Seeing God's Hand

     A week ago I took Reed to the E.R. He had another episode of SVT, supra ventricular tachycardia, the first two words identify the location in the heart that is out of rhythm, the third means it is beating fast. Reed is not a musician, he is actually tone deaf, but heart rhythm is a required subject for everyone. The first incident happened in Sept. 2021. They rebooted his heart with a med the same way we would a computer, shut it off briefly, and turn it back on. The hand of God was in that whole event because the ensuing examination of his heart revealed that the main artery was 90% blocked, which could have led to a serious heart attack. To prevent that, they inserted a stent through his wrist and put him on a lot of medications, some of which he would have already been on if he had not gone five years without seeing a doctor. He was also instructed to exercise and to eat like the 65 year old he was, not the 25 year old he wished he was.

    So this episode of SVT he handled much differently. The 66 year old did not try to finish up at work before going to E.R. and he called me to pick him up instead of driving himself. God handled this episode with the same sovereign shaping of circumstances He has used for ages. Reed woke up that frigid December morning at 5 a.m. with the feeling that either a door was open or the heat was off in one of the hangars. Knowing he would not be able to get back to sleep until he checked, he drove out to work. The doors were fine, but the heater in the office was not working. Because of that when he came to work later that morning, he called Trevor, who handles the owner's facilities, to come look at it with him. So Trevor was with Reed when his heart went out of rhythm and stayed with him until I arrived to get him. God's hand provided someone to be at the hangar when Reed normally would have been alone. And this saved me from a frenzied drive to the airport, trying to monitor him by phone and wondering if he would be able to open the gate to let me in.

   This takes us back to the beginning of the story--waiting in the E.R. While I was sitting there, the Lord spoke into my mind, Do you see my hand in this? How could I not? A blind atheist could see God's hand in the circumstances. Besides the above, one of the E.R. nurses was a flight nurse for ALERT and knew Reed. Another of the nurses sometimes experiences SVT himself and suggested a couple natural means for getting a heart back in rhythm, which unfortunately did not work for Reed, but the med did. Although the staff was prompt and professional, both Reed and the atmosphere were calm. I did not for one moment fear that nine months from the day I lost my son, I would also lose my husband. But I could not stop myself from reminding the Lord that he could have saved Tracy. And He answered me, I did. I could not argue with that. He certainly did. 

     As much as I would have liked to have Tracy around for this blip on the monitor we mortals call a lifespan, what I wanted with every beat of my heart, was for Tracy to be in heaven with the rest of the family for all eternity. God's hand led Tracy faithfully, despite the years of wandering and wondering, to the place where both he and we knew for certain, that Christ had claimed him. That is the saved that matters. Just as the med stopped Reed's heart for a moment to restore it to proper rhythm, the Lord's answer I did, reset my mind to what saved really means. I see it now, Lord, thanks for the hand.

The Birds Do Not Doubt

  

     We are experiencing what the weather doomcasters like to call a "brutal" storm. Single digit temperatures, wind and snow. This used to be called winter weather. Alerts about winter driving dangers sound like previews for Fear Factor. I do not enjoy driving on snowy highways, that is why I have an SUV with studded snowtires and heated seats. But for the love of Frosty, we're driving station wagons, not Conestoga wagons! I am secretly, okay not really secretly, really hoping some of the transients that breezed into northern Montana with no plan of where to live, and definitely no plan of where to work, will let these frigid winds blow them to friendlier locales--like Frisco. 

     But when I finished figuring out what everybody is doing wrong, it was a pleasure to observe what God's creatures are doing right, especially the birds.

 

The Birds Do Not Doubt

 

The birds do not doubt You

as they fluff their feathers 

against the frigid wind and weather.

Though the deepening snow will hide

so much of their food supply,

The birds do not doubt You, why do I?

 

Sheltered from the cold and wind,

I watch the swirling snow that blows,

 warm and safe looking out my windows.

I know we will have enough to eat

though snow piles many inches high.

The birds do not doubt You, why do I?

The birds do not have decades of

memories of your faithful love.

They cannot read the scriptures

to find comfort in your words.

They trust their Creator's watchful eye.

The birds do not doubt You, why do I?

The birds know loss, that life is brief,

the cruelty of Creation's curse,

yet still they search for food,

build nests, seek mates,

raise young, and sing--and fly.

The birds do not doubt You, nor should I.

 

 

Christmas Mourning

 

    Reed asks me how I can write such hard things. I can write them because that is what I am feeling. For me writing is what makes it better. In terms a mechanic would understand, it is my pressure release valve. We learned in Griefshare that articulated grief heals faster and even if it didn't, even if it did not help me or anyone else, I would still need to write.

 

Christmas Mourning

 

There was so much excitement on Christmas morning

when you kids were little,

stockings full of treats--even before breakfast.

It was controlled excitement though,

presents were opened one at a time

after telling something nice or fun

about the people who gave them.

 

Later, when you all were grown,

Christmas morning became calmer,

quieter, though our traditions continued.

Now your brother and sister

 have children and traditions of their own,

and the excitement of Christmas morning

has been reborn in our granddaughters.

But this year will be different

we have no pattern, no tradition

 for this kind of Christmas morning.

You are in heaven for this one

and I know, regardless of any celebration there,

that you are in a much happier

and more beautiful place than our home.

My mind accepts this, but my heart does not.

How can we have Christmas without our youngest son?

How can we still be a family 

when someone so loved,

such a big part of all of our lives, is missing?

This holiday, though still a gift of God,

 will begin with Christmas mourning. 

12/16/22

 

 

Should Have Seen That Coming

     The CDC, whose job it is to anticipate and intervene in contagious disease spread, seems mystified that Americans are not only ignoring their Covid booster, but forgoing the flu shot as well. They should have asked me, I made that prognosis two years ago. The CDC pushed the self-destruct button on their own credibility through their piecemeal propaganda about the Covid vaccine.

 

• The vaccine will keep you from getting Covid.
• Oops, you will still get it, but not bad enough to need a hospital. 
• Okay, you might wind up in the hospital, but you won't die.
• Sorry, you might die anyway.

    This is why I do not believe there was a government orchestrated conspiracy to spread mindless submission to the populace, although only the government could a sabotage a scheme so thoroughly. You do not inspire mindless submission by repeatedly repudiating what you just said. Citizens of a country founded on rebellion against their government do not take lies lying down. 

    So you see, CDC, the reason so many people are not getting the flu shot this year is because you lied to us about the Covid vaccine. Through the course of Covid, we realized CDC recommendations are actually just a shot in the dark. Americans did build up antibodies though, we grew immune to you, if not to the flu. And since anticipating effects is what you do for a living, you really should have seen that coming.

Be It Unto Me

   Since I have nearly a month until the next BSF class, I decided to study something besides Amos over Christmas break. The gospel accounts of Jesus' birth are a logical fit. The application I found as I meditated on Mary and Joseph's roles in Jesus' birth, is that cooperating with God's plan is, at its core, simply a choice to be obedient. An angel showed up to announce God's plan, but he didn't stick around to defend Mary and Joseph from the ugly rumors that followed them all their lives. Mary knew that would be the cost of her obedience, yet still she chose, "Be it unto me as you have said." The angel did not tell her Joseph would die before Jesus' ministry began, or that she would witness her son's gruesome death, or that Jesus would leave her behind when He returned to heaven at a young age. Those, too, would be the price of her Be it unto me.

    God's plan at this time, this painful walk of grief, seems impossible to me. But I, too, have a choice to make. I can choose to face this as a matter of obedience to God and to His plan to take Tracy to heaven at a young age. Instead of focusing on my ability to bear the consequences of God's plan for my son, I can focus on my choice to cooperate with it. I can choose, like Mary, to do what God asks of me which, right now, is that I need to feel this sorrow. I asked the Lord to help me heal, this is apparently how He will do it. And I have a much better helper than a here today, gone tomorrow angel. I have the Holy Spirit indwelling me--for keeps. He will not protect me from the pain of loss, but He can give me the strength to endure it. There is not a submissive "handmaid of the Lord" bone in my body, but my stubborn will has the power to choose Be it unto me.

Two Wreaths

   

 

    One of the Griefshare Surviving the Holidays suggestions was to decorate our loved one's grave. As you can see by the picture, the day was gray and dreary. Nevertheless, we hung a wreath on his memorial bench and staked solar lights, even though the cemetery closes after sunset and no one but those in the neighboring properties would be there to see them come on. It was just one more instance of doing the best we can with the choices left to us, unsatisfying choices, far removed from what our hearts want so desperately--to see him and not his grave.

 

Two Wreaths

One hangs by our home's front door.

One rests where your body lies.

 

One for joy, one for sorrow.

One for peace and one for pain.

 

One for birth and one for death.

One looks forward, one looks back.

 

One for the Savior, born to die.

One for the son He came to save.

 

Woven together for all time,

 like a wreath, God's Son and mine

           One.           

 

 

 

More Than Mine

    Writing is my coping mechanism and the holidays have brought a cornucopia of memories to cope with. I was trying to block them so I would not feel so sad. But the Lord has told me that by doing so I am forgoing the pleasure of the memory and feeling only the pain. So I will try to let them come--baby Tracy snuggled against my neck, my 4 year old last-child-at-home buddy, and so many others. The Lord reminds me those memories are mine to keep. They are a gift He is trying to give me. 

 

More Than Mine 

Child of mine,

son, grown man,

whose life was always

in God's hands,

your time of death

was His to plan.

 

Mine to love,

but not to keep,

you're safe with Christ,

though your body sleeps,

yet you are more 

alive than me.

  

And when I reach

my ordained time,

I'll seek your touch,

but first I'll find 

pierced hands that loved you

more than mine.

Twilight with Tracy

    On the drive home from a day trip to Missoula, after being with Reed's sister's family, whose loss is so much newer than my own, my thoughts were swirling as I looked out the window at the night sky. Just then God brought to mind the memory of when Tracy and I hitched a ride on a Semitool jet to Phoenix.

    Trace was 14. We must have been doing home school by then or he wouldn't have been able to come with me that January. I redeemed our Marriott points for a hotel room that was only a couple blocks from where the pilot was staying. We weren't going to be there long enough to need a rental car, so that location would make it convenient for him to pick us up when it was time to return to Montana. Tracy brought his skateboard to do tricks in some available parking lot. It was over 60 degrees there and I remember the two of us walking in the bright blue twilight to a Red Lobster near our hotel. There were date palms lining the street and dates lying on the sidewalk. At Red Lobster, our waiter approached from behind Tracy, who had long hair at the time. He asked what we ladies would like tonight before he saw Tracy's face and realized his mistake. I smiled, not being fan of his long, unkempt hair. 

    I don't remember what we ate. That was not important to the atmosphere I was trying to capture. There are times I deliberately try to impress in my mind as if I was making a video. I call them memorized moments--Bavarian themed Leavenworth, WA with Christmas lights and music playing, three year old Brie at Snappy's fish pond, the warm sand and the sound of the ocean on our last trip to Gleneden beach, and others. After we got back to the hotel, I watched Tracy swim in the much-too-cold-for-me outdoor pool. It is a vivid memory, despite the two decades that have passed since then. God's timely gift to steady my thoughts. A treasured time kept safe for me by the One who keeps my treasured son. We should savor our special blue twilights, for we do not know when our nights may come.

Because of Christ

Because of Christ

 

We once were enemies--God and I.

Though, I kind of liked knowing he was around

in case I needed him to handle

something I could not manage on my own.

In that case, I might ask him.

But I worried he might ask 

something of me in return.

And that would not do.

I had plans for my life

and strength of my own to carry them through.

Or so I thought.

And now we are friends--God and I

sitting at the same table.

Not that I did anything to earn an invitation,

He invited me, must have been a hundred times.

Until, out of excuses, I finally came.

His strength, I found, was not so much

in those grand interventions I planned to ask for,

but in the small, daily graces

I hadn't even noticed 

until we changed from enemies to friends.

Because of Christ.

 

What I Hope to Say

     One of our Griefshare exercises last week was to write a non-mailed letter to the person you are angry at about the death of your loved one. I cannot be too angry at the drug dealer without becoming more angry at Tracy, but this expresses what I hope I might say as a victim impact statement when, and if, his case ever goes to court. I will not use his name lest it would in any way jeopardize the case. 

 Drug Dealer: 

    I believe two things that seem contradictory by human standards. The first is that my son Tracy died because it was his God appointed time. The Bible teaches that. Ps. 139:16 says, “Your eyes saw my unformed body, all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” The second is that Tracy died because you sold him, and he took, fentanyl poisoned drugs. The fact that God appointed March 22^, 2022 as the day my son would die, does not absolve you of your guilt for selling him the drugs that killed him. There had  been enough fentanyl overdose deaths already that Tracy should have known not to take them. Until then, he had been off drugs for six years. And you, who make a living selling drugs, should have known about the fentanyl problem. 

    As someone whom Christ has forgiven, I feel compelled to forgive you. I want you to pay the legal penalty for causing my son’s death, but I also want you to know Christ’s forgiveness. Otherwise, you will bear the guilt of killing Tracy for all eternity. I don’t think he would want that for you. Trace was very understanding of human frailty. The other contradictory thing is that God’s forgiveness does not remove the legal consequences of our actions. I want you to pay for what you have done and I want you locked away where you can’t bring this agony to another family like ours. 

    Tracy was six weeks from graduating from aircraft mechanic school. He had already earned one of his certifications. For 18 months he had been a top student in his class while working more than full-time as an auto mechanic to support himself. He was already a gifted mechanic and was planning to become a pilot as well. He had many friends, a family who loved him, and a good future ahead of him. God’s plans for him were different from ours, and better, but I want you to know something about the man whose life you took. 

   Until recently, I didn't even know how to spell your name. I don’t know you at all. I’m sure you have friends and family who love you too, and I’m sure they are suffering also because of this. That’s what sin does. It hurts people who don’t deserve it. But God forgives people who don’t deserve it, and I want that for you, in spite of what you did to my son, because of what God's Son did for me.

The Avenger of Blood

    Long before there was a wild west there was murderous middle east. Killing was invented millenia before the court system. Back then, the death penalty was carried out in house. The family's appointed avenger of blood executed the offender. Apparently that was the reason Cain was so afraid of receiving vengeance for Abel's death. After all, everyone alive back then was family, they would all take Abel's death personally. We know the avenger system was still in place when Israel moved into the promised land because God commanded them to designate cities of refuge. These were not like our self-proclaimed refuge cities that exempt themselves from immigration, and other, laws. Israel's cities of refuge were to protect those who unintentionally killed someone from the avenger of blood. If the city judges determined the death was accidental, the offender was safe as long as he remained in the city. He was fair game, however, if he decided to leave the refuge.

     The reason I am thinking about this is because our son was killed by a lethal dose of fentanyl laced drugs. It goes without saying that Tracy should not have used the drugs. He had been off drugs for six years, alcohol was the temptation that kept coming back. But a dealer sold him the drugs that took his life and that is some form of murder. Tracy already paid the price for his mistake. But the man our daughter worked so diligently to identify for law enforcement by hacking her brother's phone, to the best of our knowledge, has not even been arrested. We learned in Griefshare that such things usually take two to three years. So if the avenger of blood option ever became available, Tracy's dad would be happy to carry out sentence.

     A father recognizes from the time he holds his newborn in his arms, that he is responsible to protect his child. That protectiveness does not go away when his children are grown. I remember the shock I felt as a new mom when I realized I was not only willing to die to protect my baby, I was willing to kill to protect her. Mothers are protective too, but men and women express this differently. When Reed first told me about his desire for vengeance, I was a little shocked. But when he has said this to other men, none of them have raised an eyebrow. It seems perfectly normal to them. The desire for justice, the urge to protect, are hard wired into most men. 

    Years ago when I worked as a CNA at the hospital, I took care of a man who was the most ordinary, unassuming person you could imagine. He told me that the pedophile who abused his three year old granddaughter could not be prosecuted because children under age four were not old enough to testify in court in Montana. That is why this known pedophile deliberately targeted such young children. His granddaughter became fearful of all men, including her grandfather. The man told me openly and unashamedly that if he ever caught the pedophile alone, and it sounded like he searched regularly, he would shoot him. The punishment sounded fitting, it just did not seem to fit the mild mannered man before me.

    Since we do not live in Helena, know what the dealer looks like, or even his last name, we will have to wait for the legal system to deal with him. And if earthly justice is not realized, God will judge him. I comfort myself in this period of waiting by remembering the ancient adage, "The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding fine." The Lord is the ultimate avenger of blood.

    

See To It

     I began this blog on March 22, the day Tracy died. Not surprisingly, I have had other priorities since then, but I wanted to get back to this topic because it is so common in our current Christian media. In March we were studying Matthew 24 in BSF. The disciples had asked Jesus what would be the sign of his coming and of the end of the age. He starts by talking about false Messiahs and wars, but that is just the appetizer, the entree, sides and dessert are progressively more terrifying in this dual fulfillment prophecy. But in the way God has of making me notice verses that must have been in scripture all along, this time through I keyed in to verse 6, ". . .but see to it that you are not alarmed. Such things must happen, but the end is still to come." I found it interesting that amidst prophecy that makes modern doomscrolling look like the Sunday comics, our Savior says, "see to it that you are not alarmed." He is so out of touch with our current culture. 

    Panic pays. People who are not alarmed do not give money to programs that search world news, internet rumors, and arcane knowledge to provide fresh material to be alarmed about. People at peace do not pay to hear guest speakers divulge the latest list of things to stress about. These influencers seem to believe that if they pile the world's woes into a high enough stack, Jesus will look down from heaven, see our tower of terror, realize the planet has gotten out of control, and come back to Earth. Acting not as a sovereign Savior, but as a parent threatening, don't make me come down there. We are attempting to build a reverse Tower of Babel that Christ can use as a stairway to earth. There are a number of problems with this tower of trouble theory. 

Jesus is not coming back because:

• The world is out of control.  He knows He is in control.
• We have cut and pasted prophecy to fit current events.  God wants us to apply His Word, not edit it.
  
• We do not want to face upcoming difficult situations or death.  Those are the materials He uses to build our faith, character, and testimony as Christians.
• Morals are lax and the government is corrupt.  He could have looped right back to Rome for those reasons.
• American Christians are being persecuted.  He told all believers to expect persecution. U.S. believers are neither exempt from, nor unworthy of, the privilege of suffering for Christ.
• Ungodly American culture. The U.S. is not prophetically significant. Jesus' ETA is about fulfilling prophesies regarding the restoration of Israel and the fullness of Gentile salvation.
• Secret conspiracies and worldly agendas.  Jesus has unlimited access to our secrets and laughs at humanistic agendas.

     Rather than considering it a Christian duty to spread speculation and alarm, it is, in view of Mt. 24:6, disobedience to a command of the Lord. If our testimony to unbelievers is that we are not quite sure God is in control and we radiate worry instead of peace, we have the power to change where our eyes are focused. See to it.

 

The Chair Across From Mine

The Chair Across From Mine

 

 His chair across from mine

at the holiday table

will not be empty.

Someone will take his place,

though only in that respect.

Even the Manufacturer does not offer 

identical replacements. 

My youngest son was, is,

though much like his dad,

uniquely himself.

 

 On this new season

of firsts, of loss,

 despite the loving family

that will come together

to celebrate the blessings

uniquely our own,

and the God who gave them,

we will be as full and empty

at our holiday table

as the chair across from mine.

 

 

   After sharing my concerns about not seeing Tracy in his usual place across the table at our holiday dinners, our Griefshare group had some good suggestions--sit in a different chair/ask someone specific to sit there, tell them why/sit in Tracy's chair myself. So simple. So practical. So far from my own thoughts. So glad I brought it up with people who understand.

 

The Ghosts of Christmas

     For many years my anticipation of the holidays was shadowed by the Ghost of Christmas Past. Not the memories themselves, but the disembodied memories of feelings from Christmas seasons shadowed by my mom's schizophrenia. As early as September, I would start becoming restless, as if something beyond my sight was stalking me. On the positive side, I exercised often. Often, when I should have been sleeping. Eventually, the Ghost arrived later and later in the holiday season. And a couple years after Mom died, it did not come at all.

     Now I am being visited by the Ghost of Christmas Future, the specter of holidays yet to come without Tracy. At least, I think that is why I am having trouble sleeping. Insomnia does not come with an explanatory note. I am not thinking of anything in particular because I have no frame of reference for a holiday dinner table without Tracy sitting across from me. Or opening gifts without him stationed in the recliner, pretending to ignore his nieces. On a positive note, I am getting more exercise. Unfortunately, it too, is in the middle of the night. But the ghost of energy past stopped visiting me long ago, so my wee hours workout is mostly stretching.

     Perhaps, in time, this specter will also fade away, or at least visit me after I've had a full night of sleep. The Christmases yet to come will leave beautiful new memories, the old memories will be welcome, the feelings warm, instead of sad. God's grace will gently help me face all the Ghosts of Christmas.     

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

Accidental Pagan

    Halloween will be here soon. My memories of Halloween are all positive--carving pumpkins, making (because we couldn't afford) costumes, trick or treating. Going myself as a child, my biggest worries were that big kids would steal my candy, the paper grocery bag that held the candy would give way from the rain or snow, or that some of the homes would give those disgusting Banana Bike taffies. When I was a little old for trick or treating, I was assigned the duty of taking my younger brother and sister. I stood back so it would not look like I was trying to get candy, but I secretly hoped the residents would notice me standing there and give me some. There were some sketchy houses in Missoula even back then, and I would make Roddy and Robyn throw away the candy from those places.

      The days of letting kids trick or treat unsupervised were over by the time we had ours and our first home in Kalispell was not on the best side of town so, once again, I stood on the sidewalk waiting for kids. This time I was not hoping they would share some of the candy, I was already planning which treats would be my commission for parental supervision. Carving pumpkins. Coming up with costumes. Handing out candy. None of these are evil. The memories are sweet.

    When my sister moved to Kalispell, I got to continue family traditions with her kids in the form of Aunt Connie day. Although there were Halloween alternative parties by then, carnivals held at churches or schools, those were not usually on Halloween night, so I took Alex and Amanda trick or treating in our over-dark, under-served neighborhood. Since the lots are large on our street and there are no streetlights on our end, few kids come, so the residents tend to lavish candy on whoever shows up. Besides, it was a good chance to catch up with my neighbors and show off my niece and nephew, who actually got store bought costumes. I enjoyed the visits because Halloween, thankfully, is not a drinking holiday. Although, when we lived in Helena, I found out every holiday was a drinking holiday.   

     This is an area where Christians are free to disagree. It is similar to the meat sacrificed to idols dilemma of Paul's day, except Paul was not writing about pagan customs from hundreds of years before, long forgotten by Roman culture. This meat, if it was halfway fresh, had just been sacrificed to a false god by someone who might have just passed you on the street. To those intimidated by the idol connection, eating it was sinful, to those who recognized the impotence of idols, it was just cheap steak.

    I find it hard to believe the devil has nothing more important to do than watch kids in costumes get candy. Satan's power is neither that trivial nor that omnipresent. He has rulers to sway, media to influence, pronouns to prefer. And there are holidays much more suited to sin--Carnival in South America, Mardi Gras in New Orleans, the Harley rally in Sturgis--where the themes are to get rowdy, drunk and, at least partially, naked. Same theme any day in Las Vegas. Big cities don't require a holiday to get rowdy, they have raves where monkeypox is one of the more benign things that gets spread. Demons would probably feel right at home there.

     Cremation has pagan origins, yet I don't know anyone who had a loved one cremated out of pagan beliefs. Most of our holidays have some connection with pagan practices, but if I have to go back hundreds of years to be offended by them, I would just as soon skip the trip. Whether I am standing under the mistletoe, saying bless you when someone sneezes, helping my granddaughters hunt Easter eggs, or handing out candy to trick-or-treaters, I am not afraid of becoming an accidental pagan.

Drop the Mic

     I recently attended a memorial service that many of us expected to be stressful. There is always stress when suicide is involved and this was complicated by a recent divorce. We requested lots of prayer for the memorial, which was basically refreshments and pictures of the departed. I was so glad they did not have an open mic. Letting people share remembrances, done right, gives a fuller picture of the one who has died. The problem is, there is no control of the done right part. The open mic is frequently used to share off color stories, inside jokes that most of those attending don't understand, and sometimes things that have nothing to do with the person who died. Some people just love the sound of their own voice. And even sharing happy memories of the deceased can be painful for families who experienced a whole different version of that person.

    What is shared at memorials should be a balance between not speaking ill of the dead and reality. My Dad attended a funeral for a coworker, a known philanderer who was only still married because his wife had the patience of a saint. When the preacher glowingly described him as a devoted husband and family man, Dad thought he was at the wrong funeral. My friend Evelyn had left an abusive husband who had, among other things, charged her rent for the privilege of living with him. She had been separated from him for more than a decade before he died. But her children, including the one so afraid of her father that she sometimes wet her pants, expected Evelyn to get up and say something good about him at his memorial. What she managed to come up with was that he taught their children to work hard--she left out the part where they were terrified not to. 

    I enjoyed the service where the pastor shared that among the dying woman's eulogy instructions, he was told to "cut the crap". Perhaps I liked her directness because she sounded like me, we even shared the same first name. On the other hand, at a service in our church a year ago, one of the daughters took so long in her eulogy of her father, her brother had to physically move her away from the microphone. Another hazard of an open mic, is that a trashy person might use the opportunity to air grievances against the deceased or his family. My favorite version of sharing at a memorial, is when a family member reads what others have prepared ahead of time. Few people would be willing to put a questionable story in writing and, even if they did, the reader could leave it out. And, if people are anything like me, their written stories are shorter because writing takes longer than talking.

    Knowing there were already some hard feelings among the mourners at Saturday's service, an open mic could have lead to open hostility. It was an answer to my prayers that they chose to drop the mic.

Labor Day Labor

   Our family Labor Day tradition is to labor. On a family member's house project. Usually roofing. Usually for Britten and Luke, who have put new shingles on every house they have bought. Thanks to a recent hail storm, their 3 - 5 year timeline for replacing their roof became a before winter project. Specifically, this holiday weekend was dedicated to removing the old shingles. This task turned out to be more labor intensive than expected because most of the shingles were stuck directly to the wood instead of the usual underlayment. The labor pool included Britten and Luke, of course, (even Brie got to help by pulling nails) Will and Reed. Em watched the girls most of the time and I took a turn as well. Painfully absent, was Tracy. He helped with almost all of the family projects. Even when Tracy's life was a mess in other ways, he was there to help when work needed doing. Work is what bonded our adult children together. 

    I know Trace is better off in heaven than on a roof or at our dinner table, but we are not. The family, including Tracy's girlfriend, Amanda, and her daughter, gathered at our house for dinner when the Labor Day labor ended. We ate, visited and enjoyed the antics of the granddaughters, who hardly spent any time in the swimming pool but were naked most the the time anyway. We gave each of the children and granddaughters money from the tithe of Tracy's life insurance. Amanda, as well. I put the checks in envelopes with pictures of each of them with Tracy. It broke my heart to make them and theirs to get them, but I wanted them to know the money was from Tracy, not us. I may write Trace another letter, to tell him what he missed. And what we missed. It was a comfort to continue our family labor on Labor Day tradition, but the comfort was as incomplete as our family. There are some holes that only God can patch.

Mrs. Job

    I have been reading Job lately for my daily devotions. Of course. Job is practically a textbook for anyone suffering loss. It is not a soft, cuddly comfort animal for those in pain, it is a prickly porcupine of worst case scenario. No matter how bad your circumstances may be, Job's are worse. You feel better by comparison. But that is not the point of Job or why God made it one of the first scriptures written. The pervasive principle in Job is that circumstances are not what they appear. Suffering is not always the result of personal sin. Job callous "comforters" were so certain in their assumption that Job's suffering was the result of his sinfulness that they, his friends, made up sins they knew he had not committed to justify their belief. They would hardly have been friends with someone of the low character they ascribed to him.

    God vindicates Job in the end, but Mrs. Job has been vilified in almost every Job message I have ever heard. This is based on four words in scripture recorded at the worst time of her life, "Curse God and die." Job, on the other hand, sang eleven chapters worth of  "Poor, Poor Pitiful Me." 11 chapters, 274 verses, versus 4 words spoken after losing 10 children and most of their livelihood. Having recently lost one of our three children, I think Mrs. J showed remarkable restraint. Besides that, the Jewish tradition of sitting shiva, seven days of quiet support for the grieving, was not just for men. Job's fickle friends probably brought their wives along and, if the men were being that judgmental, their wives were probably worse. And what if Job, instead of replying to his grieving wife's, Curse God and die statement by calling her a foolish woman, said "I know it's hard, honey, but we must trust God." Why doesn't the compassion to the suffering Job claims in later chapters to be part of his upright character, extend to his own wife?

    Job is considered one of the earliest Bible books written. It not only reveals the unseen back story between heavenly powers and human events, it records the battle between our assumptions and God's truth. Job's friends had so firmly fastened prosperity to blessing, suffering to sin, and God's judgment with earthly circumstances that they could not comprehend the truth until God thundered it from heaven and condemned them by name. Why did we need to know these things early in human history? Because we are just the same. It is nearly impossible not to see what we are expect to. If you have ever heard someone else embellish an event you were a part of, you know what I'm talking about.

    That brings us back to the much maligned Mrs. Job. Just because she was not afflicted with the physical pain and sores her husband was, does not mean she was not suffering. His losses were hers. His restored blessings of wealth and children were also hers. She must have been a smokin' hot mama because, after giving birth to, raising and losing ten children, she bore Job ten more, including three devastatingly beautiful daughters. (Who probably took after her.) It is ironic that judging the Mrs. based on four words of the thousands she must have spoken during her lifetime is the same small minded presumption that got Job's friends in so much trouble. Having lost all ten of her children in one day, it is amazing she could compose herself enough to articulate anything. Here are my four words from one mourning mother to another, "You're amazing, Mrs. Job."

Choice Words From Habakkuk

   The You Version Bible app I have on my phone sends me a verse of the day. In the days following Tracy's death some of these were very helpful, some did not seem to apply. But the only verse that I have kept on my phone all these months is the one dated March 26th, two days after we found out about Tracy.

Habakkuk 3:17, 18

    Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vine, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Savior.

 

    It helps me because it came in that time of despair when I desperately needed to control something. I had no choice about the loss, but I can control my response to it. In some ways that is a no-brainer. There is no other God waiting around the corner that I can turn to. I have to trust the Lord I know, especially now that my son is with His. I would love to have Tracy here where I can enjoy and interact with him, but if I have to give someone I love into another's keeping, Jesus is my first choice. And if he has to relocate permanently somewhere other than here, heaven is definitely top of my list.

   In our Monday night prayer time for prodigals, Tracy was one of our success stories. I realize now he still is. I am happy that Tracy got sober, became responsible, regained his independence, self respect and the respect of others before he passed away, but what I wanted most for Tracy was to know he would be with the rest of our family for eternity in heaven and God answered that prayer. In fact, Tracy will be the one waiting for the rest of us to get there.

   Habakkuk had a hard choice to make. He prayed for judgment on his wicked people, knowing he would suffer with them, only to learn God would use an even more wicked nation to oppress them. I'm not sure I could be as resilient as Habakkuk about having no food, though Ukrainians are living both these realities right now. We do not get a pass or play option on the hard circumstances God brings into our lives, although we do get to phone a Friend. What we choose is how we respond. Though Tracy will not in this life follow his plans of being an aircraft mechanic or a pilot, though he will not live out the hopes I had for him of a home and family of his own, though I desperately miss his visits, calls and texts, yet I hope I can make Habakkuk's choice--to be joyful in God my Savior.

I Should Have Bought a T-Shirt

    If I had known my souvenir of our trip to Oregon was going to be sciatica, I would have bought a T-shirt instead. This trip was our first experience using VRBO (Vacation Rental By Owner). The unit and view were exactly as advertised. The balcony overlooked Siletz Bay and a parking lot, but the parking lot was for a nice little park. The rooms were clean and comfortable. Except for the bed. I  am not a fan of memory foam mattresses. I like being cuddled at bedtime, but not by my mattress. From the first night there, the bed and I did not get along. The squishy foam put pressure on my bad shoulder or back, depending on position. After the third night, my shoulder conceded the competition in favor of my back. Then my back decided to share the pain with my hip and thigh. My calf got off easy with only numbness. Sciatica, the gift that keeps on giving.

    My gift decided, uninvited, not only to come back to Montana with me, but to share the same seat in the car. I was very glad we divided the return trip into two days. By the time we got to Kennewick Saturday night, I thought I might have to ride on the luggage cart to get up to our room. The hotel mattress was better than the condo, but not enough to put out the fire in my hip. The next morning, Reed took me to a nearby e.r. so I could get pain meds to survive the trip home. The doctor did not answer my repeated question if the meds would last for the six hour drive to Kalispell, but I found out the answer for myself. They wore off when we reached St. Regis. Still, that was easier than the travel the day before.

    My family physician was not available to see me Monday, so I took pot luck with another doctor from the practice. His diagnostic questions were the same as the e.r., any loss of bladder control, numbness. Fortunately, my bladder did not get invited to the pain party. I eventually realized there was numbness in my calf, but I did not notice that until after the cortisone shot relieved some of the pain in my hip. Not to be outdone, the pain displaced by my happier hip moved back to where it came from, my lumbar spine. Kind of like evicting an unwanted guest from the house only to find he's moved into the garage. The doctor, having cured me to his satisfaction, and finding the massive spasm in my thigh of minimal interest, sent me on my way with a prescription for five muscle relaxants and physical therapy. I was not interested in another round of a therapist counting repetitions of exercises I can easily do at home, but found a clinic close to my house that uses dry needling to reduce inflammation. Today was my second session. We'll see.

    I spent more than I should have on our trip for toys and candy souvenirs for my granddaughters. And I'm in the process of spending way more money--between an e.r. visit, doctor appointment, drugs and physical therapy--on my VRBO souvenir. In my case VRBO meant Vertebrae Rearranging Bed Option. But, if I had known I would have no choice about bringing a souvenir home from Oregon, I would have bought a T-shirt.

     

To Have and to Hold

    Our daughter Britten made a keepsake quilt for us out of Tracy's old jeans. She had already made and given a small one to Tracy's girlfriend, Amanda. Britten gave us ours when we returned from Oregon, a belated birthday gift for Reed. She presented it rolled up and wrapped in a ribbon. I have planned for months to put it on Tracy's bed downstairs, but for now, I would rather hold it--and cry. It is the closest I can come now to hugging my son. A part of my Tracy to have and to hold. I have asked the Lord, since I can have no new memories with Tracy, to make my memories of his childhood more vivid. Holding the blanket triggers those memories of holding my baby, my little boy. 

    I know someday I will be ready to untie the ribbon and put the quilt to more practical use than a king sized handkerchief or a surrogate son. I am, by nature, a practical person. But for now it is a tangible connection to Tracy--to have and to hold.

The Voice of the Ocean

      It is possible to be an atheist in Montana but you have to work at it. It requires shutting your eyes to the beauty around you and that can be dangerous. You might bump into a tree, tumble down a mountain or fall into a river, maybe all three. At night, when those masterpieces are hidden, the stars come out to let you know that God is vast, brilliant and in control of his universe. When my heart is troubled, I drink in the calm quiet of the night sky with its massive stars in infinite numbers at unimaginable distances.  It comforts me to know every star is named by God and placed exactly where he wants it to be. But there is something different about the ocean. It speaks to me of God in another way.

     We recently made a trip to the Oregon coast. There is value in maintaining a normal routine after a loss, but there is also value in taking time to get away from that routine and rest. We needed that. Reed and I went to college in Salem, Oregon, which is only an hour away from the Pacific coast, so we had lots of opportunities to go. One of our favorite places to go was Lincoln City, so that is where we booked a condo. My favorite beach, Gleneden, is nearby, and was not even very crowded on the sunny afternoon we spent there. It had been a long time since I heard the voice of the ocean and, through it, the voice of God.

     The ocean is not calm, remote and quiet like the stars. The sea seethes and roars its way to shore. The same powerful waves chop the water and caress the sand. The God of the sea is vast, but He is also powerful and loud. He is not passively watching from the heavens to see what happens to the people and planet He created. He actively moves both nature and man in the tide of his timeless purposes. 

     I sat in the sand watching the tide go out and relaxing at the womb-like sounds of the sea. Sometimes I shut my eyes to the beauty around me so I could talk to God and listen to Him. It is possible to ignore the Voice of the ocean, but you have to shut your mind.

Four Months Ago Today

 

     This one needs no explanation. 

 

Four Months Ago Today

Life does not stop for sorrow, to let it out or in

the sun rises as always, the Earth retains its spin.

I go to the same places, follow the same routine,

though nights are sometimes sleepless and days are sometimes grim.

 

Four months today, you went away at God’s appointed time.

I know you live in heaven now--and in my heart and mind.

I prayed the Lord would show you that He is real and good

and now you see him face to face, as I wish so wish I could.

 

Yet God is good, as always, his blessings bring me joy.

I still have all my memories of you, my much loved boy.

God changed my life forever the day I gave you birth,

and changed my life for this short span the day you left the earth.

 

Life does not stop for sorrow, neither, it seems, can I.

No words within a parent’s heart can tell their child goodbye.

I, like the sun, keep moving through my appointed days

and miss the son that heaven gained, four months ago today.

7/22/22