a Dry and Weary Land

We watched.  And we waited.  We had been waiting for weeks and weeks.  And with each week our eyes strained harder.  Surely this will be the day.  You will ride in on the clouds and quench our dry land. 

The clouds grew darker, more promising as the day arose, and by noon we were certain Your presence was near.  But the wind blew You and the clouds on by, and our hearts once again sunk inside, weary from watching and waiting, setting our hopes on a cloud unseen.

Seven days have since passed and we’re parched evermore.  My mind tells me you were in those clouds that day, the day that now seems to have been our last hope, but my heart won’t quite follow the sound of that drum.  And though we’re living in the midst of a very dry and weary land, I can’t help but think the window to my soul paints a picture even bleaker.  But yet somehow I know, I KNOW- You are here.  In the midst of wonderings and questions and uncertainties of tomorrow, you are here.

In a matter of weeks I am downtrodden from watching and waiting for You to speak through this silent desert, and I can’t help but imagine what 400 years must have felt like.  The 400-year drought of silence.  The sound of a newborn baby who would grow up to be a prophet for His nation ceased.  And in those years, how did they feel?  Did they watch and wait diligently at first?  History proves over time they faded into self-religion.  Will we do the same?  Will we too miss the sound of Jesus’ coming as He pierces the silence with the very presence of God With Us? 

I don’t want to miss the sound of You.  I want to hear you loud and clear.  And I want to walk in Your ways, not some man-made way to life that replaces You because we believe Your seeming absence proves Your lack of compassion for your thirsty people.

I want You.  I want to soak in the riches of Your blessings, even if I do so in the midst of a dying harvest.   Is that the picture You’re painting?  As His second coming draws ever-near, are you screaming loud and clear that we don’t get it?  That we’re losing the harvest faster than our eyes can comprehend?  As we watch our corn curl further and further into itself with each passing day, are you brushing an image on your canvas creation that says this, THIS is the image of my supposed people.  THIS is what they look like as they say they love me, but choose daily to shrink ever farther away in the midst of a dry world that saps them of their energy to thrive and grow in Me?  And if this is Your message, what are we to do?  Every day as I drive past our fields, I see the inescapable end closing in, and I feel very helpless.  No amount of effort on my part could save this dying harvest.   Am I helpless in your picture as well? 

I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength.  I am not helpless.  I can stand firm.  I can refuse to shrivel underneath the heat of the day.  I can spread my arms wide open to embrace the Son that pounds down upon me.  And I can choose to keep hanging on.  For our hopes are on a cloud unseen, but You promised it won’t be unseen forever.  And on that day, when you ride in on the clouds, You WILL quench our dry land. 

So for now I wait.  And I hold on to the Hope I have in You.  For You are good, YOU ARE GOOD, when there’s nothing good in me.  And I know the riches of Your love will Always be enough, even when death surrounds and all seems a loss.  For You are life, and in Your time You will leads us out of this dry and thirsty land.  And on that day, beneath that cloud, we shall thirst no more.

Fears, Falls, Dreams, Soar

Clothes packed-check.  Food packed-check.  Camper in tow and ready to go-check.  And the morning of patiently preparing was finally drawing to an end as we brought the bikes to the truck as the last item on the list.  I had asked Nate to bring up both of Katie’s bikes-the one that was way too little but still had training wheels, and the one that was just her size . . . but without training wheels.  And as we started to bring them to Daddy, he made a decision.  Only one bike would accompany us on this journey.  The training wheels must remain behind.

Katie was visibly upset, and if I’m honest, so was I.  I knew from several attempts before that she was terrified of the prospect of having to let go of her security.  But she braved it best she could, and we all piled into the truck and set off for our weekend getaway.

Setting up camp is hardly the same when you only have two little varmints asking to first unload their bikes so they can ride circles while we unload.  Though Daddy made certain to unload all three, the third was left behind, as Katie looked at it but quickly occupied herself elsewhere while I was wondering if we made a mistake.

Daddy made it a priority to work with her right away.  He held her up, running with her until she had found her balance, and then let go.  She’d start to waiver, fall over.  Then he’d help her back up and away they’d go again.  Holding on, letting go, falling down, starting again.  And so the cycle went.  With every try, she came closer to a dream conquered.  Then before she knew it, mission accomplished.  She was pedaling, free from restraints, free from fears.  Soaring on a dream come true.  It was a priceless moment.  Because she chose to face her fears and brave the falls, she conquered her dream.

Face your fear, brave the fall, conquer your dream.  If you could somehow open the window to my soul and peer in, you would find a visibly upset little girl, afraid to let go of her security.  But you would also see her braving it as best as she knows how, knowing that her Daddy promises she IS a priority, and He will run beside her and hold her steady as she begins to ride down this road, not knowing for sure how to keep it all going, but certain that God has a plan.

My early morning devotion today spoke this very truth.  God so earnestly desires to use my obedience to give me the life of pure fulfillment that He has planned for me, so I can be most useful in sharing His love with others.  So here’s to sharing, even if it’s my biggest fear.  For it’s only when I brave the falls that He can pick me up to try again until one day all my dreams come true.  And on that day, we will dance.  The banged-up knees and bruised souls will be healed as our Daddy who knew best all along reigns forevermore, soaring on High with me by His side.