Letter to a Father

Some of you may be wondering what happened in the saga of the lost-now-found father. I decided that I'd done my part by contributing pictures to be sent along with the boys' information. But I never received any word from my father directly. I heard there were some bitter feelings between my mother and him and those attitudes somehow filtered down to include me. So be it, I thought. I was a little child and did nothing to cause any problem between my parents.


Yesterday in church the opening scripture was: "God through Christ reconciled us to himself and gave us the ministry of reconciliation...therefore, we are ambassadors for Christ, God making his appeal through us. We impore you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God." II Corinthians 5:18-20.


Reconciliation--us to God, us to others, me to my father. God is always about reconciliation. These words stuck with me all day. I knew I had to contact my father. I am not good with phone calls (and he has a problem with his voice), so I decided a letter was better.


What do you say to a stranger of a father? I acknowledged to him that all this might be an unwanted intrusion in his life. I said that what is in the past is over; there is no blaming. I told him I'm glad I found him but that I had no expectations of anything more. I wrote about my wonderful children and husband. I told him about my great God.


What do you say to a father after 54 years of silence? Just the important stuff. I am now at peace about all this.

One Last Bear

My baby turned twelve. How quickly the years have passed! Finding a gift for her was more challenging this time. She's not a greedy child and had few things on her wish list. She doesn't long for dolls or Polly Pockets or Littlest Pet Shop toys anymore. What do you give a girl who is on the outskirts of childhood getting ready to fly away? And what would we do on her special day? It's her choice. She decides on going to the mall. Really? She doesn't even like shopping. Maybe it is to please her sister.

We have a carefree time with no urgent schedule to keep. We walk and roam. The girls brought old gift cards with them, never used. (We don't get to the mall much.) They visit Claire's and spend a long time looking at all the trinkets, finally finding earring for themselves and gifts for Lana and Mattie who will be coming for the family party the next day.

Liana has a long forgotten Build-A-Bear Workshop gift card in her purse. It's been many years since she and her friends, such little girls, had a birthday party here. Liana decides to make another bear. She wants Arielle to make one too and even offers to pay for her sister's. (Arielle says no.) Liana chooses a white fluffy bear and goes along with the clerk's instructions to kiss the heart that will go inside the bear and then she jumps up and down to make a wish. Her smile, her joy--just like before. The magic still lives. She names her bear Arabella.

At home we have Liana's special dinner--Chinese Longevity Soup and chocolate chip ice cream. We play her new game of Five Crowns that lasts way past bedtime. I kiss my twelve-year-old daughter good-night, her new bear sitting beside her pillow dressed in princess clothes. Liana hasn't flown away yet, and I'm very happy about that.

The Year We Skipped Winter

The girls and I were challenged to find three God-gifts today--morning, afternoon, and evening. Here are mine.

#248 Springtime in February with a brilliant blue sky

#249 Walking a little dog named Belle with a warm wind in my face

#250 Apricot roses floating in my grandmother's blue glass bowl

"I would maintain that thanks is the highest form of thought, and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder." G.K. Chesterton

Sharing the Good Stuff

I gave Fred a Fernando Ortega CD for his birthday that has a beautiful piano version of this song. For some reason it was in my head this morning so I tried to find it on youtube. Instead I found Michael Card's music, which is also lovely. My friend Joan told me she brought this CD with her to the hospital when she went for chemo.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Ui3KvfsMZw

Father to the Fatherless

It's my son's birthday today. As I often do with each of my children, I reflect on the moment we met, when I first saw the face of the much-longed-for child.

This boy was born into strange circumstances. He would never see the face of his runaway father. This child was mine alone. I carried him alone, bore him alone, and raised him alone for many years. But he was not a burden, rather a delight, curious and sweet, a high achiever, a boy of many interests. Now he is a man with a tender heart and many degrees, still curious. He is changing the world for the better with his expertise. My boy is not only my son but my friend. We can talk of many deep things. He brought a wife into our family, adding to my joy. And maybe later children?


Me, a fatherless child. My son suffered the same fate through no fault of his. Are we the people we are because of that fact? How might we have been different? I can see God our Father's hand on my life from the beginning, a frail and broken child made strong. And on my son's life too. This Father has been ever-present, ever-faithful.


My son read Psalm 103 on my wedding day when I married Fred so many years ago:

"Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits, who forgives all your iniquity, who heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit, who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy, who satisfies you with good so that your youth is renewed like the eagle's.

As a father shows compassion to his children, so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear him. For he knows our frame. He remembers that we are dust. As for man, his days are like grass. He flourishes like a flower of the field, for the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place knows it no more.

But the steadfast love of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear him, and his righteousness to children's children, to those who keep his covenant and remember to do his commandments."

Fathers

The excitement has died down and I've had time to think all this through about my father. I am grateful for all the information, some of it quite interesting, but little came directly from him. He really has given me nothing and has made no effort to contact any of us. People keep saying this has a greater purpose. God has a purpose, I know, but I'm not sure what that is yet.

However, we have learned some interesting stories and fascinating coincidences! My parents met in California (my mother born and raised there). They got married and moved to Nevada. I was born in Nevada, and my father still lives in the same city. As a child, without him, we lived in Arizona a long time and then came to St. Louis. Later I lived in Oklahoma and many other places along the way. I didn't come to Pennsylvania until 1983, and I did not feel at home here for a long time. I always felt like a nomad, never being able to settle anywhere. I still remember the day I claimed Pennsylvania for my own. I was in an airplane that was landing and I looked down at the familiar river and the highways and the airport and thought--this is home. I don't want to ever move away.

Through the research, I found out my father was born and lived in a neighboring suburb of this very same city where I live now. In fact, his home was just a few miles from the church where our family attends. His father and grandfather and great-grandfather all lived in this area. I've been surrounded by my ancestors all these years and didn't know it! They are buried here and had successful businesses here. I probably have cousins nearby.

Another strange connection: My great-grandfather applied for a passport in 1916. He was planning to go to CHINA! Amazing! His business manufactured surgical instruments and I guess he was traveling to sell these products overseas. He planned to sail on a ship called the Empress of Russia, leaving from Vancouver. Many years later, I would be making my own trip to China.

So those are the facts. What about the heart issues? I never had a father growing up. My step-father never cared about me and I never even knew what a good father was supposed to be. When I became a Christian and heard God was my father, I thought He must be a hard disciplinarian to be feared, ready to pronounce judgment and condemn. When I married Fred I saw what a good father looks like--a provider, protector, comforter, encourager, source of wisdom. One to whom little girls can run to when they are frightened or sad. One who listens, one who has compassion for the small and weak. One who guides and leads. I didn't know. I began to see God in a new light and found that He is all those things. God is my Father. And not just to me. He promises to be "Father to the fatherless." (Psalm 68:5) "I will be a father to you, and you shall be sons and daughters to me." (II Corinthians 6:18) And, "If children, then heirs, heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ." (Romans 8:17)

When I was fatherless, God adopted me into His family. I've learned that He is a good father. He provides, protects, comforts, encourages, and guides me in wisdom. My inheritance lies in heaven with Him. My need for this earthly father is over.

I will see where this all ends up. But I don't have any real desire to talk with my father. He could have called me, after all. I think I would be disappointed in him because he wouldn't hold a candle to the father I see loving my two daughters every day.

To those searching for a father's love, the promise is for us all. "See what kind of love the Father has given us, that we should be called children of God; and so we are." (I John 3:1)

Thought for the New Year

Arielle has been reading poetry for her literature class. Here are the closing lines of one of them:

"Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"

(Mary Oliver from "The Summer Day")

What is it we plan to do this year? Will it fade into oblivion, stacked onto the previous years we can't remember? How do we slow this mad rushing torrent of time? I want this to be a year of significance, a year to pay attention and take notice and love well my family and friends. What about you?

When was the last time you read Our Town by Thornton Wilder? I think it is wasted on high schoolers, when, really, it has much more meaning for us older folks.

An Unexpected Gift

What not to do at Christmas:


1. Plan too many projects that must be completed before the big day.
2. Plan too many activities that keep you running from event to event.
3. Plan a big holiday dinner with over-tired, over-stimulated children as guests.
4. Find your father who has been missing for 54 years.

This was an exceptionally difficult Christmas. There were some beautiful, meaningful moments--driving around looking at lights with Fred and the girls, the concert at church, our candlelit devotions in the morning, seeing the girls' joy with their gifts and receiving lovely handmade gifts from each of them. But overall, the holidays were stressful this year. And then, a most unexpected gift landed in my lap--the gift of a father. And I'm still asking if this is really a gift or something else.


My parents split when I was a little girl. I never heard from my father again. Was it his choice to never pursue me? Or my mom's choice to prohibit him from finding me? Who knows. And does it matter? I've been curious about him off and on through the years but I assumed I'd never know anything about him.


Right before Christmas I heard from my sons that their dad was researching his own family tree. For whatever reason, he left his tree and decided to go in a different direction and research mine. I think he wanted to give this information as a gift to the boys. He asked one of them what my original maiden name was. (I was adopted by my step-father.) Now here is the eerie part: Years and years ago my mother gave me a silver rattle and silver cup that belonged to my birth father when he was a baby. I still have the cup but the rattle has been long forgotten and lost. At the same time that the boys gave their dad my name and he did a little research, he discovered this rattle on his daughter's dresser. Where did she get it, he asked. She told him she found it at the bottom of his toolbox. He examined it and saw my father's initials and birthdate. He made the connection to recently discovered information he'd found. He asked my oldest son if he wanted him to contact his grandfather. Yes. So he called the home of my father, far away on the other side of the country. The rattle gave him an opening.


Two days before Christmas one of my boys tells me this story. I am shocked, and buried memories and emotions surface. At this point, the boys' dad has only talked to my father's wife, but they decide on a good time to have a phone conversation with my father--Christmas Eve. So he calls my father and supposedly has a long, interesting conversation. (All info is coming to me second hand from my sons.) My father says he never knew where I was all those years. He is interested in finding out about his daughter and grandsons. He is old. There may not be much time.


So I am planning Christmas with all this turmoil swirling inside. I can't concentrate on anything. I can't sleep. Where is God in all this? (For He is in everything.) The boys and I collect some pictures and information to mail to my father, their grandfather. I find an old picture of a young man holding a blonde giggling child on his lap. His arms are tight around her in an embrace and he is kissing her cheek. Father and daughter.


Christmas is over and there is time to contemplate all these things. I have no illusions of a grand reunion. I would just like a little information to fill in the blanks. Maybe some medical history. Maybe my father really doesn't care after all these years or maybe he wonders if I'm after something. Maybe this is the end of it. And that's okay.


When the girls and I were looking through the box of old pictures, I found several of my grandmother, the woman who adopted my mother when she was a tiny girl. No, she is not my biological grandmother. But she is the one I loved and the grandmother who loved me. I tell my girls that blood doesn't matter. This is my "real" grandmother and nothing will change that. Arielle says, "She's pretty." Liana says, "She looks so kind, just like my own grandma." They are right. She was the best grandma a little girl could have.

Wonder

The moonlight washes across the face of my beautiful daughter when I come to kiss her good-night. She says she loves to fall asleep looking up at the moon full in the sky. She can see it through her blinds. "Put your head right here on my pillow, Mom, and you can see it." I remember her first sentence at fifteen months. We stood on our front porch wondering at the moon that night. She said, "Look! Moon, big, high, sky!" And I wondered at this baby so taken with the heavens.

The same moon, the same house, the same child. But time has changed the people here. I grow old; Arielle grows up. I feel so blessed--so incredibly blessed--that I had the opportunity to nurture this girl through her childhood. I was chosen to be her mother! Of all the mothers of the world... What a privilege! Arielle will continue to grow apart and away from me. It's the plan. But she will always be my precious daughter and I will always be her mother and the moon will rise full through all the seasons of our lives.

Of course, I have another equally treasured daughter who might read this and say, "What about me?" Liana, I will tell your story at another time.

A Christmas Weekend

Despite my failures, God continues to bless. What a beautiful weekend! Saturday we busied ourselves with housework and projects. I've learned to thank God for TIME to clean. I don't like doing it, but I like a clean house. Fred was given a restaurant gift card for his birthday, so he treated us all to Olive Garden! We don't often go out to eat, so it is a special occasion. Olive Garden has gluten-free pasta and all that salad! It was very cold outside, but cozy inside this bustling restaurant on a Christmasy Saturday night. Afterwards we drove through winding streets on the way home to see the houses all lit up while listening to Christmas music on the radio. We passed through the old neighborhood where the boys grew up, bringing ghosts of memories as I remembered people who lived here long ago. My next-door neighbor who lost her son in Afghanistan a couple of years ago has her house adorned in twinkling lights. We were glad to see that. Hope lives on.

At home the girls and I played a rousing game of Quiddler in front of the fire. Driving around looking at the lovely (and cheesy) decorations people set up, listening to the meaningful (and silly) Christmas songs, playing games on a cold winter night: these are our traditions. Are we missing the true meaning of Christmas, as some might say? I don't think so. Our traditions remind us of God's goodness in past years as we do all over again the things we've enjoyed before. They give us hope that we will continue them next year and beyond. And when we are gone, our children will carry on these traditions.

Our family was asked to light the Advent candle in front of the church on Sunday. Oh, the turmoil for the girls in deciding on an outfit, and how would they do their hair? I reminded them that all their friends will be in their Sunday school classes and would not see them. Still, it was exciting and a little scary for them to stand before the throngs of people watching. These same two girls a few years ago sang a duet in front of hundreds on Christmas Eve. What happened to them, that innocence lost? This morning we were up front about one minute total, so it really wasn't too traumatic. With the girls dressed up and lighted trees surrounding us, we had the perfect opportunity for a Christmas photo. So here it is. Long gone are the days of my babies posing at the Sears portrait studio. (So sad...)

One of our best family traditions is to attend the concert at our church each year. This is definitely not a "holiday concert" but a Christmas concert. Through music and the word the message is clear: God's son was born to die in order to save the world. Crazy, huh? So, in spite of our fun traditions, we remember what Christmas is really about. Carl Trueman writing on church services this time of the year:

"It is foolishness and a stumbling block. Foolishness, because the very idea of the sovereign creator and ruler of the universe being born of a teenage virgin in a stable in a tiny nation of no account at the far end of the Mediterranean is utterly ridiculous. Indeed, one might say that it looks very much like proof that God cannot exist -- at least, that is, God built according to our specifications and requirements. An offence because I do not need salvation, especially salvation brought by a pre-modern peasant's child in some backward place nobody would otherwise ever have heard of." As we proclaim the message of Christmas, we should not attempt to "make Christianity look sophisticated or moral as the world understand these things. Least of all is it stand-up comedy designed to entertain those who might otherwise seek their fun elsewhere. Its agenda, especially at Christmas, is not to be determined by unbelief or what the hipsters in the Village will tolerate or what the brain's trust at MIT think is plausible."

I stand on what I know to be true. "For I am not ashamed of the gospel, for it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who believes." (Romans 1:16)

Confession

I have a disorder of mind and spirit. It's called "I-can't-be-bothered." The older I get the more I like to seclude myself from others and just stay home. I can explain this by saying I'm overwhelmed with all I have to do. That's why I don't teach Sunday school or cook for Alpha anymore. That's why I didn't want to serve the staff lunch or go into the city and do a work project last summer. Our family was asked to light the Advent candle at the morning service next week and my response (in my mind) was that I can't be bothered. Why us? Ask another family. (We will be doing it, however.) So when someone at church asked if I was going to the Women's Christmas Brunch, I said no, I wasn't planning to go. Why not? Well, I can't be bothered. I want to stay home on Saturday morning. I didn't say that, of course. Later, I thought I would invite a friend of mine and if she wanted to go, I would go. She said yes. Thank you, Helen!

It was a wonderful morning! Each year women volunteer to decorate a table, bringing their own special china and table settings and creating a centerpiece. I am definitely not creative enough to do this, but I so much enjoyed walking through the room seeing their beautiful artwork during the "Tour of Tables." Music played and the mood was festive. Then we had a lovely lunch, heard a speaker, played a silly game (Helen won!) and sang Christmas carols together at the end. A highlight was when I was able to introduce Helen to a single mom who has been blessed by Helen's generosity for years as she has shared her daughters' outgrown clothes with this mom who also has little girls. These two had never met and I was so glad to see them together for the first time. More than anything, this morning meant I was able to spend time with my friend and catch up with her. How can we be too busy for people we care so much about?

Helen says she knows how to decorate and we decided to do our own table next year! What about "I-can't-be-bothered"? Well, I'd forgotten that when women get together like this, there is joy. There is healing in connecting with other women, each of us with our own stories of happy times and heartbreak. We need each other.

I've just figured out what my real problem is, this sickness I have. It's called selfishness. We are not meant to live in seclusion and hoard our lives to ourselves. I hope to do better.

Five Best Toys of All Time

At this time of the year, we're always looking for great toys. Someone e-mailed this to me. Check it out! (Mothers of boys, young and old, will especially appreciate it.)

"So to help you out, I’ve worked really hard to narrow down this list to five items that no kid should be without. All five should fit easily within any budget, and are appropriate for a wide age range so you get the most play out of each one. These are time-tested and kid-approved! And as a bonus, these five can be combined for extra-super-happy-fun-time." Jonathan Liu

http://www.wired.com/geekdad/2011/01/the-5-best-toys-of-all-time/all/1

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Liana is learning to write different types of essays and she had an assignment. I asked her to write a narrative on anything that happened last week. Those days were loaded with many bits of kindling to spark her imagination. But my creative daughter couldn't think of a single thing to write about--so she said.

Our whole family loves this joyous, crazy, hectic season. An old Andy William's song started playing in my head when I started to write this, "It's the most wonderful time of the year...there'll be much mistletoeing and hearts will be glowing when loved ones are near..." That comes from the 24/7 Christmas music on the radio. We listen to the old songs over and over everytime we're in the car. It marks the beginning of all the excitement and we love it.

Our week began in rainy Gettysburg. The day after we got back, the girls and I, along with Lana, headed to church to cook and serve the staff luncheon. Fred volunteered us. At first I was not happy about this. The day before Thanksgiving? What was he thinking? Like I have nothing else to do that day. But I saw how much this meant to him, so I decided to serve with joy. I wasn't feeling joyful at first, but I chose to change my attitude. And it was fun with all of us together. Many people gathered at church that day to decorate for Christmas, making it a festive day. So Liana could have written about that.

The next day was Thanksgiving. We were anxiously awaiting Dominic and Stacia's arrival from DC. Arielle and Liana LOVE having them here. They constantly watched out the front window and finally announced, "They're here!" Then the rest of the family came over and we prepared to partake of our feast. As usual, I asked the kids to reflect on the past year and give thanks for their blessings. We had two weddings in the family and a baby is on the way! Much to be thankful for! Joy abounded as I listened to their testimonies. What changes this year brought.

Black Friday. It's a tradition. We all headed to the most crowded, crazy mall around. Not to shop, but to walk around and join the masses as they buy, buy, buy. The prices were good, no doubt. But for us, we just like to go and soak up the atmosphere. We always check out Santa. Since Arielle was a baby, the very same Santa has been at this mall. We always say he is the "real" Santa. He's old and kind and has a real white beard. Every year we sigh in relief when we see that he has returned. But this year, no! He was not there! Arielle was dismayed. "He's dead!" I assured her that maybe he just wasn't up to being Santa this year. (I heard he lives in Florida and returns each winter for his Santa stint.) But she was not convinced. It was sad to see this different man sitting in place of the "real" Santa. We don't like changes at Christmas.

At the mall, we sampled peppermint bark and walked around the kitchen store full of items no one really needs. Fred and Dominic waited in line forever at Starbucks, but we enjoyed people watching. We got free See's candy samples and when Fred shared his with an employee outside of Penney's, she jumped with excitement bragging to her co-workers that she is "special." Dominic and Arielle played Wii on a big screen, and then we went home for turkey leftovers.

Dominic wanted to go to a thrift store to donate a trunkful of goods he brought from home in his rented car. We found one right down the street and had a great time looking over other people's junk. The parking lot was packed there too because there was a 50 percent off sale. We found some great old videos to watch on our family nights. Stacia bought some cute little jewelry for the girls. Back home we had a rousing game of Apples to Apples. Good times with my family. I am so grateful. Liana has plenty to write about.

But the weekend wasn't over! Dominic and Stacia left on Saturday. It's always sad to see them go. Then we prepared for Arielle's birthday. She's beyond the age of little girl parties and she's happy with a gathering of family. Once again the big kids filled the house. Nick brought his little ones and I think Arielle enjoyed playing with them most of all. Arielle is Laci's special person and Arielle adores her in return. Lana, Mattie and Liana delighted in playing with their little toys. Liana is so imaginative that she can entertain the little girls for hours. Deacon kept us hopping with his constant motion. Damien and Gretchen gave us a slide show of their wedding pictures and we relived that special day. The conversation was rich and deep. A friend told me when her grown kids get together, the talk is so shallow. Not here. We've never lacked passion, that's for sure! Sometimes it heats up a little too much but my kids are fierce in their love for each other and that cools the fire.

So Liana had plenty to write about. In words we can acknowledge all we've been given and pause to give thanks. That's why I write.

"I will praise the name of God with a song; I will magnify him with thanksgiving. This will please the Lord..." Psalm 69:30, 31.

Another week of the Christmas holiday begins. We're grateful for yet one more trip to the tree farm with the girls.

Rain on Gettysburg

Fred needed a little break from the demands of work, so we headed out to Gettysburg for a couple of days. This will be the third trip for the girls, so they already have ideas on what we must see and do. A meal at Ping's and another at Friendly's. Devil's Den and Little Round Top. For Liana, to see the Pennsylvania Monument (her favorite). Swimming in the hotel pool.

We enjoy our family time together but the slow and steady rain made visiting the battlefield sad and eerie. No matter how many times I hear the auto-tour CD, the horror of those three days of the Civil War doesn't diminish. Rain pours down in rivulets on the windows of the car as we peer out at the flickering flame of the Eternal Light Peace Memorial. 148 years cannot erase the tragedies suffered here. We come to remember, to learn and understand, but because of the weather, we can't balance the war stories with a lovely tramp through the woods like we did last time. We get out of the car at Devil's Den and still the rain comes down, soaking us. Fred walks on ahead and the girls take pictures. Gettysburg in cold November is different from our first trip when the redbuds bloomed a hazy purple throughout the woods.

Ping's is cozy and warm, the soft lighting welcoming us on this dark and dreary day. We all agree; it's the best Chinese food ever. Afterwards we watch the big Christmas tree being assembled in the center of the town square and once again get pictures with Abe.

Home again to get ready for Thanksgiving. So much to be thankful for this year.

Prayer for All

I really fall short when it comes to praying for others. My own life and the needs of my family crowd out concern for other people. It should not be that way. "I urge that supplications, prayers, intercessions, and thanksgivings be made for all people." (I Timothy 2:1) But how can we pray for everyone in the world? We pray for our family, of course. When my daughter-in-law was burned badly... when Jon and his family were lost on the mountain. We pray for friends--my friend Joan and now her husband. Those are obvious and easy. But for strangers? We are blessed when we do so.

I remember praying fervently for Elizabeth Smart, the girl in Utah who was kidnapped. When she was found and returned to her family, a whole nation rejoiced. And those who had prayed had a certain joy in knowing somehow we had participated in bringing her home.

Early in the year someone asked me to pray for a friend of hers who was going through a hard time. This young woman lived in another state and I did not know her. But I prayed. Months later I actually met her and felt such love for this stranger, a tender place in my heart for her. In prayer, somehow, we enter into people's lives and see them as God sees them. I'll never forget when I read that Said Musa had been freed. I shouted to the girls that God had delivered him! We care about him, even though we will never meet him.

What can my fumbling, puny prayer do? Does God need my help? But we pray because we are told to pray. It is a mystery we can't explain. We can't pray for every hurting person in the world, but when the sadness and grief tears at your soul, pray. Pray for strangers. How about this boy Jonathan whose parents abandoned him to live alone in the Amazon jungle? He is only 15. You can read about him here. "When Compassion Becomes a Gold Rush."
http://www.aholyexperience.com/

Or Chen Guangcheng. He is a blind human rights activist who was imprisoned for five years in China for exposing forced abortions used to enforce the one-child policy. He was released from prison but during his time of house arrest he endured a brutal four hour beating in front of his young daughter. He was denied any medical care. This man and his wife are now missing and no one has been able to find them. His picture has replaced Said Musa's on my refrigerator, my reminder to pray.

Often times we need to DO something to ease the suffering in the world. Sometimes we are told to GO. Sometimes all we can do is pray. But don't discount its importance.

Update

Previously I wrote about Said Musa, a man imprisoned in Afghanistan for converting from Islam to Christianity. I recently read an update on what has happened to him since then and it reminded me that we need to continue to pray for people, known and unknown. Often the grief of the world is just too much and I try to shut it out. But sometimes we are just compelled to pray. There is joy in entering into another person's life with love and concern and weeping with those who weep.

Musa is now living with his wife and six children in an undisclosed place. Their safety is still questionable. In an interview with a reporter, Musa told about his conversion. A bomb had shattered a house in his neighborhood and many people died. Musa was working with others to find survivors and two Western women were also helping dig through the rubble. Musa asked someone who they were. "Christians, followers of Jesus Christ." It was the first time Musa ever heard the name of Jesus. He thought he needed to find out who this man was. Finally he asked, "What is a Christian? Do you have a book?" Reading the Bible on his own, he found out. Weeks later he and his wife were baptized. Musa was bold in his faith and opened his home for Bible study and gatherings. He could recite the whole book of Matthew from memory. Of course, he was eventually reported and sent to prison where he was beaten and tortured.

Musa was asked how he endured his time in prison. He said at one point he was deep in despair and cried out to God. That night he had a dream and saw Jesus. Jesus spoke to him saying, "I am always with you" and Jesus gave him his hand. He woke with a new attitude. He said he saw that "his Lord was alive." His execution was imminent and Musa only asked that it be public.

He was finally released and secreted away to a new country. He says it is difficult for his family to learn a new culture and language. He still fears persecution from other Muslims. He still needs our prayers.

The Last Day?

We heard the weather forecast and thought that maybe this was the last day of beautiful sunny autumn. It was supposed to be 70 degrees! So we headed off to our favorite park and were blessed with showers of colorful leaves raining on our heads and crackling beneath our feet.

#97 of my 1,000 gifts: enchantment beneath the towering trees with my husband and daughters.

Why keep a list of blessings? Ann Voskamp, who turned my attitude to gratitude rather than complaint, is in the mountains of Ecuador providing food and labor to the poor. She says, "A life contemplating the blessings of Christ becomes a life acting out the love of Christ." We are filled so we can pour out. My blessings are overflowing. What do I do with this? I haven't a clue right now. So I continue to make my list, not to glory in what I've been given, but to acknowledge the Giver and be open to whatever plans he might have.

This might not be the last day. Maybe many more warm days will follow before winter winds keep us indoors. But we really don't know how many days we have left. I don't want to miss a thing.

Panic and Prayer

It had been a beautiful Saturday, sunny with the trees in full autumn glory. Darkness falls and Fred starts a fire in the wood stove and we are getting ready to watch The Santa Clause. Every year the girls look forward to watching the old Christmas movies as they count down to the big day.

A phone call. It's Damien. I immediately know something is wrong by his voice. In a rush he explains that Jon, Chrissy and Lana went on a hike on the Appalachian Trail and have lost their way. They hadn't seen any people for hours and it is dark and cold. Jon had called Damien to let him know the name of the campground where they began their hike up the mountain, "in case something bad happens." The signal for the phone goes in and out and Damien loses contact. All he knows is the name of the area and that his brother and his family are on a trail coming down from the summit. My granddaughter is only 8 years old. Damien says he has been calling Jon every few minutes since the call broke, but he can't get through.

Damien hangs up quickly so he can try to call Jon again. I just kept saying, "What?? What??" Now a million questions fill my mind. When did they realize they were not on the trail? Do they have a flashlight or are they stumbling in the dark? What kind of trail is it? How far away are they? What should we do?" My heart is pounding. Is this the way people's lives change in an instant? An ordinary day turns to a nightmare.

Fred is in the shower. I grab the girls' hands and we pray. God sees Jon and Chrissy and Lana. We pray for their safety. We pray they find their way. We pray to know what to do. Damien calls back. Jon had called him again, but they were immediately cut off. Damien is very upset, angry even, but anger is easier to manage than fear. We are struck with fear, deep and penetrating. Do we call the police? Damien says he will go look for Jon. Fred says he will join him. I go to the computer and look up this campground that I never heard of before. When I see the name of the nearby town, my fear closes in tighter. Years ago the boys and I hiked there. It is extremely steep, rugged and rocky. The campground website has a weather forecast. For that night--25 degrees. I am trying to get a grip on my rising panic so I can think straight. Damien said Jon told him they had no camping gear with them, and they were not wearing winter coats. They had begun their hike in the warm midday sun with plenty of time to return to camp.

I look up the local and state police phone numbers and write them down. This is serious. We must get help. Then Damien calls back. Jon made contact! He is back at his campsite! He has quite a story, but we have to wait for the next day for that.

Jon said Saturday morning they had driven out to the campsite, as they often enjoy spending time together as a family camping. They had decided to take a hike before settling in for the night. Jon had a lighter, a knife, and a flashlight--just in case. They hiked to the pinnacle for a spectacular view, noticing that the blue trail markers of the campground had merged into the white markings the Appalachian Trail. Many people were at the top and they did not feel any danger. They left in plenty of time to return before dark. But coming down, they did not find the blue campground markers. They continued on the Appalachian Trail, lost, not seeing a single person. Jon said as darkness fell, fear rose in him. He alone was responsible for his little family. He knew it would be dangerous to continue hiking at this high elevation among the boulders. They could fall. Lana was crying, frightened. Jon carried her but he said he could not do it for much longer. And it was very cold. They cried out to God to deliver them. Finally he realized he had to make a shelter. The lighter he thought was in his pocket was gone! There would be no fire to warm them. Then, in the distance, they saw the light of a campfire. You never leave the trail when you are lost, but they knew they must. They walked toward the light and found a group of men, startling them, because these men probably were not supposed to be camping out there in the middle of nowhere. They offered food and water and warmth. Two of these men walked them to a main road and waited with them until someone from the campground came in a truck to return them to camp.

The conclusion of this story is obvious: PRAISE GOD! He answered all of our fervent prayers.

Overflowing

My son sent me a birthday card with these words on the front: "Live richly and savor all of life's offerings." I've been offered much and I do live richly. And I am always, ever grateful.

The older I get, the more joy abounds. Today I am overflowing, abundantly full. I have been granted another year to live on this earth. It is a privilege. God has filled me up with precious children, dear friends, and a good husband. What more could anyone ask for? I do not ask for more. It is enough, and when the time comes to leave this earth, I will not say that there is anything good that God has withheld from me. And all his graces have been totally undeserved.

You would have thought it was Christmas morning, the girls in their excitement, anxious for me to open gifts. There are no gifts for them, but they don't seem to care. Their joy is full in giving. I know that Liana has recently been alert to any of my sewing needs and she must have really been paying attention because I unwrap exactly the right tools I've needed--a new rotary cutter, mat, and ruler. The girls had to work for the money to get these gifts, and that makes them even more special. Liana has also painted me a picture in water color, a still life of my sewing machine and table, unbelievably detailed. I am amazed at her talent. She also designed and made me a quilted purse. It is lined and has a button closure. She used no pattern but has an incredible talent of envisioning a project and knowing how to put it together without any directions. I open gifts from my mother. How do moms know when you need jammies? Perfect timing, perfect gifts.

It's sunny and the mums are in full bloom. What a lovely October day! The girls talk me into taking a day off to celebrate my birthday so I let them decide what to do. We all go to the mall and pick up needed items. Arielle says she might get her ear pierced. Maybe... She's been talking about this for awhile. She stops by the piercing kiosk but then changes her mind. Right before we're ready to come home, she changes her mind again and goes through with it! I am so proud of my brave daughter! She had been so afraid it would hurt.

We arrive home to find gorgeous flowers at the back door. My friend Helen has stopped by. I wish I'd been home to talk with her. The flowers bring the fall colors into my kitchen. My sons call and I have e-mails from family far away. Fred and Arielle have go to church to cook for the Awana program this evening, but I plan on making a big pot of chili and apple crisp for anyone who comes by around dinner time. Liana asks, "Why are you making chili?" It's not her favorite meal. I say it's my birthday and I want chili! Just like my mother used to make. It's strange how we crave those comfort foods from our childhood. Liana helps me prepare dinner. She takes great interest in cooking and I think she will be the one to carry on the family recipes.

Soon my kitchen is filled with loud passionate conversation after Damien and Jon arrive. My friend Connie and her daughter come and I assure her that the boys are not arguing but agreeing with each other! They are discussing the important issues of life. Connie gives me a treasured gift, a collection of poems that she wrote over the summer, hand-bound. Earlier I had read a few of them, but here is the full set for me to enjoy. My precious granddaughter Lana bounces around with joy and gives me a handmade card, her drawing of a house on it. It says, "Here's your house that will keep you safe from the rain, but God will keep you safe forever!"

Damien has photos and video clips from his wedding and we relive the special moments. Gretchen begins to cry again as we watch the video of Damien singing their song for her. It's called "Stay Forever." Oh, to keep this moment forever, for all of us to stay forever together. But we can't. Children grow up and we grow old.

Just a few days after this idyllic autumn day we are hit with a Nor'easter. The girls and I are out shoveling ice and snow off the deck since Fred is called into work to plow. Huge branches crash down from our big maple, blocking the street. Under the weight of the snow we can hear the trees cracking in the woods as their limbs break, but the fall is unusually quiet as they land on the ground.

The trees are still full with leaves. This is a strange, early storm, untimely. Not what we expected. That's how life is. So we number the blessings and count our joys. Have you started your list of 1000 gifts? A day will come when the crack and break will be frightening, but the fall will be soft, and we will end as a whisper. The sun will shine the next day after the storm.

Dark Night

My friend Joan's husband came to our door on a dark night two days before my birthday. He had called to say he was dropping something off. We were all in pajamas, watching a movie with the girls and planning to go to bed shortly. We opened the door to find him on the porch with a plate of blueberry corn muffins. For my birthday, he said, since I can't eat cake. Joan would have done that for me. In fact, the muffins were arranged on a plate I recognized. It was the same dish pattern I owned years ago, and Joan and I had laughed about having identical dishes. Then her husband handed me a bag of oolong tea he bought in Chinatown, the same kind of tea Joan gave me last year. I'm almost out. I so wish she were here to enjoy some tea with me. He also handed me some papers, upcoming events and information about things I might be interested in. Joan always used to save things like that. She would attach little sticky notes with my name on them.

He runs back to his car and comes in with a large tote bag. He said Joan told him to give it to me. It is her unfinished quilt. Last year we took a quilt class together to learn to make a unique regional design. I finished my quilt and gave it to Liana in the spring. Joan never completed hers. She was a perfectionist and worked with precision, not throwing things together hastily like I tend to do.

I shake my head no. No, I cannot keep Joan's quilt. She told me while she was sick that she hoped for some time to work on it. She never got that time. The quilt is not mine. I am stunned and grateful, but no. Then I told her husband I would finish it and give it back to him. Maybe he would find comfort in sleeping beneath the soft covering of colors his wife had chosen and skillfully crafted.

After he leaves I am overwhelmed with the gifts. I think of the profound mystery of marriage, the oneness Joan and her husband knew. He, acting in her place, bringing her presence here to my home. Her loss rips my heart once more. I miss my friend. I cannot fathom her husband's pain. I know what Joan would want me to do with this quilt. Give it back. I open the bag and unfold the partially pieced top. It is exquisite. I will not do it justice, me with clumsy hands. I see her small notes to herself, labels for the blocks and rows. She so much wanted to finish this work of art. I cannot look at it on this night.

The next day I unpack her bag with all the notes, her tools, and the careful squares. She is so organized that the quilt will not be hard to finish. I won't have to choose colors she might not have liked. The pieces are already there. I just need to sew them together--with the greatest of care. That would please her. I will do it for Joan. Hopefully, when it is once again in her home where it belongs, her quilt will continally remind her husband of Joan's deep love for him.