It’s been a while, my friends. In my slowing and being still, I’ve created space. To allow new struggle and new wisdom and new healing. Oh, I’ve tried to make it happen. Numb is an awful place to be. But I can’t put words to what I haven’t yet experienced. Some things just take time. God’s, not mine. And I’m reminded what I’ve told you  many times. Be patient in the process.

More than ever, I’m seeking it. The peace of Christmas. About six months ago, I hit that wall of anxiety. Somehow, in the midst of chaos, I misplaced my peace and a bit of my shine. But, I’m getting it back.

I think about Mary birthing her first baby in that stinking stable ~ without mom or midwife or pain meds. But, I see her joy as she strokes his cheek and kisses his little nose. Can you sense her delight as the shepherds leave, excited to announce her miracle? She’s given birth to Immanuel, God with us. To Messiah, who’d save us from darkness.

Everything all sparkly and wrapped up in a bow, right?

Nope. I imagine in the midst of Christmas bliss, Mary remembered what she was told nine months earlier, “The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David … ” So she knew Jesus’ future held struggle and danger. She also knew about living under Roman rule, its oppression and violence.

And “Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.”

When Jesus was eight days old, a temple priest told her, “This child is destined to cause many in Israel to fall, and many others to rise. He is sent as a sign from God, but many will oppose him. As a result, the deepest thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your very soul.”

I bet that knocked the breath out of her for a second.

Mary didn’t understand it all. His birth, their future. But, I imagine she breathed deep, hugged that baby tight, and walked out of the temple ready to do what God called her to do. She simply believed and trusted him to do everything he promised. She didn’t place her peace in people, or an easy life, or her own dreams of security and happiness for herself or her baby.

But, I did. I misplaced my peace in all those things and even wondered if it was lost.

Somewhere along the line, I began to doubt my faith and my God. That he would do what he promises. I forgot about his gift of redemption. That he truly makes beauty out of ashes. I know it. I’ve experienced it. But I got a tad distracted.

So, in my slowing, I seek to simply believe again. Only deeper and higher and wider.

My friend, perhaps you’ve had the breath knocked out of you. In these days leading to Christmas, let’s ponder where we place our peace. It can be “elusive and fragile.”**  Let’s wrap it up snug to our chest. Treasure it, protect it. In the middle of joy and uncertainty, Immanuel calls us to a deeper trust.

Hang on, my friends.

“That time of darkness and despair will not go on forever … The people who walk in darkness will see a great light. For those who live in a land of deep darkness, a light will shine.” ~ Isaiah 9:1-2

Peace and Joy for your journey.

**Brian Wangler, http://c1naz.org/media/media-item/335/make-peace

 

All other quotes found in Luke, chapters 1 & 2

Photo from Pixabay.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jeff and I experienced countless military separations. I was used to being a temporary single parent and wasn’t worried about the added responsibility. But this time I was sending him into harm’s way. My mind was caught in a tug-of-war between duty and reality. Between “suck it up and soldier on” and processing this gut-twisting fear. I spent weeks processing the fact that he might die in Iraq.

My unhealthy habit was to stuff my fears. But, this one demanded attention. It was a daily, hourly, sometimes minute-by-minute decision to not panic.

I made a stubborn, raw choice  to choose faith over fear. 

Partly because I wanted to be strong for my kids. But mostly because I wanted to be free of worry and anxious thoughts. I wanted peace.

Conversations with God changed from, “God, he has to come home” to “Help me trust you no matter what.”

I’m glad my pastor asked, “What will you do if Jeff doesn’t come home?” Voicing my trust helped me surrender the outcome. “A part of me will die, but I’ll be okay … eventually … because God will be there.”

That’s all I had. No answers. Only faith and the promise that the same one – the Changeless One – who carried us through our daughter’s death, would be there again in the midst of my worst fears.

Jeff’s deployment day came. Preparations distracted me but fear doesn’t give up easily. What if he doesn’t come back? Refusing to let fear win, I placed pieces of home in his foot locker: family pictures and a love note smudged with grape jelly. It was pinned to a stuffed puppy and signed by nine-year-old Hannah, “Daddy’s Little Girl.”

We left early for Robert Gray Army Airfield so Jeff could arrive before his soldiers. Strong and handsome in desert fatigues, he eased the family van over dusty, cactus-flanked roads.

As he sang to the radio, I remembered him as a teenager driving his radio-less Nova. A little rectangle cassette player sat between us as he sang Elvis and Barry Manilow. He’d stick his head out the window to get the Rick Springfield look in his wavy, brown hair. We were carefree and immortal then. Now, he had that sexy crew cut and we were quite aware of his mortality.

Alone in the airfield’s parking lot, we walked to the back of the van to unload his gear. We lingered there in silent tears and embraces. Hannah clung to him, her arms tight around his waist, sobbing, “Daddy, I don’t want you to go.”

Knowing it might be our last moments together, made words seem urgent. Yet, they failed to express two hearts connected by twenty-three years of life’s darkest pain and deepest joys.

As we sat, shaded by the van’s hatch door, Jeff pulled out a book from his backpack. It symbolized his grandma’s prayers. She was a Salvation Army soldier fighting a different war. Opening the tattered, red hymnal, he sang into the face of fear:

“My Jesus, I love thee. I know thou art mine…
I will love thee in life; I will love thee in death,
And praise thee as long as thou lendest me breath;
And say, when the death-dew lies cold on my brow:
If ever I loved thee my Jesus ‘tis now.”

Jeff found words to express his trust in the one who knew our future. I rested my head on his shoulder as our Comforter wrapped us in peace. We knew, no matter what, we’d be okay. Even in the midst of our worst fears.

Next week, as twelve blessings gather around our Thanksgiving table, we’ll remember to embrace each day, thankful for each one and grateful that God is in all our tomorrows.

Sometimes faith requires a series of surrenders, my friends. Daily, hourly, minute-by-minute.

I pray today, if you’re wound up in worry, you’ll surrender the outcome and not let it rob you of today’s blessings.

“Be strong and very courageous. Do not be terrified. Do not be discouraged. For the Lord, your God, is with you wherever you go.”~ Joshua 1:9

Photos: Hannah and her daddy, March, 2004. Me and my hero, February, 2004. Photo by Kim Gibson.

I visited my mom on one of her not-so-good days. She was agitated and worried and not fully awake. The hardest part is leaving her. Sadness and anxiety well up. My chest and stomach get tight and achy.

The first half of my life, I stuffed painful emotions. One of the problems with that habit is it made me stuff good emotions too. I’m still learning that it’s okay to feel them all. Determined to live fully, I try not to hold them back.

On the drive away from the nursing home, I soaked up my favorite season. It was the end of September and pumpkin patches spread out beside big red barns. Damp leaves of orange, yellow, and brown dotted the grass and the cornfields.

Driving wide-open spaces helps me process my thoughts. On that winding country road, I let myself feel what I needed to feel. My heart hurt for my mom. I cried and talked out loud. About my fears, anger, and sadness. My meltdown not only helped me get it out but to make a conscious decision. I wasn’t going to miss a moment of Grandparent’s Day at six-year-old Ashley’s school.

Then anxiety snuck back up and pushed my brain too far ahead. I started to worry about the three-hour drive home I’d have later that evening. What time should I leave? I have so much to do and I’m already exhausted. Maybe I shouldn’t have committed to this.

As I did a quick change of clothes at my son’s house, I did a quick change of mind as well. I didn’t ignore the anxious thoughts but breathed in and opened a space for God to remind me that I didn’t need to figure it all out. Just do the next right thing. Go to Ashley’s school. Then be present and enjoy.

And enjoy, I did. Ashley ran to me, grinning big, showing her dimples and all those gaps where baby teeth used to be. Her strawberry blonde hair and blue eyes behind her little glasses stole my breath for a second and opened wide that space again to breathe and be in the moment. The now. The new. The joy. Grand-baby hugs are the best, aren’t they?

Happy tears wet my cheeks as I watched Ashley sing with her classmates. She stood tall, eyes on her teacher. A couple times she glanced over to make sure I was watching and we giggled. I savored the moments teaching her to fly a kite. She held on tight, a tad nervous as it soared and dived, whipped by the wind. Then, she held my hand as we went inside. There, we focused in the moment of decorating cookies with sweet, sticky, Barbie-pink frosting.

As I write, I’m reminded that God is doing new things. For Ashley Marie. For me. And for you, my dear friend. There’s always something to learn in the highs and lows of life. May we choose to be present in the moment, feel what we’re feeling, and create space for joy and peace.

Let’s give ourselves permission to love and live and grieve well.

 

 

 

 

Photos: Top: Ashley Marie, with rosy cheeks. She rocked that kite-flying in spite of 95 degrees & high humidity. And then there’s Snoopy. Because he makes us smile.

 

 

 

My dear Friends,

I’m here today to tell you, while I really want to write a shiny piece of encouragement, I’m gonna have to keep it short, simple, and sweet. I’m experiencing something familiar to many of you.

You see, my once strong, sassy mom is not well. Her dementia progressed so quickly a few weeks ago, we thought for sure she suffered a stroke. But, extensive testing shows nothing major occurred. She is in the late stages of dementia and it hurts to see her like that. Pain, confusion, anxiety.

As you know, grief is not new to me. So, I figured as I process it, I’ll just power on and through and write my blog and newspaper column and finish the second half of my book and manage my home and my ebbing hormones:) … and oh yes, build relationships, and babysit, and work hard at the candy store, and … and … and …

Sadness. Pain. Confusion. Anxiety.

My counsellor told me that yes, I know how to “do” grief. But, this is new. This is my mom. I’m grieving past, present, and future loss.  In some ways, it’s harder, with new depth and scary twists. I grieve what we didn’t have. What she’s enduring now. And pain, yet unknown, in the days to come without her.

So, this season ebbs and flows. As much as I want to Wonder Woman this, I’m slowing down. While I don’t want to feel this new pain, I don’t want to miss it either. I don’t want to miss what it will teach me and a new depth of God’s comfort and healing. I surrender to the process.

I’ll do as my counselor reminds me. I’ll breathe. And just Be.

And now a little love note wisps into my thoughts,

Robin, Be still.  And know I AM. ~God

Yes, my friends. That’s for all of us. Be still. May we give ourselves freedom and compassion and the courage to feel and heal and not lose sight of abundant, beautiful life around us. Joy and Grief really do co-exist.

Grace and Peace,

~Robin

 

 

Photo borrowed from Pixabay.com