Last week I wrote about the morning after watching a favorite television program…how it settled and rattled my emotions….This morning is “another morning after”…but different today…I’ve divided my emotions between a fictional story that ended last evening along with the senseless reality of 15 children and two adults killed in Texas by an 18 year old. How do I respond….how do I react? To yet “another” heinous act of crime that is weighing heavily on broken hearts and topping the news headlines until the effects fade from our thoughts and life goes on….

In my anguish, in my sadness, in my anger I turn to You O Lord. The psalmist wrote in chapter 62:

“My safety and honor rest on God. My strong rock and refuge are in God. Trust in Him, people at all times; pour out your heart before Him; God is a refuge for us.”

Scoffers will ask “where was God when those innocent people were gunned down?” My response…right in their midst.

“Then why didn’t God stop that kid with the gun?” My response: Because He has given us free will. And sometimes having the huge responsibility of choosing our own actions comes with a heavy price for others, especially when evil actions overshadow the obvious opposite choices in life…to live in love, peace, and joy.

Today, there is much I want to say on social media about what’s going through my mind this morning. I’ve kept my fingers off the keyboard. In the past, I’ve spouted off like a raging teapot whistling “I’m ready!” Often, my family and friends aren’t ready to hear my own opinions. Consequently, I am learning to remain quiet…choosing when to speak up, always asking God “am I supposed to say anything?” Does ANYTHING I offer on social media change a person’s mind anyway God? 

Oh, how I wish that this morning only held a sense of sadness for my favorite TV program that ended. But, that’s not the case. Instead, as I’ve already noted, our nation is reeling from more deaths in Texas…coming after the Buffalo killings….woven into numerous murders that unfortunately are common place in Chicago…New York…Los Angeles….there is a “spirit of death” that has been unleashed across our beautiful nation, at a level of swiftness I’ve never witnessed in my 68 years. And it appears to be swooping up our youngsters…..and it’s nothing new under the sun.

*Pharoah ordered all Hebrew baby boys to be killed at birth because the Hebrew people were becoming strong and he feared what they may do to revolt being in slavery to him.

*Herod ordered all baby boys aged two & under to be killed when he learned and feared that Jesus–the proclaimed “King of the Jews”–would take away his kingdom rule.

*Roman citizens often threw their unwanted babies into a river to drown.

*Mayan people sacrificed thousands of infants to their gods to gain favor.

*Hundreds of thousands of children died under the reign of Hitler.

*China had a one child rule from 1980 to 2015 when two children were allowed. In 2021 they increased it to three. (I checked internet sites: approximately 30 million girls who were born may NOT have been registered as live births, but hidden, because a male child was preferred in their culture)

*And then there’s aboriton on demand…..millions….from major countries around the world.

Hmmm…at the risk of being TOO bold do you think that there’s a demonic pattern of attacks on children for thousands of years? In my anguish, in my sadness, in my anger I can only answer “yes”…..and fall to my knees under the refuge of God even when I don’t understand His ways or comprehend the mind of anyone evil enough to be a pawn of Satan. 

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A note from the author: Normally, I desire to keep my blog postings lighthearted, uplifting or a source of inspiration with heartfelt memories or personal insights. Today is different. Today is a bit of boldness coming from a place of personal Truth which is grounded in Jesus Christ, my source of absolute Truth. There is a popular saying that goes like this: Sometimes the truth hurts. Today, please don’t be angry or hurt by my expressions of truth. Instead, ponder for yourself the reality that our nation and world are in a spiritual war, one aimed at our children, innocent men and women. Once you have viewed events with a spiritual eye, then decide if you’ll be a voice for Truth and action to protect the vulnerable in our midst.

It’s the morning after and I’m sad. It doesn’t help that the weather has flipped back to overcast skies with a sprinkling of rain falling through temperatures that have dipped back into the 50s after a weekend of high 80s. Yesterday was breezy with the sun poking out frequently through puffy white clouds. Yesterday, Tuesday, is a day of the week that holds a lot of anticipation for me. Admittedly, I am a “This Is Us” addict so knowing that the second to last episode would be airing had me full of expectation all day long as I went about my daily routine, getting in a walk, and presiding over a weekly ministry meeting, rushing home to tune in to one of my favorite TV families of all time, the Piersons. 

Second admission today…I’m sad. After a lengthy battle with Alzheimer’s disease the Piersons’ beloved mom and grandmother is laden with farewells by all she deeply loved. Coming to her bedside one at a time, family members said their goodbyes. In a dreamlike state Rebecca “heard” and “saw” each one as she lovingly remembered them through her years of parenting three beautiful children. With each quiet breath and subtle scene change she told William “I’m waiting for someone”..…that’s the part of the script that grabbed at my emotions and remains as lingering sadness this morning. 

I’ve had the privilege saying goodbye to my mother-in-law, my mother, my father-in-law, but not my father. I’ve also said “goodbye” to my youngest brother-in-law and my oldest brother. Sitting at the side of a loved one who is leaving their earthly home for one in eternity is an experience that I cannot put into words other than to say it’s remarkable that I am forever grateful I had these opportunities with my loved ones. Equally worth mentioning, is that I confess harboring deep sadness not being present when my father passed away. Dad never was one to “put someone out” with his needs or troubles…I guess that’s why he waited for my brother to leave the room, head home, and slip away quietly in the solace of his room. 

Watching as “Rebecca” made her way from train car to train car, each one giving her a different memory of her children, there was a speaker mounted in the corner of one such car. Pouring out of the speaker was the voice of her daughter, Kate. “I’m here mom. I’m here”. 

Science is showing us that the sense of hearing is still active in a dying person, even if they are non-responsive. I had heard this years ago and held firm to its claim. When we knew my mother-in-law was in her last hours, my husband and I read scripture to her. We sang songs. We prayed. We talked to her.

When my own mother lay non-responsive in her living room, all of us surrounding her bed, we laughed. We shared memories. We read scripture. We were careful about what we said. We gave her permission to “go” along with our strong promises to always take care of dad.

When my father-in-law was at the end of his life, all of us kids and most of the grandchildren were able to tell him their final thoughts, say our goodbyes. My husband was with him on the morning he passed.

It’s expected to lose our parents and though difficult, I think losing siblings is far worse. At least for me, for my husband, this has been true. Both John and Dave were taken by cancer. Both lingered in and out of being able to converse, but that didn’t stop us from being present when we were able. Visits to them prior to their death were important and timely. Both passed away without us being by their side. I don’t remember any of my last words spoken to either brother, but I take comfort knowing they “heard” my voice.

Rebecca repeated several times “I’m waiting for someone”. In a fictionalized depiction of a beloved character’s life cleverly and lovingly scripted by gifted writers, I got a picture of what her “waiting” looked like. In the lives of my moms, dads, brothers, I can only imagine what scenes brushed through their minds as they lay waiting for the final breath that would take them from pain to glory.  As much as I wonder what they “heard” in final moments, I marvel at the images they immediately saw when earthly breath was exchanged for heavenly breezes washing over their faces. 

Yes, I’m sad this morning. A good sadness, though. Without apology I’m thankful that a favorite television drama is able to weave a story in such a way that it causes me to reflect…to wonder…to be grateful…to shed a tear or two without shame…and most importantly, to prepare myself for my own departure some day, to love my family well, create memories that last a lifetime….and if I find myself “waiting for someone to arrive” my prayer is that he or she is able. I want to hear what they have to say.

When we moved to our current home in 1989 it was winter, January to be exact. Our community was covered with snow, it was cold. We had neighbors on both sides of our property…the land behind us was a hayfield field which could yield three cuttings during a “good” summer. Though we enjoyed our somewhat rural setting, we always knew that eventually our “hay field” would be sold in order for someone to build homes. That’s exactly what happened in the 90s…a local builder came along, bought the field and put up homes on a small drive that extended almost to a wooded area beyond the culvert where the last home was built. More development came later  and our neighborhood took on the appearance of a small subdivision.

Families have come and gone from several of the homes. When our first spring of 1989 arrived, we discovered that a woman to the north of us–two doors down–owned a small menagerie of animals. She had goats, ponies, and a few dogs. Our kids loved watching her goats and ponies graze in their small pasture; they’d stand at the fence and talk to them, pet their small faces when allowed. One of the ponies was blind and on one summer day had escaped through the fencing, becoming frantic, walking in circles until my husband rescued it, getting it back to the safety of the pasture. 

Fast forward to the 2000s and we’ve got the family behind us who have chickens and ducks. They are considered “cage free” I guess because with the arrival of warm weather they spend most of their time outside their shelters. In fact, these birds wander to our yard and devote a lot of time looking for bits of food…bugs (I hope)…and the ducks especially like our ditch when it has swelled with water from spring rains. Our frontage also collects a lot of water, creating a welcoming “swimming and splashing pool” for our roving ducks. Friends driving past our home have asked “when did you get chickens and ducks?”

The five or six chickens like our yard, too. I have found them on the deck, under the deck, walking all over the yard as they too peck the ground for bugs and seeds. We’vejokingly called them “our birds”…until we’ve now had to do some cleanup of the deck from their droppings….suddenly their cuteness is waning…

A warm welcome to the month of May has been the ability to open a few windows, leave the slider open to the deck, leave the front door a jar, all allowing warm fresh breezes to fill the house, emptying out the leftovers of winter’s staleness. Doing so has come with a minor hazard. Already a few ants have made their way into the house, probably looking for a small crumb to fill an empty belly. What they have found is an early demise under the weight of my big toe or foot.

All this wandering from  these critters has me thinking. Clearly, they have homes that were built for them, food sources provided by their owners, water…but they aren’t content to stay put. Because they are allowed to “wander” with no barriers in place, well their little feet  take them wherever and how far they desire, which is usually to our yard, even to two other neighbors’ front lawns on either side of our acre.

Which brings me to these musings….How often do I wander from the “things” that have been provided for me that offer safety, nourishment….a sense of staying inside healthy boundaries….how many times have I joined a conversation that isn’t mine? Asked a question in an attempt to prompt  juicy details to evoke gossip?  Giving unsolicited advice…trying to fix or rescue someone who is struggling when truthfully some of the best victories and healing come from having to face hard stuff on our own so we can fight our way out from darkness to light…or like my pesky ants, looking for “something” to satisfy my empty belly or heart in all the wrong places…

My windows are open this morning…I can hear songbirds…maybe some warning signals too? And, true to their habit pattern, our ducks have meandered from their shed, quacking their early morning conversations as they make their way along the north boundary of our yard to the ditch where leftover rain water awaits them for yet another daily splash-a-ganza. They will not only perform this small parade back and forth once each day but usually several times from sunup to sundown. 

As I listen to the beautiful songs…hear the rhythm from quacking visitors…I’ve enjoyed my own morning routine, too. Time has been spent feasting on God’s Word….writing my prayers for Him to receive and ponder His answer…reminding myself “to whom I belong”…offering gratitude for His provision and above all, HIS healthy boundaries…limits that keep me from wandering off to places, people or things where I don’t belong…keeping me out of dirty water, even when  having my own “splash-a-ganza” looks quite enticing.

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Goodness, I don’t know what make and model–even the year!–this car is but when searching for a photo to help highlight my thoughts today I found this hurt lil gem. It certainly doesn’t look like much now but I bet when it rolled off the assembly line its paint shone in the sun, the tires were black and glossy…every option it had was in perfect working order. Then use began to happen. It probably went through many seasons of sunlight, rain, snow, ice, even hail.

This tiny human has just entered the world. Once safe and growing in his or her mother’s womb, the beauty of birth has taken place. This child appears unblemished and every part of its tiny body is working. Lungs are sucking in and pushing out air. Crying has activated. A tiny heart  beating in the womb will continue to do so for about 80 years. Eyes are closed but soon will focus and take in thousands of images…millions by the end of life. Ears have been hearing mom’s heartbeat and her voice for nine months. Even if the family pet barked, this little person has heard it. Skin is wrinkly and pink but with each passing day the complexion will smooth out, brighten or darken a bit. Birth has given the world another beautiful new person. Then life will happen.

What does a crashed graffiti ridden car and an unblemished newborn have in common? Nothing actually. Except, yesterday as I spent the morning with my husband walking around a salvage lot looking at damaged cars, my time there spurred some thoughts about damages, wounds, declarations of being “totalled”. Based on past experiences with other salvage yards we’ve visited, yesterday’s findings shocked me. MOST of the vehicles we looked at were very new in comparison to your typical description of a running “junker”. And, MOST of them had damage to only one area of the body, a front hit…a sideswipe…a rear in…maybe a deer hit. My untrained eye kept saying to my husband “why would this car be totalled!?–it only needs a front clip or a new rear end….a hood and lights”. Well, that’s where hidden damage comes in….some of those unassuming vehicles needed engine repairs, new deck flooring, electrical work, air bag consequences…all which drive up repair costs that an insurance company may deem a complete “loss”. Total the car, give the owner a settlement. Put the car in salvage and allow someone with enough money to purchase it and make the repairs. Until a purchaser comes along, the car sits waiting. We saw every make. Chevrolets. Jeeps. Fords. Kias. Hondas. One Tesla–anyone have $22,000 to take that beauty home and sink in repair money? 

My inability to not see or comprehend the hidden damage to these cars reminds me that I–maybe even you–cannot see the hidden wounds in people we love or meet by chance. Men and women–each one of us  born without blemish or major turmoil–(God willing) carry hidden wounds as life begins to unfold and our chosen paths give us experiences–good and bad. For me personally, my childhood was wonderful. I was loved by both parents. I had two older brothers who doted on me. I had grandparents, uncles and aunts galore and a slew of cousins. I made good friends all through school. I dated way too many boys (in hindsight–that’s another topic)….I married–twice–and I became a mother of two. Life has blessed me, yet I have hidden wounds. Sometimes I over-worry. There are times I isolate and shut down rather than face a hard day. I overeat–indulge in sweets–too often because I find comfort in food. I battle being judgemental or critical because I like thinking I’m smarter than another person, or worse, that I’m always right. I guess that would be described as pride.  But, if you met me for the first time I’d really enjoy that moment. I love meeting new people. I love asking questions to find out what makes a person tick. I love encouraging others. I love making someone laugh or feel comfortable in a new situation. I love hearing a person’s “back story”…where were you born? Tell me about your family. What do you do in life for pleasure? Those are fun and easy questions most of us can easily answer. What about when it’s the opposite? What about those times I see the sullen expression on your face. The face that usually has a smile. What about when I see a bruise that looks suspicious? Or when you are considerably more quiet in a group setting or when you withdraw from social gatherings for a stretch of time? When you isolate. When you become defensive, angry…when you cry tears that have no words to describe what’s churning inside your soul. These, and more, are the hidden wounds in people that can easily be ignored, unnoticed or tossed up to “she’s having a bad day”. Let me say this. We all have bad days. But, when one bad day is added and multiplied by additional bad days, hidden damages can occur and until someone comes along to “see”, to “acknowledge”, to “rescue”, to “help”…a pile of bad days can consume and drag a person away to darkness instead of light.

Yesterday, it wasn’t enough for me to see the damages to the cars without asking questions of the salesman. In order for me to know the complete story behind each car, I had to inquire so he could check his files and give me the specs regarding what repairs were needed to restore it to “like new”. The same can be said  relative to my interactions with my friends who are in my circle. I can take note of outward expressions, verbal cues, and ask questions…”what do you need?….how can I help?…Can you tell me how you think your current or past wound is affecting your loss of joy? Trust. Feeling whole. Feeling safe. Feeling less a victim of unwanted pain? How can we get you to a place of pursuing victory over your hurts?

A brand new car hot off the assembly line. Such potential to give pleasure and practical use for many years. Until that distracted person or drunk driver hits it head on.

A brand new baby out of the womb. Such potential to bring joy to its family, give the same and so much more as it grows through childhood into becoming an adult. Until someone speaks a harsh word. Takes a spanking to the level of abuse. Seizes opportunity in secret to satisfy an addiction to lust. Fall to temptation with substances that alter the mind. 

Some wounds are very visible. Others are hidden. Both leave a lasting effect until someone takes notice, steps in to ask the right questions, and comes alongside to begin a  lengthy yet advantageous process of restoration that promotes healing and renewal. Broken cars end up in junkyards. People are deserving of more than that kind of fate. Instead of being written off or tossed away to the junkyards of brokenness,  they need that “someone” who will ask the right questions. Look up the correct specs for restoration and renewal. There’s a file for everyone, describing  the necessary repairs, too. It’s held in God’s system waiting to be opened.

The month of April is almost over for 2022. As I pondered my usual “what shall I write about this week” question, several ideas came to mind but I quickly dismissed them. The topics I thought about would only cause me internal angst….maybe upset some people who don’t think and believe like I do…or fell into the category of “you already wrote about that…” As I sat down to my laptop to check email, banking sites, etc. my thoughts wandered to the month of April as I also addressed a birthday card for a family member. As I wrote out a greeting to her, I realized how many birthdays we celebrate in the month of April alone. These days of celebration span a few decades and each person whose special day falls in this beautiful early spring month is a special and unique person in our family. The first ones that come to memory are two uncles who actually shared the same birthday, April 1. They are Uncle Virgil–or Bud–as I called him. Secondly, Uncle Lyle. Both men were older brothers to my dad. Born several years apart, they were also very different from one another. Uncle Bud worked many jobs raising his large family; Uncle Lyle was a career officer in the U.S. Air Force, a fighter pilot in World War II. Lyle had a large family, too. I wasn’t particularly close to my Uncle Bud…I got to know Uncle Lyle better as an adult when his retirement from Service allowed more visits back to Michigan. In 1987 we visited him when he lived in Sacramento and I was able to fly out to say my goodbyes when cancer was taking him from us.

Next on my “top list” is my husband. He was born April 7, arriving early weighing 3 lbs. 3 ounces, with a hernia and club feet to challenge his doctors in 1956. Both ailments were corrected and he thrived with no further complications. His brother Paul joined the family on April 10. Though he was fine at birth it was Paul who caused my in-laws to make numerous visits to the ER due to injuries associated with being a kid at play. He’s also the one my husband fed worms to while Mom K. did some gardening in the yard. Youngest brother John arrived on April 30. He had to be delivered by C-section due to the size of his head. He was more of the jokester of the three…loved babies and kids…could be fairly precocious himself…as an adult gave everyone a nickname and took on the beloved title “the baby whisperer”. He left us way too soon a few years ago….I hate cancer (that’s another topic for another day).

Our first granddaughter was born April 6–opening day of baseball season that year! (to the delight of her dad who is an avid Boston Red Sox fan). She needed some help getting here, too, so an emergency C-section ushered her into all the loving arms waiting for her, us, grandparents on her daddy’s side, aunts, uncles. She’s 7 now and continues to amaze us with her kindness, charm, insight, and how hard she loves everyone.

Our second granddaughter came on April 2. Because her momma is a Type I diabetic, her birth was scheduled. She was born in 2020 when Covid was at the top of the list for the most dangerous threats to society. We were able to  meet her once she got home. This beautiful two year old has the most infectious smile, loves hard, and is affectionately called “Siss” or my fav to hear from her momma, “Sissy Britches”. I am excited to see how she continues to develop who she is as a uniquely created little girl.

My oldest brother’s wife celebrates her birthday on April 20. She came into our family when I was 14 and became an older sister in many ways. I thought it was so cool to have a brother get married when I was that age, be in their wedding and later become an aunt to their three daughters! Stacey, their oldest, was born April 22. She’s now 54 which absolutely blows my mind. She’s more like a little sister now. Our phone conversations always last at least an hour. The youngest daughter, Erin, came along on April 29, 11 years younger than her older sister. I can remember being told about the pregnancy by Stacey, thinking my dear niece was daydreaming or spinning a yarn…nope, baby Erin was born, joining our growing family and was a delight to all. 

These special April birthdays span from the 1920s to the 2000s. Much has changed how babies come into our world…two uncles born at home on the family farm…hospital deliveries either with the natural order of labor pains or surgical intervention….waiting for delivery to “see” what the baby was to today’s technology of ultrasound which reveals the precious gender so names can be chosen, rooms prepared, parties to shower each newborn with the appropriate clothing and accessories. 

Psalm 127 has a verse that reads: “Like arrows in the hand of a warrior, so are children born in one’s youth. Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them.”  My grandmother, who was the mother to my dad and his 10 siblings always said that children were precious…every single one…She was able to say that of her own 12 (one preemie death)…and eventually the 50+ grandchildren that came from her 11 children. She had a lot of wisdom, tremendous and ample love to give to her very large family. She alone, along with grandpa, had to wear several quivers in my opinion to hold all of her “precious arrows”. Although my personal quiver doesn’t need to be as large compared to hers to hold my blessings, it has been a  special honor to have added arrow after arrow each time “new life” was born. Not sure what the next 20 years will look like, but I’m certainly open to adding some more April birthdays when other special blessings come my way, Lord willing.

The show is in its final season now. The three Pierson babies are now 40. Dad died when they were 17. Mom is remarried. She’s still the focal point of their lives–with a lot of codependent behavior going on–but most moving is that she now has dementia. Earlier episodes began to disclose the onset of the disease and her determination to rise above its symptoms, taking charge of decisions for her life while she is able. Very subtly I’ve watched each week, picking up on how Rebecca is slowly going deeper into her world that is leaving her without the ability to remember small details of her past….looks of anguish as she searches the air for a word she cannot find….the latter, how in a particular plot line she could not remember the word “caboose”. It was part of a storybook she had read many times to her children. Try as she may, her struggle to pull the word from the air could not and did not come. She was reduced to describing “caboose” as “you know, the car that comes at the end of the train…” She knew “where” it belonged, but was unable to call it by name.

I share this with you because watching this beautiful fictional woman poetry the throes of dementia have hit very close to home. In 2009 we moved our dad from his home to assisted living. His own dementia had begun slowly and we kids needed to intervene and place him in a living arrangement that offered him protection, care, and socialization. He died in 2012, unable to converse for a good amount of time prior to his death. While that was hard, in between times of watching him lose vocabulary, the ability to communicate was likened to death. Every time he took one step further into the world of dementia, my heart sank. 

I remember when dad had a similar experience to Rebecca’s, trying to pull a word out of the air. He had put on his shoes and was attempting to tie them. After fumbling a bit, he looked up at me and asked “will you help me tie my….um….my…..these ‘connectors’”. Ah, the word shoelaces was gone but the concept of their purpose remained in a diminished cognitive moment.

When dad first moved into a higher level of memory care, one of the administrators casually asked me what dad had done for a career. “Why, he retired as the chief building inspector for the City of Saginaw”. She giggled. That explains it, she said! “Your dad walks around the building looking at the handrails, door frames, etc.” In a few days she had given him a clipboard and pencil so he could “make notes” of his findings. She entered “his world” and offered dignity and purpose to a man who no longer understood purpose, but somehow it bubbled to the surface with actions that came from deep embedded memories that were trapped in the remote memory known only to dad and God at this point. 

My fictional friend Rebecca is slipping away, right before the eyes of her loving family and all of us Pierson family fans. Admittedly it’s hard to watch. With each fail, each struggle, every empty look I am stung by my own REAL life episodes of my dad’s disease. I continuously remind myself that dad’s three years of living with dementia does not define who he was as a man, a husband, a dad, grandfather, brother. He had 80+ years of a very vibrant life! Over the course of those 80 years he had coined a phrase “family is everything”. It was his simple way of letting us know that material possessions didn’t compare to what family offers. This little phrase was one that stuck with him even when other words, deep conversation were gone. 

On the day of his move into his last home–Meadowview–myself, my brothers, their wives, and a few of the grandchildren worked together getting his bed set up, clothes put away, pictures hung. It was dark, time for us to return to our homes, and allow dad to adjust to her new surroundings. My niece Ashley and I had followed dad into the darkness of his bedroom. He had moved a small footstool to the side of his bed and asked us to kneel. Dad knelt in front of the stool and through a moment of great clarity “Thanked the Lord for this day, for this family…”A little footstool had become an altar, a place of prayer, that created a memory that I will cherish forever. 

“Family is everything”…in life and even in the wonderful dramas portrayed on television. I think we can learn a lot from both worlds. Afterall, those are real people telling a story written from stuff that  happens in many families. I know how my dad’s own “story” ended. In the remaining episodes of my beloved TV series, Rebecca’s story will be told in its finality and I’ll be front and center to see how it all ends….

In this moment, dad was struggling to tell me what he was thinking.  By the grasping of our hands, the deep look into each other’s eyes he was attempting to communicate that “Family is Everything”. 

Holy Week Reflections

Ah, it’s Holy Week 2022. It’s Wednesday. Already my thoughts and emotions are being stirred as though someone has entered my mind to mix and blend everything inside into one big bowl of unsettled feelings….yesterday was a wonderful day. The sun was shining. The air was warm. I had our grandson for the day and life was grand. I went to bed feeling a good tired, my heart full of contentment, satisfaction, and joy. I slept the night away, though a bit fitfully, and woke at 8 am. I made my way to the coffee pot of fresh brew which is always waiting for me…grabbed my phone…sat down in my prayer chair as I picked up my Bible, prayer journal and pen…and then a shift from sleepy eyes to ones being overcome by tears began to slowly invade the quiet of my room and spirit. My awareness that I am in the throes of Holy Week washed over me like an unexpected gentle rain. Memories of past Holy Weeks began to flood me with images and a deep longing for loved ones who are now gone, mainly my parents….remembering also the significance of Holy Week 1979, my first true appreciation for the work of the Cross as a new creation in Christ, having given my life to Him that year on Ash Wednesday.

This morning I found myself being drawn to how a variety of music offers to inspire the listener. There were the Gaither men with “Jesus Messiah”….Andrea Bocelli and his lovely daughter with “Hallelujah” as well as he with Celine Dion singing “The Prayer”….followed up and ending with a recording by S.M. Lockridge “It’s Friday But Sunday’s Coming”. (that 3 minute video will be my Good Friday social media post for the day)

With tears slowly making their way down from the corners of my eyes, I thought of my own vocal work which began in my teens and carried through to adulthood. I remember my first major solo in a Holy Week cantata at our church. I was thrilled for the opportunity and scared out of my mind, all at the same time. The evening of the presentation had arrived and I paced back and forth in my parents’ living room waiting for my best friend to come get me. She was singing, too. We shared the same love for music, she an alto and me a soprano. In my mixed bag of emotions as I paced I questioned “why” I had agreed to performing a few solos in the cantata. My choir director had convinced me I had the voice. I was not convinced I possessed the confidence or the ability to overcome knocking knees and a stomach that felt like I had been riding roller coasters all afternoon.

But, my writing today isn’t about ME and those years of singing, although they certainly hold a very dear spot in my bank of precious memories. The words and thoughts I’m bringing you today are mere attempts to describe my heart as I anticipate Maundy Thursday tomorrow, followed up by Good Friday in two days, two very hard days for our Christ, yet without the horrific pain of an arrest, betrayals, torture among accusations from an unruly crowd and religious leaders–all who were instrumental in fulfilling God’s plan to redeem a cruel world–Sunday cannot come with all its glory and overshadowing of darkness and death!

In March of 2019 my husband and I traveled to Israel. We visited the Garden Tomb which is considered to be the actual burial place of Christ. As you can see from the photo, the space inside is not large by any means. A small platform serves as a step up to enter. The garden where this tomb is carved in the surrounding rock is beautiful. Trees, plants and flowers fill the edges of the walking paths. There are benches to sit and enjoy the beauty. There is a line to the tomb where inspired visitors from all over the world come to “see” the place where the body of Christ was laid some 2,000 years ago. When it was my turn to step up on the platform and gaze at the uneven rock inside, drawn to the crevices among the hard surfaces, I could not fully grasp that I may indeed be standing on the very spot that His body was laid on a Friday….a body ripped and shredded, drained…wrapped in burial cloths….waiting for the third day following  death on a cross to an explosion of glorious life….a moment in history that has forever changed the world…but more important…changed me. 

I’ll end today with something my father said to me. “Susan, everyone loves Christmas. It’s when we celebrate the birth of Christ. Christmas is like a slice of cake. But Easter puts the frosting on that sliver of cake. Easter is what Jesus is truly about.”…..I pray that if you are reading this, that the events of Holy Week take on the time of your own reflection. You don’t need the actual experience of visiting the Garden Tomb to see that it’s empty. Trust me, as I said, I’ve been there. All that’s present is a hole in the rock wall, crevices, rough sides and a sense of holiness that is indescribable, a holiness worthy of being humble in posture and attitude to pause, become quiet, turn off all the noise from the world, and participate in the miraculous power that was operating from Thursday until Sunday some 2,000 years ago. 

A favorite year round activity that I enjoy is that of feeding our local birds. These tiny visitors to our yard provide beauty and pleasant interruptions to a cold wintry day or warm spring mornings, especially when windows can be open to allow gentle breezes to bring in the melodic sounds of whatever “bird choir” is performing….we’ve got our share of crows, sparrows, cardinals, morning doves, woodpeckers, bluebirds, spackles, finches. Even noisy blue jays are welcome although I don’t like how they bother the robins’ nests that are buried high in our pine trees.

I’ve always thought I can learn a lot from these tiny creatures that live in and around our property. Every morning when I wake up, I walk out to my dark kitchen to pour my first cup of coffee–thank you to my husband who sets up the pot to brew right on time!–my second stop is the container holding bird seed. Currently, we don’t have any fancy bird feeders; we simply scatter the seed on the deck railing. Before long, our little visitors come and enjoy their meal. I have no way of knowing if I’m providing breakfast or a mere extension of their dining experience that probably began long before my getting up at 7:30 am. Their 5 and 6 am chatter gives me a hint they’ve been about their day much sooner than to my liking…

Do my little friends “know” that I will put out seed for them? Have they come to rely on me doing so? What if I forget? Will I disappoint them or cause small bellies to worry about where or what they will eat? My imagination that tries to conjure up thoughts, worries, questions from their world causes me to reflect on my own daily needs and where I find sustenance for my day.

I awaken to a new day–Lord willing–forgetting that God Himself has not slumbered nor slept. The mere fact that a sovereign God does not require physical rest like I do is a concept I may never comprehend but still fascinates and assures me at the same time of His power to protect and watch over me. I’m blessed to get a simple cup of freshly brewed coffee and make my way to my prayer corner where my Bible, journals, pens are waiting, carefully arranged on a table after meeting with Him yesterday. I sit down, sip my coffee, while opening a current devotional on my Bible app–technology is great for all the right reasons!–and dig into listening and reading the assigned verses for “today”….I don’t have to go far to find my “daily bread”. It’s here waiting. It’s been provided by Him. His scriptures are alive and active for me. All I have to do is look, come, and feast from the bounty of His written Word.

My cozy prayer chair is my personal deck rail that is laden with all that I need each morning…scripture…music through my phone….light from a lamp illuminating the pages of my Bible as I read…shining on my journal as I pen my thoughts and needs for myself and loved ones. It’s to this beloved corner of a bedroom that I come, knowing that God is ready to meet with me, to actually “feast” with Him, to talk or sing about what a new day will offer me with each passing hour. Do I know that God has brought His Word to me? Yes. Is He aware that I am grateful? Yes, I remember to thank Him every morning. Does He fill my belly with good things? Yes, He does, sometimes to overflowing.

Yes, I can learn a lot from the beauty and habits of the various birds that visit our yard. I can also remember that “God’s eye is on the sparrow…and surely He watches over me”. He sees me. He protects me. He sustains me. And He does all of this 24/7 without need of rest. Or a fresh cup of coffee for a quick pick-me-up although I’d like to think He does enjoy a good hot mug of heavenly brew!