A Trace

    My grandson is five days old and, as a grandmother and a writer, I feel a little guilty that I have not yet written a poem about him. I have already expressed how incredibly moving it was for me to find out Lee's middle name was Trace. And since very few of a baby's personality traits are revealed in the first week of life, (most infants are deceptively calm at that age) I think this first poem for my grandson will be about his name and his namesake.

A Trace

 

Oh grandson snuggled in my arms,

I know you're not my son reborn,

but your parents, in an act of grace,

gave you the middle name of Trace.

The nickname that I called my son

who died before you were yet born.

Your uncle would be glad to see

a nephew in this family.

He would have loved to have a boy

to teach the things that he enjoyed,

like finding lures the fish would bite,

or tools that fit the job just right.

 

Like Grandpa, Trace was one of those   

skilled to build or fix anything he chose--

except the hole he left behind

in our family's hearts and minds.

 

So you will have to wait a while

to hear his voice and see his smile,

 but though he's far from our embrace,

within your name he left a trace.

12/28/24

 

A Son is Given

    The Christmas after Tracy died, the verse that resonated most with me was Luke 2:35 a sword shall pierce through your own soul also. You are having a bad year when that is the verse that reflects your life. This year the Christmas verse that most applies is Isaiah 9:6 unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given. Our fourth grandchild, and first grandson, was born yesterday morning. Will and Emily chose to wait until delivery for the gender reveal, so they needed to choose names for either sex, just like we did in the olden days. I did not learn until they announced his arrival, that the name they had chosen for a son was Lee Trace Lamb. 

   They did not know, no one did, that my private prayer to the Lord for the past few months was the hope they might use some form of Tracy's name for their baby. I did not tell them because I would not put that kind of pressure on, what needs to be, their personal choice, not coerced by the wishes of a grieving mother. And I did not tell anyone else because I did not want them searching me for real or imagined signs of disappointment. I do not believe I would have been disappointed with another name. It would be hard to be disappointed about the birth of a grandchild, unless they named him Hitler. But I also knew that I would cry if they did use Tracy's name, and I did.

    When the Lord gives us children to steward through life, we know that someday He may ask us to give them back. To a career, marriage or ministry that takes them far away from home. To a tragedy that takes them home to heaven before us. God gave His only Son--to leave His home in heaven, to live on earth perfectly, to suffer painfully, to rise victoriously, so that those who believe in Him may enter His home in heaven freely. Our youngest son has made his home there for close to three years. And now into our family a new child has been born. Not the unique one in the Isaiah reference, but still a wonderful gift to help heal a painful loss. This Christmas we, too, can say unto us a son is given.

What Heaven Holds

      Last week we went to Fairview cemetery to decorate Tracy's grave for Christmas. I don't know how long we will keep this tradition, but it helps the winter bleakness a bit to know a wreath and lights rest near where his body does. It was at least partly sunny when we left Kalispell for our unwelcome task, but as we approached the cemetery, we drove into clouds, snow, and the wind that frequents the foothills. I had many things in mind to tell Tracy about, but the clouds and wind blew them from my mind. I did not even take a picture. I'm not sure I want to remember that day. Nor had I planned to write a poem about the event, but I was challenged by a fellow writer to match him poem for poem, and this was the result. 

 What Heaven Holds

 

I stand beside your resting place,

though snow and wind have not the grace

to grant me fleeting favor to

be still, while I spend time with you.

 

I know you don't reside in there

beneath dead grass and frigid air,

 yet when I'm here, I like to stop

to talk, as if we're catching up. 

But not today, when skies are gray

and wind weaves its irreverent sway,

to dance around the gravestones

from elderly to newborns.

 

I cannot tell how much you know

of happenings on this earth below,

the Bible says but little, by design.

Yet at your grave I use the time

 

to share the mundane matters of

the place and people that you love.

I do not need to hear from you

to know what you might say or do.

 

No earthly force can ever touch

the soul of him I love so much.

The winter wind blows bleak and cold 

but cannot reach what heaven holds.

12/22/24

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Home for Christmas

     Nearly all parents want their children to be home for Christmas, even the grown ones. This is the third year in a row Tracy will not be home for Christmas. Though his excuse for missing is indisputable, even wonderful, it also seems inexcusable for Christmas to come without Tracy. I was listening to assorted Christmas songs on Alexa as couple days ago and heard, for the first time, the song I am linking here--Christmas Lullaby/ I Will Lead You Home. For some reason, music written in three quarter time resonates with me more than other time signatures, and Amy Grant has a beautiful voice, but the thing I find most healing in this painful Christmas season is the message. Tracy is home for Christmas. It is the rest of us who are not.

The Space Where Love Has Been

    I have been needing to write this, have felt it growing inside me. Giving the structure of words to my sorrow helps me. But there are many all around us reaching out in different ways for strength to get through the bleakness that accompanies the beauty of the season. The memories that touch our hearts, remind us those we cannot touch.

 

 

The Space Where Love Has Been

 

 

A winter wind moves mutely toward

the Christmas wreath on my front door,

seeking out a broken place

for shelter in a warmer space

 

I decorate our Christmas tree,

each ornament a memory,

the twinkling lights too bright to hide

my brokenness concealed inside.

But sometimes I must let it in

the sad, but now familiar wind,

to join me in that wounded place,

warmth and winter, face to face.

 

At times we walk our separate ways,

go placidly about our days,

but Christmas beckons winter wind

to share the space where love has been. 

12/2/24

 

My Letter

     A member of our prodigals prayer group asked us if we were willing to send letters to her grandson in prison. Naturally, I will not give his name or any details. Several of the other ladies have already written him, but I did not ask them what they wrote or what verses they included. I decided to go with my gut, be real, tell our family story, and the scriptures that intersected with those events which helped us most. This is my letter.

Hi,

    I’m a member of your Grandma’s prayer group and remember you from church many years ago, Connie Lamb. My sister and her husband own Flathead Woodwind and Brass from back when you played trumpet. This is not the first time I’ve written to someone in prison, we used to house homeless boys for a while and some of their friends were in prison, but it has been nearly 20 years since then. I have been trying to think of what to say to encourage you. There are some verses in John 6 the Lord used to encourage us when we wondered if our youngest son would be with the rest of our family in heaven.   

     I’m sure your Grandma already told you about the remarkable thing God did for us when we took him to Rimrock for addiction treatment in 2016. Tracy wasn’t required to go, and was so nervous about going I wasn’t sure he would make it to Billings. As he sat by the roadside smoking, he said, “I will never believe in God because I can’t see Him and He can’t see me.” I prayed that God would show him that He was real and that He was good. At that very moment, a car pulled up behind us on the shoulder of the highway. The driver, Ryan, said he was on his way to Helena for an important meeting at work when the Lord told him to turn around and go talk to us. He said he argued with God about it for a few minutes before turning around, yet he arrived in the exact instant Tracy said God couldn’t see him. Ryan encouraged and prayed with us, but the main thing was, God showed all of us He was real. He was good. And he heard us. Back in the car Tracy said, “I will never doubt God again because of what He did for me today.” And I realized, God was reaching for my son and He could not fail to get whatever He was reaching for.

    Just in case I still had doubts, when we got home from Billings there was a letter from my Dad stuck in one of the many cards charities sent him, and the verse on the card happened to be John 6:37 “All those the Father gives me will come to me, and whoever comes to me I will never turn away.” The next day’s sermon at church happened to be on the same part of John 6. I now call those verses God’s cement. They were, and still are, encouraging to me, and I have shared them with many others. Jn 6:44 says, “No one can come to me unless the Father who sent me draws them, and I will raise them up on the last day. 45b says, “Everyone who has heard the Father and learns from him comes to me.”  So here’s the deal, no one naturally wants to come to God, He has to draw them. When He is drawing, (trekkie reference) Resistance is futile. There is no long gap between God’s drawing and being raised up at the last day where God wonders if salvation is going to stick. Not only does He always reach what He’s aiming for, He never lets it go. 

    Tracy died March 22, 2022 of fentanyl, though he had been off drugs for six years. Alcohol was the addiction that kept pulling him back. But the Lord gave him five years of success and sobriety before he reached his appointed time, so Trace could regain his self-respect and the respect of others. God even used the tragedy of fentanyl to get a drug dealer of 40 years off the streets of Helena. He is in Bozeman awaiting transport to Deer Lodge for his 38 year sentence. But the best part is, we have no doubt whatsoever that Tracy is in heaven and we will have all of eternity to spend with him.

    I don’t know if these verses will help you, I just know they helped us. They cemented us to hope when we faced the hardest loss of our lives. You are probably already in the hardest loss of your life, your freedom. But nothing is ever wasted in, what I call, the beautiful economy of God, and I know He won’t waste what you are going through now, and He will never let you go.

 

                                                                                  Connie

Being 5

    Monday was Grandma day with my five year old granddaughter, Jules. For our one on one time, I had found a Thanksgiving themed project we could color, cut into squares, and play as a matching game. I printed two identical sheets, but held off coloring mine until I knew if she wanted to do both. For newly turned five, she is very good at coloring. To my delight, she is also starting to use big words like "basically" and expressions like "last, but not least", and she uses them correctly. Jules told me I could color my paper, but needed to use the same colors she did. Then she told me to stay in the lines, so it would look pretty. Sometimes, by the time she found the right color for me to use, she decided to do that part herself--so it would look pretty. 

    However, I atoned for my presumed lack of coloring ability by scoring some points for my superior skills at using scissors. We played a couple rounds of the matching game before moving on to play dough. If I was a big kid, I might have resented all the unasked for advice from a coloring expert who is only five. But I am not a big kid, I am a Grandma, and when it is Jules turn for Grandma day . . . I am five, too.

Gifted?

     In our study of Revelation chapter 5 this week, we were asked which part of the song in verses 9 and 10 meant the most to us, and why. 

   And they sang a new song, saying, "You are worthy to take the scroll and to open its seal, because you were slain, and with your blood you purchased for God persons from every tribe and language and people and nation. You have made them to be a kingdom and priests to serve our God, and they will reign on earth."  

   There is a lot of good stuff in those verses, but the truth that has always blown me away in this passage, is that Jesus bought us for a love gift to his Father. I feel more like a white elephant gift, as in "I see . . . it's a Connie . . . thanks, Son." When I answered the question, almost apologetically, I felt another poem coming on. It is not like my group is asking me to write poems or share them. I feel like one of those desperate souls in youth group, carrying a guitar everywhere, just in case someone asked them to play. And no one did. They knew better. Then again, if poetry is a gift God has given me to help process life, and I want to get the maximum out of this study, perhaps I should not feel guilty for regifting what I received.

Gifted

 

You would not understand

the reason for this

by looking at me, 

or talking to me,

or spending any amount

of time with me,

but I have been purchased by Christ.

At such a high price, too,

His own life's blood.

 

I had gotten myself,

both by nature and desire,

into such a mire of sin 

I was never going to get out.

Then along came Jesus, the Lamb,

who looked at me, loved me,

and for some inexplicable reason,

decided to buy me as a present

for his Father.

Imagine that, me, a present for God.

I understand there will be lots of

us presents under God's tree.

And the tree does not remain

the cross where the Lamb bought us.

When the Father removes

the wrappings of this world

from his gifts, we rest beneath

the Tree of Life.

11/17/24

Property Wrongs

     When I still worked in health care I had some training on abuse, particularly against spouse and children, but there are many other kinds. We learned that abusers are not people with uncontrollable anger issues. Abusers can control their anger at work, with friends, with the cops. That is why, when abuse is disclosed, there are so many people rallying to the support of the accused. They never witnessed any anger episodes. But the real reason people abuse those they supposedly love, is ownership. They feel their family/pet/partner is their property and they have a right to use whatever means possible to control their own possessions. Those who are not abusive recognize this is wrong. People are not property.

    And as I recently pointed out, property rights were the reason the Supreme Court in the Dred Scott decision said a slave whose owner moves to a state without slavery is not eligible to be freed because, no matter where he resides, a slave is still the property of his owner. Eleven years later, slavery was abolished and the Supreme Court's ruling became a moot point. But it remains black mark in American history because, despite the cultural acceptance of slavery in the southern states, it was wrong. People are not property.

    This brings us back to abortion. Despite tolerance of abortion in much of our culture and the fanatic propaganda of Planned Parenthood, the assumption is the same ol' same ol'--the unborn child is the property of the mother. Though only nine months of what could reasonably be 90 years of life independent of its mother, though the child has different DNA, fingerprints and many other distinctions, the current catchphrase of pro-choice is "My body, my choice." But it is not the mother's body that gets torn apart, it is the baby's body, and they are given no choice in the decision. In the name of reproductive health care, we destroy the health of the reproduced. Legal or not, this has always been wrong. People are not property.

 

 

 

 

 

The Throne Room

    This week's lesson in our Revelation study is chapter four, the throne room of God. I did a brief study of this same passage over the summer and have to admit, it made me feel further from God, instead of closer to Him. I have no experience with kings or throne rooms outside of history books and pictures. I am a writer, but I am not a fiction writer. I do not visualize things well from written descriptions. The way I process a concept is to frame it in words, especially poetry. This is my personal, poetic peek at Revelation four.

 

 

The Throne Room

 

John took me with him 

on his journey of words.

I saw, but could not comprehend

the gem-like rainbow throne

and King who sat upon it.

 

Those around Him,

both creatures and men,

flew and fell

and saw and spoke

in worship--Holy, holy, holy.

 

I had no place 

amidst such splendor,

so different from my earthly life.

Yet now that I have seen it,

I cannot look away.

 

For long ago, that very King

called my name 

and sent His Son

to make me His child,

to make me holy. 

The next time I fly

 to the throne room, 

John will already be there,

like him, I will fall down in worship, 

and see and speak--and stay.

11/11/24

 

 

 

 

To Save the Babies

    Many of the things I voted for in yesterday's election passed. Despite millions of dollars worth of ads condemning Zinke for wasting thousands of dollars, he won. And despite the Tester campaign mass shooting our TVs, phones, and mailboxes with anti-Sheehy ads, Sheehy won. All the votes are not yet counted, but there are not enough still outstanding to change the outcome. Associated Press news, which has spent much of the last few months declaring Kamala ahead in all their campaign coverage, declared Trump had won the presidency, as if they had known it all along. Constitutional initiatives that would change the way Montana handles elections both failed. I did not have strong convictions about those, but definitely lean toward the if it ain't broke don't fix it camp.

    Sadly, the one initiative that did pass, CI 128, Planned Parenthood's plot to restore a great wrong we were finally starting to fix, reopened hunting season on unborn babies. Any size. Any sex. Year round. Montana would not allow such reckless slaughter of our wildlife, but the permit to kill babies is now enshrined in our constitution. I had prayed for the Lord to save the babies. He did not answer in the way I thought, but He did answer in the way He spoke into my thoughts, There is more than one way to save babies. My mind immediately went back to the memory of waiting in the E.R., nine months to the day after Tracy died, while the staff checked out Reed's heart problem. I was not for one minute worried that I would lose my husband that day, the calm, competent atmosphere in the room revealed everything was under control. But I could not resist sending one last "if only" to the Lord--But you could have saved Tracy. And the Lord said, I did. He was right, of course, in all the ways that mattered most to me, He had saved Tracy. Not his by extending his transient, earthly life, but by transporting his eternal soul to heaven.

    I think that is what God means about saving babies. He is taking them to heaven. The choice is between life in the perfection of heaven versus life with a mother who wanted neither the responsibility of her baby nor the inconvenience of her pregnancy. However mysteriously God's perfect sovereignty intertwines with the mother's sinful decision, the outcome is with the Lord. The saint within me both mourns and rejoices for the babies. The mom within me grieves for those women who felt this was their only choice. The sinner within me is gratified knowing that all those who orchestrated this tragedy will answer to God for it. God's purposes have never depended on an election, our cooperation, and certainly not, our constitution. Yet He will use this tragic injustice, as He does all things, for the glory of Christ. State law may no longer protect these little ones, but God has never stopped. 

    

 

Sometimes Satan Leaves a Fingerprint

     Satan is sometimes subtle in his workings in the world--a little disinformation here, a whisper there. He is especially subtle when working to tear apart, or render ineffective, Christians and churches. A twist of scripture, his old standby since Eden, a wave of wokeness to wash away Biblical standards. In places where there are fewer Christians to influence their culture, Satan works more or less overtly, though by many different names. So I think it is both interesting and ironic that abortion rights supporters use the word "enshrine" to describe their efforts to counteract legislation of states like Montana that have narrower abortion requirements. Why not say guarantee? Secure? Why enshrine? Look at the following definitions.

shrine

noun as in tribute to a god, idol, or spirit

enshrine

verb (used with object)

 en·shrined, en·shrin·ing.

 

1. to enclose in or as in a shrine

2. to cherish as sacred

 

   That explains a lot. Because some supporters seem to think of abortion as a sacred right/rite that needs to be protected for the posterity of those who are not aborted, therefore, it does not matter if the baby feels pain or could live outside the womb. It does not matter if the abortionist is a physician or a witch doctor. For them this is a religious issue, but who are they worshiping at abortion's altar? Who exactly is in the shrine? My idol speculation tells me that for this legislation, Satan has shown his sense of humor in the very wording of the abortion advocates--enshrine. But it is also his seal of approval. This particular piece of Planned Parenthood propaganda, is so in tune with the spirit of Satan's, he left his fingerprint.

How to Spot a Witch Hunt

     Montana's Attorney General, Austin Knudsen, is currently under indictment for 41 counts of professional misconduct. The initiators of the lawsuit would have us believe that the timing, during his reelection campaign, is purely coincidental. Just like filing charges against Donald Trump, while he was a leading candidate for president, was coincidental. Either I am privileged to live in a time of amazing coincidences, or somebody is lying. Since I am also privileged not to be personally acquainted with many lawyers, I cannot speak to the legitimacy of the charges against Knudsen, but based on the original recommendation of punishment by a letter of censure, they are probably charges that could be pressed against any practicing attorney who strayed into the wrong political crosshairs. 

     But I do believe Knudsen is guilty of two crimes--1. He questioned the impartiality of the Montana Supreme Court, which was totally inappropriate because of his position as Attorney General; and completely unnecessary because most Montanans already knew they were not impartial. 2. His other crime is being a conservative in liberal occupied territory. Montana is blessed right now to enjoy leadership of Christian conservatives, Gov. Greg Gianforte and Sen. Steve Daines, but if Helena's capitol building leaned as far left as the officials inside it, it would have toppled over decades ago. 

     The kitchen sink assortment of charges against Knudsen is our local rendition of what has been happening to Donald Trump for months now. Trump's opponents have vilified and/or ridiculed him for describing the prosecution against him a witch hunt, but it's too late to obfuscate, too many of us know a witch hunt when we see one.

 

How to Spot a Witch Hunt

Are there over 6 charges?

Murderers typically have 3-4 charges against them. Mass murderers will have many counts against them, but the same few charges. Filing dozens of charges is not prosecutable, reeks of desperation, and uses the courts not only as a weapon, but as a sawed off shotgun.

Is the person being charged running for office?

Those running for office are in the prime hunting grounds for a witch hunt.

 

Can these unproven charges be used in future smear campaigns? 

Definitely. For instance, although it certainly looks suspicious that Zinke acquired 18 charges against him while in office, it also looks suspicious that none of them were pursued. Proof, who knew?

Have some of the charges already been disqualified for prosecution?

Most attorneys might consider having the Supreme Court disqualify some of their charges a clue that it is time to take a long recess, but not Jack Smith. Speaking of tenacity, months ago the Attorneys General (yes, I know it looks awkward, but that is the correct grammar) from several Blue states attempted to remove Trump from their state ballots because he had committed insurrection. Apparently, none of these lawyers were briefed by their staff, barber, or parking lot attendant that not only was Trump not found guilty of insurrection, he was never charged with it.

 

Is the individual bringing the charges staking their entire political future on a guilty verdict?

Desperation is the shortcut to dishonesty.

Are the prosecutor and judge related to one another by blood, marriage, money or lust?

If you followed the news at all in the past few months, you know this is not a theoretical question.

   Halloween will soon be upon us. Witch costumes will be in demand. But if people want an outfit that is really scary, they should put on their best suit, carry a briefcase, and go as a witch hunter.

The Blood of Babes

    I hate to repost this poem from five years ago. I hate needing to. In response to the Supreme Court's overthrow of the Roe vs. Wade decision in 2022, states like Montana, who enacted more restrictive abortion requirements, have been targeted with proposed constitutional initiatives to enshrine (their word, how ironic) abortion rights. These are not grassroots efforts within individual states, they are sponsored attacks by Planned Parenthood and their wealthy supporters. In our state this imported initiative is called CI-128. 

    I was in high school in the early 70's when Roe vs. Wade mated with an activist Supreme Court and gave birth to abortion rights. I did not always believe in God the way I do now, but even then, I suspected that he might exist and that I might have to answer to him someday, so I did not want standing up for the right to suck unborn babies from the womb stinking up my pile of good deeds. Later, as a Christian, I prayed for a reversal of Roe with a fervency like the black Christians of 1857 must have had when praying about the Dred Scott decision. The ruling where a racist Supreme Court found that, though blacks were undeniably human, they were also the property of their owners, therefore, had no personal rights. But perhaps our pro-life prayers were not as fervent as theirs, since Dred Scott was overturned by the abolishment of slavery only eleven years later and Roe's reign of terror lasted nearly 50.

    As my poem points out, there is nothing new about the "right" to kill babies. The main difference is that, throughout history that privilege had been the prerogative of the fathers, especially against their daughters, who were often considered a liability, instead of an asset like a son. Now we are more enlightened, and have placed those life or death decisions into the hands of the babies' mothers and, perhaps unintentionally, their abusive lovers, and/or sex traffickers. Since we are also more also enlightened now about fetal development from conception to birth, we are without excuse for pretending that the unborn, though undeniably human, are the property of their mothers, therefore, have no personal rights. CI-128 is not about keeping the government out of a women's reproductive rights, it is government sanction for wrongs against the reproduced. There are blood stains on this year's ballot, the blood of babes.

    

                                                 And Molech Smiles

                                            Long before the time of Christ,

                                         babies were sometimes sacrificed.

                                         Rolled on Molech's waiting arms

                                         into the idol's fiery tomb

                                         for a better crop, a bigger herd,

                                         future success by blood insured,

                                           or a father's whim to kill his child.

                                                    And Molech smiled.

                                            There were other ways

                                          in those barbarous days,

                                          babies died inside a womb

                                          ripped open by a warrior's sword.

                                          One less enemy to fight.

                                          But all in war is justified.

                                            One less mother, one less child.

                                                    And Molech smiled.

                                             We know the truth in modern times, 

                                           scan the unborn, so abortion finds

                                           its tiny target. Deaths the fiercest savage

                                           might scarcely comprehend.

                                           Dissected by a healer's hands

                                           with a smaller sword, of cleaner steel,

                                              we claim the right to kill our child.

                                                       And Molech smiles.

Body by Costco

      Ever since Shopko closed down, most of my wardrobe has come from Costco. Since I am there buying prunes anyway, or toilet paper to go with the prunes, if I see clothes that fit me (especially under $9.99), I buy them. And so do so many others. In almost any crowd, I can find another woman wearing the same shirt I have on. But clothes are just what covers my body, now my body itself is emulating Costco. Just like Costco is constantly relocating stock after hours so customers will be forced to search other areas of the store looking for it (and hopefully buy something they did not plan to) my body relocates my pain from where I left it at bedtime, to find in some new spot in the morning. So, in honor of my 68th birthday, I offer the following tribute to Costco, and my aging body.

My Body is Like Costco

My body is like Costco

who takes such great delight

in relocating things I buy

while I'm asleep at night.

 

But I'm not moving footwear

or protein bars or Gain,

my body likes to play around

with my arthritis pain.

 

For I may go to sleep at night

with pain in my right hand

and wake to find it's in my foot,

and I can barely stand.

 

My neck may hurt at bedtime

but I wake a little later

to find it in my lumbar zone,

my spine, its escalator.

 

My body is like Costco

but I should not complain

its adding some variety

to my old age and pain.

 

10/01/24  my 68th birthday

 

 

 

Inefficiency Inc.

    With apologies to my niece, who works for Logan Healthcare, sees the good in all things, and makes everywhere she goes a better place--Never have I seen inefficiency as intentionally incorporated into a system as in our local Logan healthcare monopoly. Although, my opinion might be different if I had ever served in the military. For example, I recently tried to see an orthopedist for an ongoing back problem. A friend of my husband who is a retired orthopedic doctor got a referral for me so I would not have the typical two month wait to see a specialist. I received a message from the spine clinic. My appointment was just a few days away. Miraculous! This was followed a couple hours later by a message saying my appointment was actually mid November, two months away. Typical! I called the office two more times to make sure the earlier visit wasn't still available. No, but they could put me on the cancellation list. 

    The next day I got a call for an earlier appointment--the exact same time they had told me originally. The doctor did not seem nearly as happy to see me as I was to see her. I found out later Reed's physician friend used his influence to restore my earlier appointment time. But I had violated some scheduler's obstruction system and the doctor knew I had taken cuts. She probably put the diagnosis "Entitled" somewhere in my medical chart. Since there was no one in the waiting room when I got there or when I left, I think that time slot had been available all along. The waiting list for cancelled appointments was a ruse. Whether appointments were available or not, the system specified a two month wait for a specialist.

    Example two: Recently my daughter took my seven year old granddaughter to urgent care with breathing problems following a cold. As her breathing became more labored, my daughter considered going to the ER instead, but the system there is usually a four hour wait. A nurse came to the waiting room and called another patient's name. That mother graciously offered to let my granddaughter go first, since her daughter could wait. The nurse said, "We have a system." Fortunately the other mom's system was to let the child struggling to breathe go first. I am not an RN, but I'm pretty sure Airway, Bleeding and Circulation are still at the top of the triage chart for urgency. Though apparently not when circulating through Logan's system.

   Also part of the system is that a dispatcher must call all five air ambulance services that are part of Logan's network before scheduling an emergency flight. Even though no one answering those numbers will take responsibility for approving the transfer. Even if the patient is dying. On the subject of dying, I believe if the Logan monopoly got all our hospice services into their system, it would run so inefficiently, no one would die. 

     If a program is working well, Logan changes it. If a manager is effective, they either quit in frustration or get replaced. The continually changing new managers recycle the same ideas that failed in the past. Logan will pay a self proclaimed expert for advice and ignore the input of the actual experts, their own employees. I know that nothing I say will sterilize the septic system at Logan or budge their corporate culture from inefficiency, but I just needed to get this rant out of my system.

To Judi, at Sunrise

    I was asked to write a poem for Reed's aunt Judi's memorial service, which was today. I have known Judi since before Reed and I married 47 years ago. She told me what a good guy Butchie (her name for him) was, and I got the impression that what she was not saying aloud was, Don't hurt him! She had apparently heard that when we started dating in college, I was also interested in another guy who had gone home to Montana. In Bible college, where you are considered practically engaged if you sit with the same guy twice in chapel, I got a terrible reputation as a two timer, that I was using Reed to make the guy I really liked jealous. After nearly five decades of marriage to Reed, I hope I have proved I am not just stringing him along. 

    There were a lot of specifics about Judi in the beautiful obituary written by her granddaughter, but I have found specifics make long and awkward poems. Like the seven verse song, "The Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald", minus the music to tie it together. I also like to keep my grief poetry simple to be applicable to as many people as possible. I don't know if my poem was included in the memorial, we were unable to attend, but I told family I wouldn't post it here until after the service. Here is my farewell to Judi.

 

To Judi, At Sunrise

 

In this life we walk toward a sunset

through the warmth of the sun

and the chill of the snow.

 

We learn both of beauty and sorrow

through the choices we make

and the places we go.

 

We build friendships,

and houses, and families, with

times of adventure and fun.

We leave all our possessions

behind us, and yet, the bequest

 of our love lingers on.

But the treasure we keep

at the end of life's day

are the lives that we touched

along the way.

To Judi, at sunrise

9/4/24

The Brave Shepherd

    There has been a bare place on one of our bedroom walls since we rearranged our room to install a mini-split unit two years ago. I could have hunted around for a picture to fill it, but I had a feeling that spot was reserved for something special. A few weeks ago I saw this canvas online and Reed made it my birthday gift. There are many nice prints available showing Jesus in his role as shepherd. One that is popular now shows a robed Jesus racing toward a lost sheep. It is a nice sentiment, but that lamb is only wet and muddy, not in immediate danger. The picture below is called, "Jesus Protects His Sheep from Wolves." But I think of it as The Brave Shepherd. To me it illustrates the eternal security of our salvation. If David snatched a lamb from a lion's mouth (1 Sam. 17:34-37), would our heavenly Shepherd do less? This picture shows the Savior I called on when Satan tried to snatch my son into the darkness of addiction. Yes, Jesus is meek, but not when He's fighting for His own.

 

 

The Brave Shepherd

Jesus lived meekly upon the Earth,

a world He spoke into existence.

Jesus suffered meekly upon the cross,

built by people He created,

and could have destroyed

with a single Word.

 

It took a strength I will never

possess nor understand,

to restrain His powers 

in the face of such unjust suffering,

the omnipotent God meek and mute

in the hands of helpless humans.

 

But it would do no good

for the Shepherd to sacrifice His life 

for His sheep, if He did not first 

defeat the enemy trying to kill them.

His love for us is not mute.

His defense of us is not meek.

 

Jesus did not just find us once, 

alone, helpless, and lost,

He seeks us still. He keeps us forever.

And our Shepherd is not just good,

He is protective. He is powerful.

He is brave. 

9/25/24

 

 

The Poet's Promise

   When my biggest fan, my mother-in-law Pat, shared that reading my Lament book was still helping a family member with his loss, I began to ponder--What is it about poetry that helps a hurting heart? Why do people who at no other time read poetry, so often seek it in sorrow, include it in memorial services? My conclusion is the following, unsurprisingly--a poem.

The Poet's Promise

The poet's promise

is not to heal your pain,

but to join you in it,

to give you words

for the things you feel,

to shape your sorrow

within a beautiful frame,

to search for the beacon

hidden in the darkness.

 

Fitting honest words

to your pain and hope

is the only power

in the poet's promise.

It is a Gift to Hear His Name

      My cousin in Missouri posted on Facebook about how much she missed her son, Sean, who died young of congenital heart disease. I have seen many versions of the sentiment in this poem, usually gender neutral to apply to as large a group as possible. I thought about doing that, but this is my version, and I lost a son. The Lord has recently given me the gift of hearing from people who remember Tracy, and their words are so soothing to my soul. A friend who is a widow told me that after her husband died, only one of her friends ever mentioned him again. All of us worry about saying the wrong thing to those in grief, but I believe one of the worst things we can say to the suffering--is nothing. 

 It is a Gift to Hear His Name

To those who want to ease our pain--

help our loved one live again,

share a memory, make him real.

Tell about the loss you feel.

It is a gift to hear his name.

 

Let us know our much missed son

lives on in hearts besides our own.

Our grief parched souls are thirsty for 

stories where he lives once more.

We're happy just to hear his name.

It is a gift to hear his name.

The Imperfect 10

    When I was in Bible college 100 years ago, I learned the attributes of God. Exactly 10 attributes. To this day I have a hard time thinking of God's attributes apart from those 10. There are, of course, many more that could be listed and, for convenience's sake, some lists are as short as 5. In a kids' chorus, the 10 commandments are called the Perfect 10, That is how I think of my mental list of attributes, the Perfect 10. But if I was making up a god to believe in, as Christians are often accused of, those would not be the attributes I would pick. My list would be the Imperfect 10.

    For one thing, I'd get rid of the omnis:

 

1  Omnipresent--God present everywhere, always with us. Sounds nice until I realize there are some places I go I do not necessarily want God with me. I prefer Semi-present. With me when I want Him, and not when I don't.
2  Omniscient--all knowing. I want a god that has lots of knowledge to share with me and guide me but, like the above, there are times I wish he didn't know what I was thinking and doing. Semi-scient is good enough for me.
3  Omnipotent--all powerful. I definitely want my god to have the power to protect our planet, me in particular, and control the chaos created by our wacky world leaders, and Satan, who is on their advisory boards. But I do not want a god who can control me. Semi-potent does not exactly roll off the tongue, but I think the idea would catch on.

    That takes care of the first three on my list. Now let me see:

 

4    Sovereign--God is in control of all things. Since sovereignty is dependent on the omnis above, reducing them to semis would make this attribute Sovereign-ish. Since there are so many Christians doomscrolling things to worry about, that is how many believers think of God anyway.

5    Just--Boy do I want to see justice done. But to others, not to me. Better make that one Just-ish too.

6    Love--I'll keep that one to counteract some of my god's more stern attributes. Let's make this one Omniloving.

7    Merciful--that's a keeper. I like receiving mercy, have mixed feelings about giving it, though. How about Me-erciful?

8    Eternal--I am not terribly interested in how long he was around before I showed up, but I do not want a god who could die or wander off to some other part of the universe, so I-ternal sounds good.

9    Immutable--God does not change. I do not want anything to change god, except perhaps me. Many people talk about "My Jesus" as if Christ comes with a customizable upgrade option. My god would be I-mutable.

10  Holy--There is nothing that makes me feel more removed from God than His holiness. To be not only free from sin but wholly good is beyond my powers of imagination. But this is also the attribute that makes me realize I have no right to create my own Imperfect 10.

 

So Many Rainbows

So Many Rainbows

 

I have seen so many rainbows 

here, from our front deck,

the leaves of the Russian olive trees

bordering our neighbor's yard

gilded by the setting sun,

the deep blue twilight in the east,

showcasing the spectrum.

And yet, I do not overlook

this commonplace miracle,

God's bow in the sky.

And those who claim it for their cause

should know it is a symbol

both of promise, and of judgment.

Rainbows belong to God.

 

Though the pictures I take

appear much the same, 

still I stand outside on the deck

getting wet. Nor will I choose

to forfeit such views

to shelter indoors from the rain,

as long as the rainbow reigns.

8/21/24

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There Comes a Point

     My Bible study the past few weeks has been in Joshua. Yesterday was his farewell address. One of the questions was--What is the difference between hearing about the Lord and personally experiencing His good works? My answer--Second hand information never has the impact first hand experience does. This has been especially relevant to me as I have had opportunities in the past few months to comfort  grieving couples. The Lord has given me one outstanding experience, sending a stranger to encourage us as we took Tracy to rehab eight years ago. And He has given me many personal encouragements and guidance both before and after Tracy's death. As meaningful as those have been to me, they have little impact on others in grief. 

    For one thing, I cannot comfort them regarding heaven because they sometimes don't know their loved ones' spiritual state. However well-intentioned, false comfort is no comfort at all because only truth has the power to set us free. So I share the verses that have meant the most to me:  Ps. 139:16. Job 14:5 God chooses our time of death. Those verses remove the what ifs, if onlys, and guilt from our grief. Rom. 8:35-39 about not being separated from the love of God is wonderful, but those verses are comfort only for believers. So what is an encouragement for those who are not sure if their lost loved one belonged to God? John 6. 

    Through our experience on the road to rehab, Tracy lost his doubt that God saw him and I knew, at the very least, that God was reaching for him. I had no doubt whatsoever that God would hit what He was aiming for. But, for some reason, God feels the need to repeat what He is trying to teach me at least three times and that is where John chapter 6 came in. When we came home from that trip, there was a  note in the mail from my Dad. Dad is constantly getting freebees from charities hoping to guilt him into donating. Some of those guilt gifts are cards. They were seldom really useful cards, but he used them to cover things he was planning to mail anyway. I don't remember what was enclosed in the card, but the verse on it, probably unnoticed by Dad, was John 6:37 Everyone whom my Father gives me will come to me. I will never turn away anyone who comes to me. That means every person the Father chooses as a love gift to His Son will come to Christ. Not unconsciously or against their will, God does not work that way, but He has a way of bending our will so that we freely choose to believe in Jesus. After Tracy died, my prayer group gave me a heart shaped stone with Tracy's name on one side and John 6:37 on the other.

    Second reminder was verse 39, And this is the will of Him who sent me, that I shall lose none of all those he has given me, but raise them up at the last day. Jesus will never say, "Oops, I dropped one!" For my third reminder, part of the next day's sermon was--you guessed it--John 6. Specifically vs. 44-47 No one can come to me unless the Father who sent me draws them, and I will raise them up on the last day. It is written in the Prophets, 'they will all be taught by God.' Everyone who has heard the Father and learned from him comes to me. No one has seen the Father except the one who is from God; only he has seen the Father. Very truly I tell you, the one who believes has eternal life. I am putting some of this in bold type for emphasis, but it is hard to know where to stop. Those the Father draws--will come, those who come--have eternal life, and will be raised up.

    I understand the doubt, especially about those we led to the Lord ourselves, or who were saved at a young age. Tracy was only four when I led him to Christ. We doubt whether they understood, our own ability to explain, we see them struggle later in life, we wonder if what happened was just our own wishful thinking. Fruit is important, but I realized recently that there are no passages in the Bible where Lot's decisions showed any degree of righteousness, and yet 2 Pet 2:7 describes him as a righteous man. There are many parts of our loved ones' spiritual lives that we do not know about, just as they do not know everything about ours. If believing they are saved seems too good to be true, that's because all salvation is. I understand not wanting false assurance, and clearly not all of those we love will be in heaven, but there comes a point when doubting their salvation experience becomes doubting God. And I doubt we want to do that.

                                                                                               

                                               

 

  

   

    

   

I Expected Five

  

     Every day when I open Facebook there is a memory from years past that I can see, but won't be on my news feed unless I share it. I enjoy the look back, but I seldom share. However, I posted yesterday when this picture from ten years ago of Will's Montana reception came up. Because so many of his Montana relatives and friends were unable to attend his wedding in Steamboat Springs, we held a reception a month later in Kalispell. I don't remember what the friend we drafted as photographer said to get us all laughing, but I am so glad to have this picture. It made me smile. It made me sad. Bittersweet, like so much of life since Tracy died.

   I expected our family of five to grow as our children married and had children of their own. I expected it to shrink as Reed and I met our appointments in heaven. But I thought our family of five would be together longer. I expected five. It didn't seem like too much to ask. 

   Of course, God is under no obligation to meet my expectations. And since, for most of my life, He has immeasurably exceeded them, I have no right to complain. A few days before we found out Tracy died, we were taking his dogs for a ride in the car, a custom Tracy started and we tried to continue while he was in college. We were driving through an older neighborhood on the south side of town. Properties where even the junk cars filling the oversized lots do not decrease the value of the older houses sitting on them. I remember telling the Lord maybe Trace could get one of these places after he finished school. Then He spoke into my mind, Is that as high as your hopes for Tracy go? That surprised me, I thought I was being realistic. Little did I know that Jesus had Tracy's mansion ready for him to move into, and he did two days later. 

   With spouses and grandchildren, our family here in Kalispell now numbers 9, 10 counting January's coming attraction. And when I add extended family, church family, and friends in other places, the number grows exponentially. God's plan for Tracy, for our family, was not what I expected, but He met the deepest desire of my heart--I know we will be together forever in heaven. I expected five, but He will give more than I could ever ask.

We Miss Them

    It was such a simple post on a friend's Facebook to evoke so many tears. It seems like sometimes tears are stored there in my emotion Cloud account, waiting for enough provocation to fall. The picture was just a couple sitting side by side, his with the angel wings. Susan lost her husband months ago, years perhaps, probably even before we lost Tracy. A cynical Christian might see the wings as bad theology, people do not become angels. But for those of us who don't get our theology from Facebook, wings are shorthand for showing which person died. The wife's picture says, I miss you. The husband's says, I know. There are days, hours, minutes where the loss and longing are stronger, the emptiness harder to ignore, the plan of God harder to accept. For me there is a battle between my beloved logic, my confident faith, and my hurting heart. So from that simple post, this simple poem.

                   We Miss Them

 There are so many reasons not to want them back

                here on Earth with us --

                the sin and suffering of this world,

                the splendor of heaven,

                the certainty that we will see them again

                and never be parted.  

    

 But none of that changes

               the ache in our hearts,

               because we miss them.

               We miss them.

                       8/14/24