by jphilo | Apr 10, 2015 | Family
Friday’s here again, so it’s time for another fantastic post from the past. This one comes from April 2011, a few years after Mom’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis and subsequent move to live with my brother and his family. That chapter of Mom’s life ended this past January, when she moved to an assisted living facility. She is not adjusting particularly well. But as this post points out, she has adjusted before, and I can hope that she will slowly adjust again. And I can also hope that this week, during our Wednesday visit and drive, she will smile to see the daffodils are blooming.
The Daffodils Are Blooming
My daffodils started blooming yesterday, their bright faces raised, impervious to the wind while they soaked in the sunshine. They spoke spring and warmth and light and hope into my winter weary heart. They made me smile.
Then the rain moved in, and everything changed.
These natty soldiers, who had marched beside my house erect and confident short hours ago, were bowed and bedraggled this morning. They shivered in the wind. Tears rolled down their faces and puddled in the dirt at their feet. Their burdens were heavy on their shoulders, so heavy they couldn’t lift their heads to see the clusters of clean, greening grass lining their parade route, cheering their arrival.
They have no idea that sunshine will return.
The daffodils were a gift from my mother the last fall she lived in her house. Before we suspected Alzheimer’s. Before her legendary strength abandoned her. When she still had energy to dig in the dusty, autumn soil for the daffodil bulbs that needed separating. Come spring, the news that I had planted the bulbs didn’t bring her as much pleasure as in previous years.
The first clue, as I look back, that something was wrong in my green thumb mother’s world.
Things moved more swiftly after that. The next fall, Mom moved in with my brother and sister-in-law. The next spring, her house was sold. Her passion for gardening evaporated along with her love of quilting, sewing, jigsaw puzzles, and ordering around her children. When my sister gave Mom an African violet for her bedroom, her response was, “I’m not sure I want that much responsibility.”
Can this be the woman who grew all the roses for our wedding altar arrangements?
“The daffodils are about to bloom, “ I told Mom during our visit two days ago. “The ones you gave me.” On our drive to the library, we saw some blooming beside a small house. “Look, Mom,” I pointed. “Aren’t they pretty?” Her eyes turned warm and bright. For the rest of the trip, and again on the way home, she watched for flowers.
“The daffodils are blooming.” She smiled and lifted her head. Briefly, the sunshine returned.
by jphilo | Feb 2, 2015 | Church Newsletter Columns
Therefore, prepare your minds for action, keep sober in spirit,
fix your hope completely on the grace
to be brought to you at the revelation of Jesus Christ.
1 Peter 1:13
Thus far, 2015 has not been my favorite year. Before the first two weeks of January were over, our first granddaughter was born ten days early, an unexpected opening at an assisted living facility meant Mom could move in pronto instead of in two months, our daughter and son-in-law moved into the new condo they purchased, and the page proofs for my latest book project arrived, along with a very short turn around time.
“Your life is a lot like a movie where everything happens at once,” my sister observed.
“Yes,” I agreed. “A really bad movie.”
Things didn’t improve much over the next few days when an avalanche of medical, financial, and insurance details related to Mom’s move threatened to derail a trip to meet the new baby. Somehow, I plowed through the mess and spent a sweet week helping the young family adjust to its newest member.
But even at the best of times–cuddling the baby or playing with our grandson–a silent, unending refrain invaded my every waking moment. 2015 is like a movie. A really bad movie.
A really bad, exhausting movie.
The refrain was so loud and insistent I could barely hear the pastor teach about 1 Peter 1:13–16 during his sermon. Or maybe I didn’t want to hear what he or the apostle Peter had to say about a believer’s response to hard times. Because the pastor’s reiteration of Peter’s commands to cultivate a disciplined mind and sober spirit discouraged me. After all, I’ve dedicated daily time to obeying those commands for years and years. But my obedience wasn’t making this particular hard time any easier.
Not. One. Bit.
But then, the pastor got to Peter’s third command to fix our hope on Christ. Not just on the hope of our present salvation, but also on the future hope of glory spent in his presence for eternity. Glory which he promises that his children will one day fully experience.
As I contemplated that promise and began to fix my eyes upon the hope of Christ, the bad movie soundtrack in my brain gradually faded away. I wish I could say it was replaced by heavenly music sung by choirs of angels. But it wasn’t. And I wish I could say that my present troubles faded away, too.
But they didn’t.
But with my eyes fixed upon the hope of glory in Christ yet to come, present troubles no longer consumed my thoughts. They didn’t rule my day. They could no longer taint my attitude. Because I was and am looking forward to something.
You can look forward to the same something. In the midst of hard times, dashed expectations, unwanted change, or devastating loss, you can look forward to this glimpse of future glory Peter offers. His words are a mere taste of what’s to come, just the trailer of the glorious, unending movie where everything good happens in the eternal lives of believers at once and forever.
And though I haven’t heard soundtrack for the movie, I know it will be heavenly!
by jphilo | Aug 4, 2014 | Church Newsletter Columns
For momentary, light affliction is producing for us
an eternal weight of glory far beyond all comparison,
while we look not at the things which are seen,
but at the things which are not seen; for the things which are seen are temporal,
but the things which are not seen are eternal.
2 Corinthians 4:17–18
The past month’s news has been a parade of one horrible event after another. An ebola epidemic in west Africa. Refugee children flocking into the country only to learn they aren’t welcome. Israel and Gaza at war. A passenger plane shot down by a missile.
The parade is never-ending. Sometimes, I can’t stand to listen anymore and turn off the news. I don’t even want to exist in this ocean of sorrow. I don’t want a job where parents of kids with special needs email with problems I can’t solve. I don’t want to live in a country where people hold up signs and scream obscenities at innocent children. I don’t want live in a world, which the Bible says, will end with death and destruction on a massive scale.
“Lord, take me home now,” I beg. “Bring me into your presence so Jesus and I can spend our days together. So we can sit by the swimming pool and sip fruity drinks decorated with tiny umbrellas, eat bon bons, and discuss the latest Sue Grafton mystery novel.”
So far, God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit have not come to consenus concerning the granting of my heartfelt and perhaps misguided and selfish request. More likely, thanks to some prayer intervention by Jesus, God the Father has directed the Holy Spirit to perform more internal heart reconstruction inside me so I’m ready when the time comes for me to go home.
God alone knows when that day is. He alone knows when my earthly work and yours is done. He alone knows when the eyes of our hearts are prepared to appreciate the glory waiting in heaven. In light of the reality of our God who holds our return tickets home close to his chest, how do we keep the actions of broken people in a broken world from breaking our hearts and destroying our faith? I know only one way to survive and even thrive in this world of sorrow.
By looking to Jesus. Jesus, who left his glorious home in heaven to live among us. Compassionate Jesus, who loved and welcomed children with special needs. Innocent Jesus, who listened as people shouted obscenities at him. Jesus the Lamb, who died on the cross to redeem broken people living in a broken world. Risen Jesus, who ascended into heaven and sits on the throne. King Jesus, whose reign will end death and destruction forever.
To survive and thrive when the parade of bad news never ends, we must not be consumed by the sorrows of this earth. Instead, we must see them through the lens of hope. Hope in the unseen eternity yet to come. Hope in Christ, who entered into our temporary light afflictions to produce an eternal weight of glory on our behalf.
Turn your eyes upon Jesus,
Look full in His wonderful face,
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim,
In the light of His glory and grace.
Photo Credit: papaija2008 at www.freedigitalphotos.net
by jphilo | Jul 21, 2014 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
Last week, my heart grew heavier and heavier
as the media reported more and more bad news.
Downed airliners.
Fighting in the Middle East.
People in this country shouting at refugee children,
holding ugly signs telling them to to home.
I gave God an earful.
I told him I wasn’t sure about living in a world as cruel as this,
a world stripped of loveliness and compassion,
a world devoid of beauty.
And then, God answered,
as He so often does,
on my morning walk.
I looked up,
and there on the edge of the woods,
stood a doe.
Immobile.
I walked closer and closer
to where she stood sentry.
Closer than I’ve ever been to a deer before.
Close enough to see
her heavy udder,
her swollen teats.
She bravely held her ground,
watching over a hidden fawn,
trembling,
but never flinching
as I passed by.
Then, at the end of my walk
as I ascended our driveway,
God spoke again.
A male indigo bunting,
very small,
very young,
sat on the gravel only a few steps away.
He hopped about,
flew into the bushes unsteadily,
then flew with wobbly precision across the driveway
and perched in one tree,
then on the dead branch of another.
I stood,
transfixed by the courageous bird,
patchy with iridescent blue feathers
and intoxicated
with the freedom of flight,
until he took wing again
and flew away.
“My world is filled
with brave mothers,
with courageous children,”
He said.
“My world is filled with beauty.”
by jphilo | Feb 20, 2014 | Three Thoughts for Thursday
- A favorite childhood memory: me and the sibs pooling our allowance to buy Dad’s favorite Christmas and birthday present–a tin of Kentucky Club pipe tobacco–at our local Rexall Drug Store. I don’t think the CVC pharmacy chain will use our family’s brand of nostalgia for any ad campaigns after October, 2014
- HOPE = The touch of mild breeze on the cheek and warm sunshine penetrating a winter coat while shoveling 3 inches of wet snow off the sidewalk. Spring is coming!
- As much as I love writing, the Sochi Olympics have me considering figure skating as a new profession. I’m beginning the career switch with a wardrobe overhaul and could use some advice.
- So, do you prefer electric blue, bright red, or gold lame for a costume?
- Concerning embellishments, would you choose abundant rhinestones, abundant feathers, or abundant skin-colored mesh?
- And finally, do you prefer traditional white skates, skin-colored skates, or skates dyed to match a perky, kicky, glittery skate costume?
Leave a comment and thanks for your help!
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