Words of Expectant Hope

Almost 25 years ago, a couple knocked on our door—and the doors of our hearts—with a box of warm Kristy Kreme doughnuts and an announcement that we were going to be fast friends. Three days ago, I held this dear friend’s hand for the last time. I wasn't ready to say goodbye.

Our friendship over the years was complicated and complex... deep, and fierce, and fragile at times. We were like family. We loved, and served, and forgave each other, through much of life’s struggle and fear and joy and pain. At times, we hurt each other deeply. There was judgment, and misunderstanding, and betrayal, and anger. But there was also faithfulness, and commitment, and a steadfast clinging to the pursuit of unity in Christ. We grew up together. We matured together. We knew each other through every iteration of pride and judgment and arrogance, and yet we somehow made a way to find the best in each other and presume a heart of good will from each other. We served one another, at times selflessly and without thanks, and in the end we found that none was needed... not really.

Since that day many years ago when my friend shared with us that she may have found a lump in her breast, I have prayed for her body, and her family, and her spirit. When she needed to turn the chairs inward and fight this battle without me for a time, I prayed. And trusted. And served. And waited. Restoration and reconciliation—though incomplete this side of heaven—are beautiful to behold, and even more beautiful to live.

This valiant warrior was never more lovely to me than the day I took the clippers to her beautiful raven hair, watching it fall to the ground in waves, like my tears. She is the bravest woman I have ever known, battling this scourge that sought to defeat her body for so many long, painful, wearying years.

I have been preparing my heart for some time that she might be called to leave us some day way too early, even as I desperately hoped that our faithful God—whom I knew could—would choose to heal her. She knew it, too, and hoped it to the bitter end, even as she gave us all the strength to trust along with her that He does all things well.

Even on the day that He called her home to be with Him—her body struggling to breathe and her mind no longer able to grasp our presence with her—she called upon the name of her faithful God to help her. I want faith like that, like my dear friend Darla’s... faith that is so deeply woven into my very being that it clings to my soul and spirit, even as conscious thought and communication have failed... and that erupts from my lips in words of dependence and expectant hope and trust, when all other words have been said. "Help me. God, help me."

My dear friend, I am so grateful that I got to spend those several hours with you just before He called you home. It was a blessing—to me—to speak to you, even though I wasn't necessarily sure that you could hear me or know what I was saying. I do believe our human spirits perceive, in some sort of awareness and communion and fellowship... and that our heavenly spirits know and understand things that our conscious minds can no longer grasp. I'm so glad I got to tell you one last time what a good wife you were, what a good mom. To hold your hand and touch your arm and stroke your beautiful hair. To thank you for your faithful friendship. To assure you that we would take care of Ken and the kids. To tell you that it was safe for you to go. That you had fought such a brave, good fight... that you were almost home. To quote to you the 23rd Psalm... which would have seemed trite had the words not felt so perfectly right and true. Those are the words He gave me, so those are the words I gave you. The Lord is my Shepherd. Green pastures. Still waters. The valley of the shadow of death. I will not fear. Thou art with me. Guides my path. A table before me. Goodness and lovingkindness. I will dwell in the house of the Lord. Forever and ever.

It was a privilege and an honor to share those sacred moments alone with you, and then to witness your sweet Kathryn and your precious Ken as they reached out to hold your hand or touch your arm in your restlessness—"I'm here, my sweetheart. What do you need, my love? I'm right here"—and to see you settle down, comforted and quieted.

"This is part of the deal," Ken had told me. "This is what we sign up for, on our wedding day. 'Till death do us part.' It's hidden there, in plain sight, right in our wedding vows." I witnessed the most sacred of things in that room that day... the palpable love of a man for his wife—flawed and human, yes, but sacred and powerful and astonishing... wild, and fierce, and rearing its head to be sure it was known and perceived until the very last breath.

Well done, good and faithful one. So very well done!

I am so glad that you are now in heaven, dear Darla, where there is no pain or sorrow or cancer. I wish I could have loved you better. I wasn't ready to be finished learning to love you well. I miss you. The world is less beautiful without you in it. Your beautiful voice is missing as I worship. But I know that you are now “absent from the body and at home with the Lord,” and I can only imagine the glories in which you now live. And from which you now sing.

I look forward to our reunion in heaven, where there are no tears or pain or ability to misunderstand or hurt one another ever again. So go ride your horse in the horse corner of heaven, my sweet friend. I'll see you soon...

A Sting in My Nose

This is a very tender, pensive time for me in regards to a lost friendship in my life.  I haven't chosen to blog about it because I never really know who is reading what is written here, and I don't want to make any "relational waves."  I'm aware that many people I know, were they to read any of the many confused, convoluted thoughts and feelings I've had over the past several years, might figure out who and what I'm referencing--and I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings or make anyone upset.

Today, however, I read some words on my friend Rachel's blog that have really stirred a reaction in me.  The Lord is using my reaction to her words to reveal to me just how much I have not been able to move on in healing after this particular relational break.

Just what did my friend's blog say?  Taken out of context (she was referencing her emotionally-difficult-but-very-rewarding new job as an oncology nurse, which often makes her cry), her words were as follows:

"There is something redemptive and beautiful about the process of vulnerability, fear, compassion, love, and tears."

The reaction I had?  It is a familiar one... one I've repeated countless times over the years since the rejection of my other friend.  It is complicated, and it goes something like this: I read those words, and a spark of recognition fills my heart with agreement and joy, but it is immediately eclipsed by a wave of extreme hurt that pricks my throat and my gut, causing tears to spring to my eyes and a little pain to rise in the side of my nose.  This reaction--which always catches me off guard and which is extremely unwelcome, given my complete inability to do anything about the unresolved relational break--is almost immediately swallowed away into cynicism.  My dear friend self-protection, who has come to be my constant companion these last five years, swoops in to save me from the pain of that brokenness.

The only problem?  It doesn't work.  And so at that point I choose to loop back around to the initial fleeting feeling of agreement and joy.  I camp there, preaching the gospel to myself and reminding myself what I know to be true of grace... of God's amazing, immeasurable grace... of the grace of this One who will never leave me or forsake me, even when others do.  I also choose, by sheer force of my will and surrender to the truth,  against my feelings, to believe that grace is also possible in human beings; that my husband, and my children, and the other people in my life with whom I've chosen vulnerability and realness, really can and do accept me and love me, in spite of all my many flaws and the myriad of ways that I may (read: will) hurt and disappoint them.

I spend my days walking with God... trying to stay tender and soft and supple in my heart... striving to stay open and real and vulnerable in my other relationships, despite the fear of rejection that always threatens to show its ugly face and rob me of the joy of grace-filled relationship... despite how the cynicism has subtly and irrevocably infected my feelings about the church we both once attended, rendering me unable to sit there and listen to messages about practicing humility, modeling authenticity, demonstrating love...

In short, I know that this unexpected, unwelcome response to certain things (a friend's words in a blog post, a song on the radio, a message in a sermon) belies the healing that I assumed had taken place.  Yes, the frequency of this surprise response has gone down as time has passed.  Yes, the time spent in the different stages of the loop has shortened.  I have mistakenly assumed that this means healing has taken place.

But the truth of the matter is that healing has not taken place.  Restoration has not happened.  And so, sitting a pew or two apart, pretending this horrible relational abandonment and rejection never happened, listening to messages about grace and "real relationship"... well, the words ring hollow at best.

Just this past week it was my youngest daughter's Language Arts lesson which arose to surprise me with this little loop.  It was nearly three years ago that this very same lesson surprised me over this very same issue and prompted me to blog about it:

"It's very simple," Herkimer told her. "To turn an enemy into a friend, all you have to do is love him."

"Love him? Are you sure? That doesn't sound easy at all. That sounds terribly difficult to me," Annabelle said.

"Oh, it is difficult, " Herkimer agreed. "Probably one of the most difficult things in the world. But I said it was simple, not easy."

From The Tale of Annabelle Hedgehog. Published by Lion Publishing, Batavia, Illinois. Copyright 1990 by Stephen Lawhead.

Still trying to figure it out, these many years later... this very simple, not-at-all-easy thing we're called to do.  And whenever the surprise cycle comes, I fall to my knees in my heart, silently thanking the Lord for His matchless, limitless grace, and "weep to the praise of the mercy I've found."  May I be continually transformed by His merciful Spirit to learn to love like He does, in spite of the reality of past hurts that leave a prick in my throat and a sting in my nose.

Score One for Normal

This article, entitled Education Normal, was written by Mark Mitchell* for Touchstone Magazine. This is not a magazine I read regularly, but the article itself is thought-provoking.

In fact, it might be just plain provoking if brought up in casual conversation in a group of parents. (I rarely do this sort of thing anymore. I have enough "different" ideas, and hold them strongly enough, that I tend to be provoking just by existing in near proximity to other parents. If you do something differently from others, you know, you're automatically "judging them" by having made your different choice. Or so the story goes. They're not judging you by having chosen differently from you, mind you... But I digress. Forgive my baggage. I'm trying to work through it all; really, I am. And I'm trying to work on holding an opinion strongly and confidently without making others who don't hold the same opinion feel judged. It is tricky business!)

In the meantime, we have found a few similarly-minded friends with whom we discuss these types of parenting issues and decisions. We have also found a few not-so-similarly-minded friends who are those wonderful and rare types of friends who like to bat around the ideas and have the discussions and play "devil's advocate" for each other... all that general "irons sharpens iron" kind of stuff... even though we know of our general "different camp" tendencies from the get go. At the end of the day, we often end up agreeing to disagree, but it is all very amicable and respectful, and it is especially refreshing to those of us who really do want to be challenged and encouraged and questioned and affirmed and, and... In these sorts of gloriously rare and beautiful interactions, no one feels condemned and, in the end, everyone feels all the more confident in the choices being made before the Lord. I don't know how it is possible, exactly, but I can tell you that it isn't possible at all unless the Lord is very involved in each of your lives, and in all your interactions together. Pretty tall order.

If you're fortunate enough to have some of these sorts of friends, phone them right away and tell them how much you appreciate them. Write them a note, thanking them for being who they are in your life.

And maybe next discussion you can bat around the ideas raised by this article.

*Dr. Mark T. Mitchell is an Associate Professor of Government at Patrick Henry College and a James Madison Fellow at Princeton University.

490 Captives

I recently found an interesting site called Poets Online, which has monthly writing prompts encouraging poetic response. This month's prompt involves writing a confessional poem - confessional in style and confessional in content. Here is my offering:

490 CAPTIVES

I remember saying the words often
a habit
a sacred
ritual
my young brain forming small thoughts
about God
and myself
and the world

In that same nightly chant where I hollowed His name
(Who ever heard of hallowing?)
I asked Him (or at least someone)
to forgive my debts
(Do six-year-olds have debts?)
or sometimes it was ‘trespasses’
(Who but criminals went trespassing?)

I asked whomever to “forgive me
as I forgave others”
meaning ‘while’
but certainly not ‘in the same manner as’
for my charmed six-year-old life
and my sweet six-year-old heart
weren’t offended yet
And I had not yet been told how offensive I was

Fast-forward a few decades
to the hard here and now
where the tender young trust
lies buried under a brittle shell
(at least I hope so)
like the old bread crusts that even my songbirds did not want
dotting my yard
and my mind
with whispers of what I’d hoped
but which wasn’t

Now I know better
with my mind
(theologically astute and all that)
But the young girl that trusted
was the young woman that loved
the child’s friend’s mother

Now seething with hurt
and hard with bitter thoughts
of ambivalence
which some would call hatred
but I know to be
the slow, secret murder of self-righteous indignation
that pretends right back that she doesn't exist

In this one part of my otherwise glowing life
I live the law of the scornful
as I return evil for evil
at least in my mind
“Reject as you have been rejected”
is safer
but only in the farce that is my own understanding
blind
naked
scared

“Forgive as you have been forgiven”
She didn’t forgive.
She didn’t forbear.
She didn’t love me.
But I did
He whispers

“as you have been forgiven”

And so I take captive
the smug, superior masks
of the frightened young mother
turned old
and cold
and hand them over again
and again
and again

© 2009 Laurie Sitterding

Hmmm...

I just read the following quotation on a sweet friend's profile, and it has started me thinking...

“People, even more than things, have to be restored, renewed, revived, reclaimed, and redeemed; never throw out anyone.” - Audrey Hepburn

So thankful that God, at least, can pull this off... so grateful for mercy...

Shattered Snowman

Last night, I broke one of the Christmas tree ornaments. No big deal, right? Well, not really... because it was one of those "preventable accidents" I'm always talking to my kids about. And it was a direct result of my control-freak nature. It went something like this...

(Please note that I was sitting on the couch as the kids put the ornaments on the tree. I know my tendency toward control, so I decided a long time ago not to worry more about how the decorations look than about the joyful experience of my children as the decorations go up. I never want to step on someone's heart for the sake of just-so ornament placement. So I was sitting on the couch enjoying the Christmas carols and the delighted exclamations of my children as they revisited the memories associated with each ornament.)

[me, pointing] "OG, hang something over here in this big bare spot, would you? No, not that. Something big that will hang down and fill that big hole in the branches. [pointing again] Get that big snowman over there." [Said snowman was one of OG's favorite ornaments, already hanging on the Christmas tree where she'd carefully placed it earlier.]

She made some sort of comment at this point which I didn't catch. But she got the ornament and began to try to hang it in the spot I'd indicated.

[me, again] "No, not like that. See how it's resting on that branch all weird? Move it over a little, so it hangs in the big open spot."

She tried again, muttering something about how she had hung it in the original spot because she didn't want it to get broken. It still ended up weirdly crammed-in and hanging strange.

"Here, let me do it."

Yep. I did it. I got off the couch and moved into control-freak-mode... more concerned about how the tree looked than about my sweet daughter. Of course, I didn't realize this at the time. It wasn't a conscious choice. It all happened so quickly... so naturally... so easily. How easy it is for me to want things "just so," as long as the "just so" is my way!

The first thing I realized was that she was having trouble gettting the thing to hang nicely there because it was difficult to get the thing to hang nicely there. I was having trouble, too. I kept moving it and adjusting it and then, quite suddenly and inexplicably, it happened.

The delicate fragile globe of thin glass that was the snowman's body broke. I heard it and saw it at exactly the same time. I don't even know how it happened, really, except that I guess I hit a branch with it at just the right (wrong!) angle.

The next sound I heard was her sharp inhalation. The next sight I saw was her face scrunching up into that of one who is going to cry. She really couldn't help it. The ornament was special to her, having been given to her by her grandmother in 2002, when she was only four years old. She had hung it in a special place to avoid its getting broken.

And now it was broken. Not an "oh, a little Super Glue will fix it" kind of broken, but a "very thin delicate clear crystal globe is now about to cut me" kind of broken. Irreparable.

And preventable. If I had only let them do the job... and gloried in the bare-spot-laden Christmas tree that is the glorious privilege, for so very few years, of those who still have little ones in the house.

Tears have been shed, I'm sorry's have been spoken, and hugs have been exchanged. But I have awakened this morning a different person, again reminded that people are more important than stuff, and that I must daily lay down my ever-present need to control and orchestrate.

"Freedom from myself will be the sweetest rest I've ever known."
- From Prone to Wander, on the album "Deep Enough To Dream" by Chris Rice

Hmmm...

I'm no mindless fan of Doug Wilson. I think some of what he says is right on, and some of what he says scares me to death because it is so crazy. That said, I've stumbled upon an interesting quotation as I continue to ponder this issue of forgiveness and relationship.

“We want comfort for being losers rather than forgiveness for being sinners because forgiveness brings in its train the demand for change.” - Doug Wilson