Honor her for all her hands have done
My mom turns 70 this spring. I have been
thinking about this for a while: How can I honor her at this milestone,
especially from a distance, in a meaningful way?
In God's gracious provision,
Mom already has all her physical needs and most of her wishes. She's not into
showy gifts, even if we could wisely afford them. If you ask her what she most
desires, my mom will quote 3 John 4: "I have no greater joy than to hear that my
children are walking in the truth."
She knows better than any other human that
in my case, that walk has not been smooth. Externally, I am a success: God has
generously kept me well employed, married, churched, and befriended. But Mom has
been privy to a good portion of the tearful anger, the tortured indecision, the
persistent self-worship that wars with the Spirit in my heart regardless of my
circumstances.
But I'm still up and walking, and that is in no small part due to
her efforts. From my stubborn toddlerhood, Mom has patiently persevered in
countering my self-will with love, truth, and training. She did her best to
emulate our perfect Parent who disciplines us for our own good, because He loves
us (Hebrews 12:5-10).
I credit our close friendship of today to the years of my
youth when Mom didn't particularly try to be my friend, but rather a faithful
and self-sacrificing steward of God's gifts, including her children. I hope our
like-mindedness now is a sort of reward for her long slog through the Terrible
Twos and beyond.
Since repayment is impossible, the best gift I can think of for
this birthday is to "arise and call her blessed," to "honor her for all that her
hands have done" (Proverbs 31: 28,31). Ultimately, I hope that process will not
put her on an improper pedestal but point to the Lord who made her, led her, and
worked in her to make something beautiful in His unique style.
While these
reflections will already sound familiar to her, I hope sharing them may also
encourage her and the other mothers and children who may read them.
The unseen battles are faith's proving ground.
"Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not
depart from it." (Proverbs 22:6)
Mom and I were both raised by two God-fearing
parents who prioritized teaching their kids the truth from the Word of God. We
were "sheltered" in the best senseâwe were spared the horrific trauma and
heart-breaking instability that affects so many children for the rest of their
lives.
The upshot to this is that we were older when we found ourselves in the
rubber-meets-road situation of having to trust God himself, not our godly
parents. When it came to our grown-up decisions, their best advice (even if
sought!) would fail because it was not their wisdom we needed: It was the
ultimate wisdom, the fear of the Lord in our own hearts.
Both of us had
expressed childlike faith in childhood, but that faith had to be "proved" much
like bakers' yeast proves itself alive when the dough actually risesâunder a bit
of heat!
Neither of us underwent the kinds of visible crisis that inhabit the
more dramatic testimonies you hear. For Mom, the proof came after leaving her
parents' home and marrying another sinner (the only kind of spouse available to
anyone). For me, it came first in the temptation to marry an unrepentant sinner
(big difference!) against the backdrop of a fear of being alone for the rest of
my life.
In both these situations, we had to face up to the inability of other
humans to give us what we want from them or what we truly need. We also had to
learn to recognize what that need is: renewed minds and spiritual strength to
persevere "in step with the Spirit" (Galatians 5:25). That is done by the Holy
Spirit's indwelling through faith in Jesus. Even the best people we knew could
not give us that; it had to come straight from the Source.
When I became an
adult facing my own sins and temptations, Mom shared with me some of her history
of faithless fears, desperate prayers, and spiritual epiphanies in her early
marriage. Most of it happened silently, internally, between her and the only One
who could see and understand her heart. Marriage and parenting were God's
tailored training ground for her to practice entrusting herself to the One who
sees all, knows all, and always gives us what we truly need.
By the time I was
old enough to notice, she had gained a better footing on a solid rock - not her
parents or husband (who was also going through his own proving ground) but
Christ!
And I'd like to be able to say I learned perfectly from her experiences,
but again, that isn't how it works. While training and example are important,
faith had to be proved where Mom and Dad couldn't reach me. They did pray to the
One who could.
I believed feebly. I sinned greatly. I whined a LOT.
My proving
ground has been its own painful, sweaty, fumbling mess through which God pulled
me as a burning twig from the fire. His faithfulness to rescue, cleanse, and
restore me showed that he can and will sustain my puny, faltering faith to
endure through the end. He proved it to Mom, and he proved it to me.
My heavenly
Father is absolutely committed to making me a complete, perfect child in his own
image, a full citizen of his household, entrusted with his eternal business.
That is His commitment to each one who puts faith in Him. Our faith may start as
simply as a child's; God will mature it in his own time and wayâincluding
painful seasons and passagesâuntil it is finished. Even Jesus completed his
obedience through suffering (Hebrews 5:8).
The beautiful person Mom has become
is a product of God's work over the years through many struggles, mostly unseen.
He's making her truly perfect, like many of us already think she is.
"The
testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its
full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing" (James
1:3-4).
Mom trusts Jesus. Mom is not Jesus.
"All these people were still living
by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw
them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and
strangers on earth. ... [T]hey were longing for a better countryâa heavenly one.
Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city
for them." Hebrews 11:13,16
On Christ, the solid rock, I stand. Mom is no more
nor less than a pebble on that mountain, placed in God's perfect providence. She
is part of a chain that includes Abraham, Moses, Ruth, David, Martin Luther,
Elisabeth Elliott and other "giants" in my historyâweak, flawed humans who
attained eternal significance through the only possible means: by faith. Like
them, she knows this world is not her homeâshe has a better one prepared for
her.
Going to college far from home, I developed a habit of calling Mom whenever
I was excited or distressed, usually over schoolwork and/or boys. I knew she
would provide a listening ear and sympathy. I knew I would feel better if I
called Mom, so it became a no-brainer to pick up that landline.
As I got older
and my challenges became more challenging, I began to learn God desires my
worship in needy dependence as well as joyful praise. Whether it's "out of the
depths" (Psalm 130:1) or "with thanksgiving" (Psalm 100:4), my first call should
be to my true home, to the Father who calls me to that eternal city.
While she
likes to hear from her kids as much as any parent, Mom would agree: She is not
my refuge, my hiding place, my strong tower, my fortress. Her comfort and her
power to help me are limited; His are not. It is false hope, and unfair to her,
to expect her to be my savior.
When I'm overwhelmed, it still takes mental
discipline not to revert to the old habit of calling Mom right away. Of course I
can and do still call her often for prayer, fellowship and wise counsel. But my
first stop should always be the One who is never unavailable, who already prays
for me when I have no words.
A 70th birthday makes it impossible to ignore the
probability that Mom will go home to that prepared city in the course of my
life. Already God has given her more time, health and strength here than he has
done for most other saints. If the Lord tarries, even that will pass away
someday.
It is not comfortable to talk about it; typing these words just filled
my eyes with tears. I cannot fully express my gratitude for my mom's comfort and
care, for her prayers, for the joy it is just to be with her. I cannot
undervalue her God-ordained influence on me and many others.
Quite the contrary.
Contemplating life without her exposes the fear in my heart: Can I live without
her? Sometimes it feels like I couldn't. But if I can't, if life is meaningless
without her, then Christ is not enough.
Mom recently endured the illness and
passing of her much-loved father. In one way it didn't matter that his life was
long and well-lived: Death will always be sad and wrong, a byproduct of sin, the
"last enemy" Christ will eliminate upon His return (I Corinthians 15:26).
It was
a heavy loss, and she felt it deeply. But even in her grief, Mom holds onto hope
and carries on faithfully with the life entrusted to her because Christ is
enough. When He calls her home, or returns to this world, she will be reunited
with Granddad and all others who died in faith.
By example, she shows me I can
live without her as long as I must. When Jesus does take Mom home in His
perfect, loving time, it can and will be well with my soul. He will be enough
for me in that moment and everything after.
Today, I praise the Giver of all
good gifts for making, perfecting, and sustaining a precious saint through three
score and ten. May His kindness give us more together and bring us both safely
home forever.
One year
My dad died a year ago today.
I don't have much to say about it that I haven't already said. I miss him. I still have sharp pangs of disbelief that he's really gone.
And more than ever before I'm reflecting on what "Moses the man of God" says in Psalm 90: "All our days pass away under your wrath; we finish our years with a moan. The length of our days is seventy years -- or eighty, if we have the strength; yet their span is but trouble and sorrow, for they quickly pass, and we fly away."
To me it seems like the more wrath we feel under, the less the days seem to "quickly pass" -- but looking back, I guess they do. This year has comprised some of the highest and most of the lowest points of my life, but they do all jumble together in retrospect so that I really wonder where the 365 days have gone. Thank God that they do quickly pass.
Any time now, Dad. We'll all fly away.
Diablog, Part V
Hannah: You do well to sit and look out the window and look at the snow. Seize those Sabbath moments and find what there is to find. Rest, rest, rest.
"Far above the Ephal Duath in the West, the night-sky was still dim and pale. There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty forever beyond its reach." -- J.R.R. Tolkien,
Return of the King (as if you need me to cite this!)
Also, don't forget to arrange flowers and laugh a bit. You sound like you are starting to be too hard on yourself. It is a funny paradox that we are both called to strain and called to rest, that the one can inform the other and that both are run on God-energy.
Love you!
Lynn: Thank you. I might do my own version of arranging flowers, by which I think you mean "something seemingly shallow that you're good at and usually enjoy." I'll have to figure out what that is -- probably something with yarn and needles.
As for laughing (without the sardonic edge that has infected it lately), I think that will come along with a miraculous jolt of that "God-energy." Pray for me. I do know it will come. But I'm currently caught in the first quarter of this hymn:
Long mine imprisoned spirit lay, fast bound in sin and nature's night.
Thine eye diffused a quickening ray; I woke, the dungeon flamed with light!
The chains fell off, my heart was free; I rose, went forth and followed thee.
Amazing love, how can it be that thou my God shouldst die for me?Even so, Lord, come quickly and bring to pass the rest!
Song of experience
I don't mean to interrupt the diablog by going solo again, but it is so rare that I feel like writing here that I figured I'd better give in to the impulse.
In a casual search for something specific, I got to reading the early posts of this blog, written by the me of six years ago who simply wanted to record snapshots of life in a way that might also be interesting or helpful to others. I don't think I had delusions of blogging grandeur, but I know I was influenced by what blogs were like at the time: mostly irrelevant but sometimes entertaining observations of the world for its own sake.
Perhaps, like most people, I'm just a big fan of myself in any form, but now I really miss that young (so young!) grad-student blogger whose most formidable responsibility was turning out a few more thesis pages. But of course it would get done (it always did!) and after I did it, there would surely open up a new path down which more beautiful vistas would come into view -- and I'd record them here.
It took some major blows over the past five years to convince me that the vistas of this world aren't all beautiful. Though there are wonderful traces of the perfect paradise it was created to be (I simply can't get over the snow in the trees, thank God), it has been twisted beyond recognition in just as many places.
Under this metamorphosis, the blog varied with the blogger. Less and less did I
want to take those snapshots, to preserve images of things I wish didn't exist. When I got a job in which I had a relatively public face, I didn't want the blog to attract the teeming bloodsuckers of the public with the bait of personal revelation. And, honest personal revelation became darker than that grad-student blogger thought hers would ever get.
Finally, a couple of unavoidable blows to its foundation managed to wipe out the joy I took in this world for its own sake. The snow in the trees isn't enough, by itself, to make up for the cruel thorns and brambles below. Beautiful as the beauty is, in my calculation it doesn't stand up mathematically to the pain and suffering also contained on this terrestrial ball.
So here I am now, wondering what the blog is really for. Would Wordsworth be proud of me for this little "song of experience"? Have I (can I?) really lived up to the Bronte quote on the right? More importantly, since this world is worthless by itself, is there comfort and redemption for it from some other source -- the only way for a blog to be relevant?
If you've read any of my other recent posts, you know that of course I believe there is -- but you can probably also tell that I haven't figured out the blog-relevance aspect very well. What I perceive as a lighthearted medium can't really be done well without a light heart. So I pray your indulgence. And I pray for a light heart too.
Diablog, Part IV
Going on a Parable Hunt
Hannah: First of all, let me say that carrying âfaith out to its conclusionâ reminded me of fancy phrase I heard in college: a priori assumption. If we hypothesize or assume that God is real, we will find Him. If we start out with the prior assumption that he is not, we won't. And neither starting point is more âscientificâ than the other. This has helped me in some of my phases of doubting, because I started looking for my reasons for doubt and they were more emotional than logical, even if they started out sounding logical. But that is really fodder for a whole other diablog!
Today I am going on a parable hunt. I was putting away Christmas gifts. We have lots of candy and cookies in the house. The bright orange carton of Reese's pieces, the shiny gold of a box of caramels, the âglitterâ on gumdrops, are all very appealing to my Mr. Toddler Pants. My clear canisters of nuts and cereals tell a different story: their contents show forth as varying shades of blah blah brown! I think we do our children a disservice at Christmas time. The temptations under the tree and in the kitchen are piled a mile high, aren't they? But what if I had cataracts of grapes, and oranges, freshly baked granola bars, and freshly baked breads sitting out? âWhy spend money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy...â
I know this is a pretty 'obvious' parable, but sometimes the obvious escapes us. The worst faith-mistakes seem to come not from having the wrong tools, but from not keeping them in good working order, eh? I am trying to learn from my past mistake of letting my a priori assumptions start to shift without actually taking them out and polishing them off. When I take the time to do this, I find them as useful as ever. In the words of my dad, September 28, 2008:
âYou have tasted the battle, but also have come in that hour of need upon the weapons cache that has been left by the warriors of old. With new eyes you see that, yes, some are a bit dusty, but all still effective, sharp and true; and if you look closely the âbattle patinaâ upon them is evident. Others have used these in dark hours. These are not toys. Looking around you also notice it is a place set apart, filled with its own majestic beauty, a sheltered mountain fortress, a blessed garden, a place perhaps to stand at the end of all things. One might picture a special place along the Whitney trail. No one can be cajoled or lured to visit here on pretense of fun. It is not an âeasyâ place; it is a desperate place, far from hilarity and milling crowds. Yet with new eyes you also discern a crowd nonetheless; a crowd of witnesses; those who may have lost what they could not keep but received what they cannot lose.â
I guess we have stumbled upon a new parable. Or...in other words...a very, very old one!
Lynn: I agree and appreciate these observations of the obvious things â I donât know if weâre going to stumble upon any other kind, but we still need to do some parsing and synthesizing in order to digest them into usable soul nutrition. Sounds like you and your dad have been hard at work on that score!
For my part, sometimes all I can do is nod. Thatâs where I am this morning. Watching through the window as the beautiful snow covers each twig of the trees, I still find myself not in an âeasyâ place. I have little to say. I have nothing to offer. I am sickeningly aware of my inadequacy. I cannot see supportive crowds, though I know they are there. I feel as if Iâm between losing what I canât keep and getting what I canât lose.
Tomorrow â even later today â things will be different. Years from now, much more so. In the end, entirely so. Thatâs what Iâm banking on. Thatâs the hope for which Iâm going to brush my hair and tackle my responsibilities with what little Iâve got right now.
Diablog, Part III
On Having Heart
Hannah: Oh, hurray, hurray, you! You have got to love Reepicheep, and I have got to love that you've got his spirit. One of the nicest compliments your mother ever gave me (which I doubt she even remembers) is, "You know, you're a stout-hearted one." This was right before we moved to Spokane, and you remember how sick my brother was.
The thing is, I don't remember feeling all that stout-hearted at the time. I don't remember feeling faint-hearted either, it's just that I knew I was being provided for. I knew God was real. I knew he was with me. And I knew that made a difference. In a sense, I was pulling myself up by my own bootstraps, but in another sense, I was just accepting the help that was offered. It also made a difference that my parents believed in God. It helped my own belief to settle deep in my gut.
As an adult, I have known friends who didn't have parents who acted like they believed in God. Nominally, yes, but when disaster struck, they wrung their hands and created misery and drama for their children. And I have seen the negative impact on said friends' lives. I have also seen them accept the help God offers, and I have seen it slowly make a difference. The belief settles in the gut. Our gut impulses become better, or more in alignment with that truth we were talking about.
Doubt still creeps in, doesn't it? As an adult, I am no longer under the invisible umbrella of the belief of my parents. I stand vulnerable before God. Sometimes I whine before God, or throw little fits, or cry out, our ask why, or how long. And then I thank Him profusely for being real and hearing me. And I realize that all of this very closely resembles the Psalms. This makes me feel a little better, like maybe I'm on the right track. I don't know why it's so hard. Why is faith so hard if we are being provided for? We're asked to rely on the strength that is being given us, and it still feels as if we're doing it on our own. But we find Jesus saying in this world we will have trouble. He even says don't be surprised by this! He also says he will leave us this Comforter we keep talking about. So we bank on this. We dig deeper. We search the Scriptures that tell us about this strange God who is all powerful and yet humbled himself to the straw-filled feeding trough. My "adult" self doubts more than my child-like self ever did. But I see that in this, it is the child who is wiser.
Because that a small inkling of this faith we keep talking about really does make a difference in our lives. We find ourselves praying bigger prayers, doing more selfless things, being stout-hearted in the middle of all the mess of our lives. We give in to pride, or despair, or whatever, we confess it, receive forgiveness, and MOVE ON.
He lives, he lives, Salvation to impart
You ask me how I know he lives
He lives within my (and your) heart
A.H. AckleyI see him. So dimly sometimes. But I see his good work in you and me.
Lynn: Yes, doubt creeps in. Every day. The âadultâ self wants to hedge against all potential losses just in case this faith thing is a wash. Such hedging is in direct logical contradiction to what faith is.
But how -- under what conditions -- would we conclude faith is a wash? When we do that digging into Scripture that youâre talking about, we discover, in addition to Jesusâ guarantee that weâll have trouble, that we must be faithful until death! (Revelation 2:10) What? No guarantees before that? None except for that Comforterâs presence with us until and beyond that end of ends.
Side note: I could go on and on about these letters to the churches at the beginning of Revelation, but in general it is so comforting to read how each is told, âI know your deeds.â Their faithfulness (or, in a couple cases, their failure to be faithful) does not go unnoticed, does not fall to the ground without effect. Some of these churches were tiny and brutally oppressed, but the one who is âthe First and the Last, who died and came to life againâ is intimately aware of the obstacles to and victories of their faith.Anyway, I think many who have concluded faith is a wash have simply chosen not to carry it to the very end to find out. It takes a childâs complete abandon, complete disregard of risk, to do that â alongside the maturity of âhaving heartâ to proceed when itâs hard.
But I think the point of having heart is kind of defeated when we
notice how much heart weâre having, how strong our faith is. Like you said, the time you exhibited noticeable stout-heartedness was not when you felt particularly stout. We do start noticing those benefits you pointed out, but even after the victories we learn to MOVE ON. Somebody knows our deeds.
Diablog, Part II
Truth and Lies
Hannah: That verse about forgetting what is past and straining toward what is ahead is written on a note stuck to my wall, so I would see it going up and down the stairs. You see, because (possibly) of my various physical problems, a couple weeks ago I was engaged in full-on warfare. The verses posted all over my house testify to this! I even have a list of truth and lies in a journal. I FELT that I was separated from God. But we have Romans 8 for that, don't we? By the way, I printed out these verses in the penmanship of one of our favorite and most recent entrants into Heaven. I FELT that my weakness was a bad thing. But there we have it in Scripture, that when we are weak then we are strong. I FELT alone, but as you said, God's spirit is with me as a Comforter!
While my feelings are coming into more alignment with the truth, I am glad that they are not my only navigational tool. So, so glad.
Lynn: How old-fashioned to speak of âalignment with the truthâ! Arenât we supposed to adjust our version of the fluid concept of âtruthâ to fit whatever our shifting perception of the ârealâ world is at the moment? No? You havenât been watching enough movies!
Iâve got a copy of that Romans 8 transcription too â in the journal in which I try to give words to the lies so that the Word of Truth can visibly overcome them. Thereâs something so very NOT fluid about the âdeathâ part, knowing that the man who wrote them knew it was near. You run up against it and canât psych yourself out of its absoluteness. Your wishes about it canât change its chilling Fact. Or maybe, just maybe, it is tied to a Truth that you canât change either!
As a Christian, I follow a living Person who didnât just âbelieve in himself enough to come back from the deadness of spirit that tends to weigh upon the un-self-actualized human spirit blah blah blah...â He, er, actually
came back from the dead â another jarring fact to those for whom truth has to be more âspiritualâ than that.
Howâs this for spiritual? There is a Truth, entirely defined and embodied in a Person. I donât know it completely, but I do know something about it, and itâs not about to change when Iâm miffed or inconvenienced. But Iâm told that seeking the Truth (believing it and behaving accordingly when itâs found) is also seeking the Way and Life. So whether Iâm feeling peppy or not, that's the direction Iâm headed.
God help me, Iâm headed to His country with the most beloved of Lewis characters: âWhile I can, I sail east in the Dawn Treader. When she fails me, I paddle east in my coracle. When she sinks, I shall swim east with my four paws. And when I can swim no longer, if I have not reached Aslan's country, or shot over the edge of the world in some vast cataract, I shall sink with my nose to the sunrise ...â
