Arms Too Far

 

Life is tough to figure out. So many forks in the road, so much self to discover through God’s plan – if you can pull aside the veil of self.

Several times God felt enough urgency to speak to me directly. I followed Him every time, and eventually most of those steps made sense. Others are on my list to ask Him about when I get to Heaven.

Every time has felt the same. In an instant, threads that previously hung on question marks merged into one beautifully woven thought.

God has told me to minister at churches that, for all their wonderfulness, were not a great fit for me. Only in hindsight do those make sense.

Once God stripped away all my earthly representations of Him. At age 49, after I had worked in music ministry for 41 years, God methodically stripped away my earthly church body, my pastor, and my spiritual-head husband. All of a sudden, it was “just” God in Heaven and me here on earth.

Looking back, that also now makes sense. As soon as the only view I had of Him was...well, Him...I began to learn who He really was. As I worked through grieving all I had lost, He showed me Hebrews 13:13-16. That passage tells us to go do good “outside the camp,” where the bodies are burned.

Outside the camp was a foreign place to me. One benefit of all those years of music ministry was protection from my painful insecurity. As pianist, you get regular reinforcement that you are special, and you have the Music Director and Pastor to take all the complaints and grief. Expressing your faith through music means you do not have to explain it in words, so you never have to face the possibility that you would say the wrong thing and cost someone their eternal life.

In my season of loss, God placed me where I could not hide in weakness. I had to be strong for my kids and for myself. By the time he told me to outside the church “camp,” I was terrified, but was also determined to step. I had to share this God that had done so much in my life.

Within a month of venturing out, I found myself standing at a portable keyboard under a bridge in Gainesville, GA, playing and singing worship songs with homeless folks with whom I would then share a meal and a Bible study lesson.

God led me to live part-time, then full-time, in midtown Atlanta to work with local ministries. There He broke my heart for vulnerable women. I worked with them in the Atlanta Transitional Center, on their way back to society from federal prison. I spent time with them in Seven Bridges Ministry’s shelter for homeless women and children. I taught and sang with women sent to a residential center instead of to jail for their (hopefully last) recovery from practicing their addiction.

My journey began to make sense. It was not until God led me through those tough years that I had a passion for sharing what He had done in my life. Instead of feeling like a failure because my life fell apart, I found that God went everywhere with me and worked His perfect plan through every single moment. All those verses really were true. He really did love me!

Then I met my now-second husband. Part of settling down with him took me to the suburbs a new church home; one with an outstanding music ministry and ministry leaders under which I felt comfortable ministering. For two years, it was home.

Earlier this year, out of the blue, God tugged at our hearts again for those that never come through the doors of a church. I began feeling anew the cries and pain of women that do not know how much He loves them as they wander alone, lost and disconnected from Him.

As He always does, He pushed us to deal with this tug. Our beloved Music Director retired from our church. Suddenly, the peace of being securely planted in a church fell away.

Standing at the edge of yet another fork in our path, I read of a 7-year-old girl who died in the closet of an abandoned apartment building not 30 minutes away from our house in the ‘burbs.

Suddenly, dangling threads wove together in that all-familiar way. My heart broke that my arms could not comfort that girl or her mom. Then it broke for all the little girls and moms out there who were not being hugged, or fed, or loved on by Christ through human arms and hands. My heart cried to my arms to reach out!

But my arms were too far away.

I knew it was time to leave the fold again and live outside the camp where the bones are burned.

I shared the impact of that little girl’s story with my husband. His heart was in the same place.

So, as summer ends, we will no longer be singing in a church choir, ringing handbells, leading the youth bell choir, playing pre-service piano, or writing and directing skits. We will say a wistful good-bye to the wonderful fold where God allowed us to rejoice for the past two years.

We know that there are plenty of people that will step into those roles, but far fewer that will or can go where He is leading us.

Our arms cannot remain too far. They must reach where our hearts have already gone.

So, we go.

...For Which I Was Created

I recently participated in a wonderful fundraiser piano concert at my church. As a token of gratitude, my amazing Music Director gave all the participants gifts. Mine was a beautiful silver bracelet inscribed with this message: “Perhaps it was for this moment that you were created.”

The instant I read the message for the first time, it resonated deeply. As a creative soul, I am constantly faced with balancing time spent expressing my creativity with time spent doing more boring things like earning a living, housework, etc. I have always dreamed of returning to making my living as a musician, and reading that bracelet gave me instant new hope that God might be telling me it was time to do just that.

I spent the next few days basking in thoughts of the time I would get to spend learning new music, jamming with other musicians, sharing God’s wonderfulness through music…the scenarios were many and much replayed in my mind. It was thrilling to anticipate what God might do next to move me back toward that life. Was He really going to lead me to take that step?

After a week of happy dreams of feeding my creative soul again full-time, I found myself happily circling a classroom table at church in a line of other people, with a big re-closeable bag in my hand. As I filled the bag with items to be given to homeless folks in our area. I happened to glance down at my wrist and once again saw, “Perhaps this it was for this moment that you were created.”

Suddenly that message took on an entirely different meaning. I found myself totally unable to argue with God that I had, indeed, been created for that moment just as much as He had created me for the blissful, joyous moments I spent playing piano that Sunday just a week before.

Over the weeks that followed, I have re-read that message in a myriad of different moments; some routine, some joyous, some painful. In God’s infinite efficiency, He taught me a critical lesson in just 10 words and some carefully chosen moments in everyday life:

He created me specifically, fearfully, and wonderfully, for
every
single
moment
in my life.

Not one moment happens in my life that He does not allow. That moment may not have been His perfect desire for my life, but it is in His perfect will for my life or it would not have happened.

Do I still want to flee the corporate world and re-immerse myself in music with every moment I can find? Yes!

Given a choice would I choose to skip the miserable moments in life? Yes!

But I now appreciate and acknowledge the value of where He has put me in every moment of every day more easily…ALL the moments for which I was created.

The Final Gift

My Daddy died last August.

No, that’s not really accurate. My Daddy began dying from dementia in 2011 and finished last August.

My father taught me lessons as far back as I can remember. As we walked through his last eight years together, I became his caregiver—and he kept teaching. He taught me to be grateful and remember your blessings even when you neither recognize where you are nor anyone around you; to always stop and smile at babies; to always take in and treasure love given by any living being. The gift of those lessons will live within me for the rest of my days.

My experiences since his journey through a worn-out body and mind ended have been fairly typical. When your parent develops a disease that takes their memory, your grieving process begins as their memory fades. So, in that sense, you are a bit further along in processing their loss. But that is made up for by the fact that, as their caregiver, you also have to recover from the PTSD brought on by that loss.

As my soul took tentative steps forward into a world with no parents; in particular, a world with no Daddy, my everyday life resumed…but it was different. In this everyday life he was a complete circle of memory in my heart and mind. There was no open expanse of remaining days; a punctuation mark of fulfilled eternity and reunion took its place.

As I stepped timidly forward, his deeply-rooted presence remained within me, re-shaped by his transformation. I felt my heart beginning to wrap itself tightly around its new shape. It wrapped a bit more tightly as I daily sensed the absence of his earthly presence.  When the weather cooled and I wondered if he needed more long-sleeve shirts, my heart corrected my thoughts. It melted a bit when I saw his college ring in my jewelry box, and grew stronger when I felt his arms around my granddaughter as I held her close to me.

In the midst of the pain and unfamiliar cast to the world, pinpricks of light began crossing my mind. The first was a memory of his wonderful habit of telling my brother and me fairy tales with all the words scrambled together (“Beeping Sleuty” comes to mind) and of being breathless with laughter at his silliness.

One day I saw a picture of the Krispy Kreme doughnut store and suddenly I was 5 again, held on his knee and watching the wonder of dough travelling through conveyor belts, turning into special treats that only payday could bring.

In my mind, I reached for his arm again to walk down the aisle at my wedding. I soaked in his ever-present calm when storms raged around me. I heard his voice teaching in youth Sunday School class. I clung to his hands as he saved us from an ocean undertow when I was 10…

and I realized just how long it had been since any of those memories had surfaced in my mind and heart.

Those eight long caregiving years were filled instead with the pain of hearing him ask confused questions over and over again; of watching him awaken in a dark hospital bed confused and frightened; of patiently answering questions about events long past and family members long gone, and of watching him start the grieving process for them over and over.

To love him through those years, I had to be happy for him; patient with him; to persevere with medical providers because he couldn’t. I had to constantly convince myself that the way he was was, by definition, enough…because it was the only way he could be. I had to push down so many emotions and logic and pain, and happy memories only made the burden heavier. They pointed to who he had been and was no longer.

So I pushed those down, too. Without realizing, I banned them from entrance into my consciousness; locked them away in darkness.

The day he left earth, he gave me one final, precious gift. By dying he unlocked that door and set free my joy and treasure of the past. As his last breath ended my responsibility for his care, he swept away the defenses and shadows that shackled that happiness.

In the nine months since last August, the warm, dancing light of those memories has grown ever brighter in my heart.

Life often turns and leads us down dark roads. Dark they must be, and any light that shines is always hard-won and ever-dim. But they are roads, not destinations. Step by step and day by day we move along them. When the road turns again, there is hope in light that shines anew from unexpected places--setting us free to leave the past in the darkness, bask in today’s warmth, and find life in the newfound glow.

My Comfort, My Shelter

"The Comfort" by Michael Dudash

courtesy of Lysha Broad,

www.ARTsonality.com

copyright 2011

I go to church regularly, and I pray with people regularly. It is always interesting to hear what people pray. A lot of what I hear is prayers for God’s sheltering protection; from harm, from illness, from ruin of all sorts.

Those prayers come from people who profess to be Christians as well as those who don’t. It’s instinctively human to avoid pain.

We begin learning the value of being sheltered from Day 1. Human adults are wired to protect their babies, so most of us learn from parental protection the bliss of hiding from life’s storms, held safe from harm and pain. As we grow, we carry a deep-seated instinct to seek shelter from harm wherever we can find it…in someone’s arms, or words, or deeds.

Isaiah said God had been “a shelter from the storm” (Isaiah 25:4) That Scripture reference confirms what we’ve learned…this world brings things we should avoid. Why else would God need to shelter?

Isaiah was right. God does sometimes stand directly between us and life’s storms. When He does, we just don’t feel the pain. Either we get through the intersection 20 seconds before someone runs a red light, or cells we didn’t even know we had don’t mutate into cancer, or the spouse that thought of straying doesn’t. Shelter means protection, and I’m sure God shelters us a lot more than we realize.

What does get our attention quickly is when He does not totally shelter us; the times when pain reaches us. Think about the last time you hurt….really hurt. Everyone who has ever walked this earth has felt that feeling. I have felt that pain, too. When it hits, I instinctively ask God for protection.

But many times protection does not come.

During those times of un-sheltered pain, I have often read stories of protection; both in the Bible and in motivational magazines like Guideposts. I remember thinking, “Well, God, where are MY angels? Why won’t you send some to protect me? I feel like I’ve been thrown to the wolves!”

But God plays another role in the midst of un-sheltered pain. In the New Testament, Paul calls God “the God of all comforts” (2 Corinthians 1:3 ASV) That’s a very different role from being a shelter.

God as shelter means there is pain, but God shields me from it. God as comfort means sometimes I will hurt. The mere fact that He is “the God of all comforts” makes that inevitable.

When I cry out to God in the midst of pain, my words are seldom thankful or tender. But God’s merciful answer is the next best thing to not feeling the pain. He comforts me. Whether it’s a hug, a kind word, or a pot of hot soup, comfort in tough times just can’t be beat.

Looking back at the times I’ve “talked back” to God, I now realize that was the key. Sound strange? Well, maybe my choice of words wasn’t the best…but continuing to talk to Him no matter what happened was critical. I’ve spoken to God through tears more times than I can count. I’ve spoken to Him in angry tones, in defeated tones, and in shattered tones.

Without fail, every time I pour out my unraveled emotions and reactions to the pain, He brings comfort. The pain lessens. The simple, natural act of pouring all of my raw emotions and reactions and weaknesses at His feet opens up room within me to let Him in further. As the warmth of His love spreads into the space left by everything that the brokenness drained away, I lift my head to face another day. Somehow, calmed by His comfort, I have the strength to move on.

I think He just wants me to be ME with Him. He’s a big God; he can handle me being angry with Him, or hurt with Him, or even petulant with Him. He would rather hear me tell Him that I think He’s failed me than to not speak to Him at all. He knows that’s not true; He knows that His plan in that time is just to comfort instead of to shelter.

So…sometimes He shelters and pain never comes. Other times, pain breaks through and He comforts me. In all times, there is one constant: If the pain makes it through, He is there to act as my comfort. I just have to remember that taking Him up on His offer is as easy as letting go.

In the Midst of the Mist

Here we are again; Daddy and I in a hospital room. He is 89 now, so this is not our first rodeo. Emergency room last night, not so great news, then up to the 5^th floor we came.  We got to the room at about 3:00 AM, which means I’ve had enough sleep to sit here and knock out some work before exhaustion sets in this afternoon. As I was setting up my work laptop, I glanced at the window and did an immediate double-take. I might as well have been looking into one big grey cotton ball. The storms of yesterday evening had turned into the fog of this morning, and there was no view to be had from the hospital tower this morning….not even from the 5^th floor.

It struck me as I gazed out into seeming nothingness that I might as well just accept it. Nothing I could do would show me what was on the other side of that pea soup.  Suddenly I realized that God was gently reminding me that sometimes life’s path is just a big grey blob with only question marks in sight.

It’s not my first foggy rodeo, either. I’ve walked paths cloaked in uncertainty before. In fact, most of my life over the past year has been shrouded in fog and question marks. I’ve gone through three major life changes in that year, and there have certainly been tough moments. However, I did not curl up into an emotional fetal position as I had so many times before. During one of the scariest times in my life I had the strength and courage to hear what God had to say, close my eyes, take a deep breath, and step out into the fog.

Almost a year into life being a moving target, I am beginning to see the fruit of that faith. God has led me, step by step, through building many stones along this new path. They’re packed solidly in the soil of His direction and it feels good to walk on them. At this point I don’t have to keep looking down quite so much to put the stones into place, and can actually look out to see what lies ahead with a bit more hope and happy anticipation.

As I finished setting everything up to work and sat back down, I looked out the window again. The fog had just barely begun to lift, and I could see bits of trees and signs and roads. I smiled, because the view out that window looked just like my life. For the first time in a long time, what I see lying ahead is a bit more clearly defined. It’s not crystal clear, but I can see the outlines of good things ahead. It feels good to be at a place where God has once again lifted some of the fog.

I know that, just as God led me safely through the lingering fog of this last year, He will lead Daddy and me through the fog of this short bend in the path. He’s always there to faithfully strengthen and guide me. All I have to do is keep my eyes on Him…even in the midst of the mist.

Smitten by the Moon

Skogsoy moonlight.JPG

"The Lord is your keeper;

The Lord is your shade on your right hand.The sun will not smite you by day,
Nor the moon by night."              - Psalm 121:5-6, NAS

It’s not difficult to experience smiting by the sun. All you have to do is expose your skin to it for long enough. As a child of the “B.S” days (before sunblock), I have memories of several sunburns. They were miserable. I remember not being able to cool down. Every move was painful, and every touch excruciating. There was no quick cure; I just had to wait it out until I healed.

But the light of the moon doesn’t usually strike me as a “smiter.” In contrast, the light of the moon is rather calming. It’s a soft light; a light that drapes itself gently. It seems more like a blanket than a bludgeon.

That is, unless I have a migraine headache. When those hit, any sliver of light is like a piercing sword. Even the light of the moon, with only soft edges and a normally tender touch, cuts like a knife.

Why? Because my body is weak and hypersensitive. Even that tiny amount of soft light, which on a normal day wouldn’t bother me at all, is intolerable. And when those headaches hit, I can’t keep light from causing pain. All I can do is shield my eyes from it.

That’s what God does so often when we are weak from struggling. As we stumble, weary from battle and helpless to numb the pain from things that normally do not smite, He shades us. It doesn’t matter to Him that on better days we would brush off what now would bring us to our knees. He doesn’t hesitate for a second to use the same hand that the wind and waves obey to block a tiny, insignificant sliver of light.

What matters to Him is that the perfect thing to do in that moment is to protect us from what we can’t fight. He shields us from the smiter. When we need a respite from a slice of pain, no matter how thin, He shelters us from it.

It’s not that we never feel pain. As we walk through this fallen world, many times pain is part of the journey. In those times He is our only hope in the midst of agony.

But more times than we know, He shelters us. Even if it’s something that “shouldn’t” hurt us. When even the pain caused by moonlight would do us in, He doesn’t let it reach us.

It gives me great comfort to know that, when I am so weak even the moon burns, He will shade me…and I may never be aware of the cover of His hand. If He blocks the burn of the light, I don’t feel it. And, as a friend of mine always says, “You don’t know what you don’t know.”

But what I do know is the comfort of that shelter. In His shadow, away from the battle, I heal. And in healing, there is victory. And in that victory I raise my head to face another day…despite the smiter.

No Wearries!

Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. (Galatians 6:9, NIV)

 
Who doesn’t like harvesting? Whether it’s plucking fresh vegetables from a backyard garden, standing in a cap and gown harvesting a diploma after years of hard work, or playing a difficult musical selection flawlessly after endless hours of practicing, harvesting is fun. It’s satisfying. It’s payoff. It’s gathering what has come to fruition after work is done. What’s not to like about that?

The harvest is great motivation for putting in the hours required to “raise the crop”-- whether it’s healthy kids or political office. Counting days until harvest keeps us moving through the long growing season of things-worth-doing. It makes it easier to hang in there when we feel like giving up.

I so get that. When the sun sends sweat streaming down my face, and I’m only three plants into a weed-filled garden of a dozen --- thinking about biting into a fresh, juicy tomato keeps my hands and legs moving. No doubt about it; knowing that the payoff will come helps. Look at the investment I am making. I want to know when I will see a return!

Who waters a tomato plant with no idea when it will bear fruit? Who studies to pass tests without knowing when they will graduate? Who runs a race with no idea when they will reach the finish line?

For followers of Christ, the answer is, “all of us.” We are to pour our lives into those around us for as long as we are told to. God makes that clear. But after working hard and growing tired, I should get to harvest. Totally logical.

So what’s the problem? Galatians 6:9 is the “problem.” It clearly states that the harvest WILL come. But harvest is only guaranteed ”at the proper time.” Only God knows when “the proper time” for harvest is coming, and His idea of the proper time is usually later than mine.

So many times, it feels like time to wrap up. But then something happens. God says that it’s not harvest time….it’s still giving time. Setting the proper time for harvest is not my decision to make. My job is to keep doing God’s work.

One Sunday morning, years ago, I had been pulled off of Praise Team because the nursery was critically short of workers. I’d had a rough weekend and the stress and energy involved in juggling a gaggle of babies was taking a heavy toll. As I dragged my tired feet back and forth across the nursery floor, trying to comfort a fussy infant, another mom showed up at the door with yet another screaming baby.

I realized she was a friend from another church that I hadn’t seen in years. “Are you a member here?” she asked. “Yes,” I said. “Usually I’m playing on Praise Team, but today I’m filling in here.” She sighed as she stroked her now-happy baby daughter’s curly hair. “I seem to always end up in here, no matter what church we visit,” she said sadly.

“You know, that happened to me a lot when my kids were babies,” I said. “But, looking back, I think I got just as much out of sitting in the nursery talking to other moms as I did from the sermons!”

Years later, I saw that woman sitting in a nursery rocking chair, soothing a baby. I joked about that long-ago Sunday.

She grew quiet and looked thoughtful. “I’ll never forget that Sunday, she said. “I always felt like such a failure because I kept having to leave the sanctuary during the service. But you made me feel comfortable just being in the nursery taking care of my child. I thought I was missing something not being in the sanctuary, but you made me feel like I was in the right place after all.”

That morning I saw a harvest. And God used my simple words to help her grow roots.

Now, when I grow weary, I remember that friend and God’s guarantee. There will be harvest, but not until the time is right….His time, not mine. Until then, all I have to do is water, weed, and make sure there are “No Wearries.”