On the way home tonight I was listening to the song "We Live" by Superchick.
The first verse describes a mother who lost her son in a car accident. What would she trade for another few minutes with her child?
The parallels are obvious.
Her advice? "We live. We love. We forgive and never give up."
In other words, don't crawl in a hole when things go wrong. Keep reaching out. Keep our hearts open and vulnerable, even though that may bring pain. We never give up. Because "the lives we are given are gifts from above."
I guess that's what I'm doing with Marius. We went out to dinner together on Sunday, and we talked about getting together again in July. Last year he lit fireworks on the terrace of Jolene's apartment. The fun is gone without someone to share it. But being together helps both of us.
Don't let grief shackle my heart with bitterness.
Instead, keep it open as a portal for God's love.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Invisible: The Widow’s Mite
This week I’m studying the story of the widow’s mite in Desperate Woman of the Bible by Jo Kadlacek.
We all know the story. Jesus warned His disciples against teachers of the law who made a show of piety. They sat and watched people give offerings. Mark says simply “Many rich people threw in large amounts.” (Mark 12:41)
Then a widow came and put in two copper coins, almost as worthless then as it is now. Jesus drew attention to her offering. “She, out of her poverty, put in everything—all she had to live on.” (Mark 12:43)
For almost two millennia since that simple offering, the widow’s sacrifice has challenged us to give more, to give all, to our Savior.
Here’s a thought: the woman never knew God noticed her offering. Not this side of heaven, anyhow. Jesus didn’t announce it with a bullhorn. He pulled His disciples aside and told them privately.
She felt, I’m sure, invisible. Loving God with all her heart, soul, mind and strength—and believing no one cared. Except in some deep part of her heart, hoping, trusting, believing that at least God must care.
Of course she was anything but invisible. If only she had known.
I have probably mentioned before that at times I feel invisible. I write, sing, work, care for my family, and wonder if anyone notices. Honor—in terms of promotions or major book contracts or solos—come to others, not me. If someone mentioned me at a team meeting or among Christian writers, they wouldn’t recognize my name. I long for the honor accorded to the teachers of the law, and chastise myself for it.
I have probably also mentioned that the days following Jolene’s death smashed that worldview. How could I feel invisible and unknown with hundreds of cards and emails flowing in from every corner of the globe?
Through that experience, I glimpsed what God has always known. I am visible to the most important audience possible. He has seen, He has chastised when needed, He has encouraged and commended and comforted. And He has pointed me out to others.
Invisible no more.
Footnote: Mom’s having a ball at her reunion!
We all know the story. Jesus warned His disciples against teachers of the law who made a show of piety. They sat and watched people give offerings. Mark says simply “Many rich people threw in large amounts.” (Mark 12:41)
Then a widow came and put in two copper coins, almost as worthless then as it is now. Jesus drew attention to her offering. “She, out of her poverty, put in everything—all she had to live on.” (Mark 12:43)
For almost two millennia since that simple offering, the widow’s sacrifice has challenged us to give more, to give all, to our Savior.
Here’s a thought: the woman never knew God noticed her offering. Not this side of heaven, anyhow. Jesus didn’t announce it with a bullhorn. He pulled His disciples aside and told them privately.
She felt, I’m sure, invisible. Loving God with all her heart, soul, mind and strength—and believing no one cared. Except in some deep part of her heart, hoping, trusting, believing that at least God must care.
Of course she was anything but invisible. If only she had known.
I have probably mentioned before that at times I feel invisible. I write, sing, work, care for my family, and wonder if anyone notices. Honor—in terms of promotions or major book contracts or solos—come to others, not me. If someone mentioned me at a team meeting or among Christian writers, they wouldn’t recognize my name. I long for the honor accorded to the teachers of the law, and chastise myself for it.
I have probably also mentioned that the days following Jolene’s death smashed that worldview. How could I feel invisible and unknown with hundreds of cards and emails flowing in from every corner of the globe?
Through that experience, I glimpsed what God has always known. I am visible to the most important audience possible. He has seen, He has chastised when needed, He has encouraged and commended and comforted. And He has pointed me out to others.
Invisible no more.
Footnote: Mom’s having a ball at her reunion!
Thursday, June 5, 2008
THOUGHTS ON SUFFERING
God choreographed different parts of my quiet time into a beautiful song of comfort. A song that reminded me that although I suffer, Christ went there first; that God prizes the brokenness I am experiencing.
I looked at two passages in connection with the story of a woman crippled for 18 years.
Start with Psalm 51:17: The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise. It resonated with the meditation that said our tears of grief are a gift to others. My broken, grieving heart is a pleasing sacrifice to God. Take it, take me, oh Lord, and let it be useful to You.
Add Isaiah 53:10: Yet it was the Lord’s will to crush him and cause him to suffer. (italics mine) A tiny glimpse into the “why me?” God willed to crush His own perfect Son, one who had never done anything wrong. When I suffer, when I feel crushed into dust, I am only following in the footsteps of my Savior. No wonder James says “count it all joy.”
Top those two verses with the next hymn up, Tell Me a Story of Jesus. The third verse says in part: Tell of the years of His labor, Tell of the sorrow He bore, He was despised and afflicted, homeless, rejected and poor.
The words are a paraphrase of Isaiah 53. Jesus knew sorrow, affliction, homelessness, poverty. Again, in my sorrow, in my affliction, I follow in His steps.
If I want to be like Christ—that must include the valley of shadows where the darkness tries to crush all light out of me.
Oh, and for you writers out there, I was already considering a story about a homeless woman. Hmm. I’m not sure how to develop a light-hearted Christmas story about a homeless woman but I think I’m headed in the right direction.
One last thought: Mom is going to her 55th college reunion this weekend, flying crosscountry to Hartford. Please pray for her, for her safety and her health; and for me, in my alone time.
I looked at two passages in connection with the story of a woman crippled for 18 years.
Start with Psalm 51:17: The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise. It resonated with the meditation that said our tears of grief are a gift to others. My broken, grieving heart is a pleasing sacrifice to God. Take it, take me, oh Lord, and let it be useful to You.
Add Isaiah 53:10: Yet it was the Lord’s will to crush him and cause him to suffer. (italics mine) A tiny glimpse into the “why me?” God willed to crush His own perfect Son, one who had never done anything wrong. When I suffer, when I feel crushed into dust, I am only following in the footsteps of my Savior. No wonder James says “count it all joy.”
Top those two verses with the next hymn up, Tell Me a Story of Jesus. The third verse says in part: Tell of the years of His labor, Tell of the sorrow He bore, He was despised and afflicted, homeless, rejected and poor.
The words are a paraphrase of Isaiah 53. Jesus knew sorrow, affliction, homelessness, poverty. Again, in my sorrow, in my affliction, I follow in His steps.
If I want to be like Christ—that must include the valley of shadows where the darkness tries to crush all light out of me.
Oh, and for you writers out there, I was already considering a story about a homeless woman. Hmm. I’m not sure how to develop a light-hearted Christmas story about a homeless woman but I think I’m headed in the right direction.
One last thought: Mom is going to her 55th college reunion this weekend, flying crosscountry to Hartford. Please pray for her, for her safety and her health; and for me, in my alone time.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Welcome to Cynthia Hickey
Tonight I welcome my second guest blogger, Cynthia Hickey. Her cozy, Fudge-Laced Felonies, is scheduled for publication with Heartsong Presents: Mysteries! next month. Welcome, Cindy!
In this blog, I have been processing the loss of my daughter to suicide. The experience of loss is universal. What significant loss have you experienced? How has it impacted your writing?
This question couldn't have come at a better time. We just had to let my mother-in-law go. Very difficult, and I must confess that during the week we made arrangements, my writing was set to the side. Something she would not have approved of. I believe experiencing this temporary loss, we'll meet again someday, will help me create more in-depth and emotion characters.
What central truth did you learn through your loss?
God never leaves nor forsakes us, no matter how long and rough the road. He is faithful in tragedy down to the tiniest detail. Not expected to live once my mother was taken off her ventilator, God prolonged her life for ten hours. She woke and saw her children and grandchildren gathered at her side. What a wonderful gift He gave all of us.
Do you write to escape your circumstances or to process your feelings? Or both? Please share examples.
This question is a bit more difficult to answer. My mother-in-law hasn't been gone long enough to say. But I believe it would be to escape. During the past week, I escaped into books.
What books or characters resonated with you in your time of loss?
None. The words on the page were to fill the empty time until God called her home.
You have recently published "Fudge-Laced Felonies." Please tell me a little about your book.
Summer Meadows entered church on Sunday, not to find God, but to search for a killer.
While transplanting the rosebush her church's handsome Sunday school teacher, Ethan Banning inadvertently killed, Summer and Ethan discover a hidden stash of diamonds, a rusty can full of cash, and a bloody gardening glove. This discovery sets Summer and her candy-making aunt on a search for a killer.
As Summer gets close to the truth, not only of the theft, but of her true feelings for Ethan, the diamond thief hatches a plan to hush the feisty sleuth.
Ethan's love for Summer stays buried beneath his teasing, waiting until God tells him it is time to declare his feelings. Meanwhile, Summer's quirky and daring resolve to solve the case has him acting in a heavy-handed manner in order to protect her, and almost pushes her away.
Thanks for sharing out of your recent loss, Cindy. What a beautiful testimony of your mother-in-law's homegoing.
I look forward to reading Fudge-Laced Felonies!
In this blog, I have been processing the loss of my daughter to suicide. The experience of loss is universal. What significant loss have you experienced? How has it impacted your writing?
This question couldn't have come at a better time. We just had to let my mother-in-law go. Very difficult, and I must confess that during the week we made arrangements, my writing was set to the side. Something she would not have approved of. I believe experiencing this temporary loss, we'll meet again someday, will help me create more in-depth and emotion characters.
What central truth did you learn through your loss?
God never leaves nor forsakes us, no matter how long and rough the road. He is faithful in tragedy down to the tiniest detail. Not expected to live once my mother was taken off her ventilator, God prolonged her life for ten hours. She woke and saw her children and grandchildren gathered at her side. What a wonderful gift He gave all of us.
Do you write to escape your circumstances or to process your feelings? Or both? Please share examples.
This question is a bit more difficult to answer. My mother-in-law hasn't been gone long enough to say. But I believe it would be to escape. During the past week, I escaped into books.
What books or characters resonated with you in your time of loss?
None. The words on the page were to fill the empty time until God called her home.
You have recently published "Fudge-Laced Felonies." Please tell me a little about your book.
Summer Meadows entered church on Sunday, not to find God, but to search for a killer.
While transplanting the rosebush her church's handsome Sunday school teacher, Ethan Banning inadvertently killed, Summer and Ethan discover a hidden stash of diamonds, a rusty can full of cash, and a bloody gardening glove. This discovery sets Summer and her candy-making aunt on a search for a killer.
As Summer gets close to the truth, not only of the theft, but of her true feelings for Ethan, the diamond thief hatches a plan to hush the feisty sleuth.
Ethan's love for Summer stays buried beneath his teasing, waiting until God tells him it is time to declare his feelings. Meanwhile, Summer's quirky and daring resolve to solve the case has him acting in a heavy-handed manner in order to protect her, and almost pushes her away.
Thanks for sharing out of your recent loss, Cindy. What a beautiful testimony of your mother-in-law's homegoing.
I look forward to reading Fudge-Laced Felonies!
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Time
I've always been a very organized person. Organized with my time, that is, although not with my things.
So I was looking at my schedule. Realizing that I am pushing the edge of emotional exhaustion, needing to find more time to rest, to grieve, to attend one of those grief support groups (understand that none of them are terribly close).
It can't be done. I get home at 7 at night, and go to bed between 9-10. In those hours I eat, blog, and unwind with an hour of television. I NEED to relax at night, or else I don't fall asleep easily.
So in the mornings ... working backwards from leaving for work at 11:45 ... I quit writing at 10:45 to take my shower and eat a good lunch.
I want a minimum of three hours writing time. That means ... at the computer by 7:45 at the latest.
Move forward 9 hours rest (and for now I could use more) from 10 PM: 7 a.m.
That gives me 45 minutes to get out of bed and have my quiet time and maybe throw in a load of laundry.
Really, the only thing with any give is my writing time. But I try to hold that time sacred.
God, teach me to number the hours and minutes aright ... show me when to do and when to be. Teach me to trust You when I feel like I must use every minute to meet deadlines.
So I was looking at my schedule. Realizing that I am pushing the edge of emotional exhaustion, needing to find more time to rest, to grieve, to attend one of those grief support groups (understand that none of them are terribly close).
It can't be done. I get home at 7 at night, and go to bed between 9-10. In those hours I eat, blog, and unwind with an hour of television. I NEED to relax at night, or else I don't fall asleep easily.
So in the mornings ... working backwards from leaving for work at 11:45 ... I quit writing at 10:45 to take my shower and eat a good lunch.
I want a minimum of three hours writing time. That means ... at the computer by 7:45 at the latest.
Move forward 9 hours rest (and for now I could use more) from 10 PM: 7 a.m.
That gives me 45 minutes to get out of bed and have my quiet time and maybe throw in a load of laundry.
Really, the only thing with any give is my writing time. But I try to hold that time sacred.
God, teach me to number the hours and minutes aright ... show me when to do and when to be. Teach me to trust You when I feel like I must use every minute to meet deadlines.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Rewind
I promised I would write tonight. So I am trying to write something, anything, that won't sound like a bad copy of a tape you've heard before. It's not happening so far. I could write about the long lonely weekend hours, when my faithful readers spend the days away from their computers and my most heartfelt cries go unread. I could write about the sudden sharp pang of loss, of wishing I could spend even one more day with Jolene. I could write about the numerous mistakes I made at work last month, when I thought I was doing okay.
Why has today been so hard? I rested well. It's June. Almost three months have passed since Jolene's death. The sun shines and warmth at last seeps into my sore bones.
I'll hazard a guess. I have zeroed in on my finishing my second mystery, A String of Murders, in the weeks since Jolene's death. At last, for all intents and purposes, it's done. Maybe the need to finish the project kept me going. Perhaps now that it's finished, my mind and body are reminding me of the surgical removal of my daughter from my life.
Oh, Jolene, I miss you so.
Why has today been so hard? I rested well. It's June. Almost three months have passed since Jolene's death. The sun shines and warmth at last seeps into my sore bones.
I'll hazard a guess. I have zeroed in on my finishing my second mystery, A String of Murders, in the weeks since Jolene's death. At last, for all intents and purposes, it's done. Maybe the need to finish the project kept me going. Perhaps now that it's finished, my mind and body are reminding me of the surgical removal of my daughter from my life.
Oh, Jolene, I miss you so.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Ignored Survivor
There is one thing (at least) I have not handled well during this period of grieving.
I have expended very little energy in reaching out to Jolene's boyfriend, her almost-fiance. The truth is, I had no energy or comfort to spare. It's taken everything I have to go on with my own life. That, plus Mom and Jaran. That's all I can handle.
Also, to be honest, Jolene seemed ambivalent about Marius. At times she would talk dreamily about their future together. Other times, she would say "I tell him to go away and he won't leave me alone." At times they brought out the worst in each other. I'm not blaming Marius. I'm just saying that their disorders made their relationship difficult. And I was never sure if Marius was as serious about Jolene as she was about him. Does that make sense?
Whatever my excuse, I've neglected Marius, who grieves in a way I cannot comprehend.
This weekend we finally met up together. He went to the storage unit with us; we had a pleasant talk. I asked for his permission to share a letter he had written to us. His voice deserves to be heard.
"I hope the days are getting better for you. That maybe forlorn has become a foreign word. I, myself, am still swimming in a sea of melancholy. Everything has begun to fade to grey. I miss Jolene (my queen). Everything seems to empty without her. Every day (or night), I tell her that I love her . . . and that I am sorry. Somebody from MHCD, that I had not seen in awhile, asked me how Jolene was doing. That is always a hard situation. I'm sure you know all about it."
We agreed to set a time to meet, once or twice a month. If I don't plan for it, it won't happen.
So when you think of me and my loss, send up an extra prayer for Marius.
Footnote: Since almost no one reads this blog on the weekends, I have decided to publish Sunday nights - Thursday nights. On Wednesdays, I hope to post guest blog from fellow authors. We can all learn from each other.
I have expended very little energy in reaching out to Jolene's boyfriend, her almost-fiance. The truth is, I had no energy or comfort to spare. It's taken everything I have to go on with my own life. That, plus Mom and Jaran. That's all I can handle.
Also, to be honest, Jolene seemed ambivalent about Marius. At times she would talk dreamily about their future together. Other times, she would say "I tell him to go away and he won't leave me alone." At times they brought out the worst in each other. I'm not blaming Marius. I'm just saying that their disorders made their relationship difficult. And I was never sure if Marius was as serious about Jolene as she was about him. Does that make sense?
Whatever my excuse, I've neglected Marius, who grieves in a way I cannot comprehend.
This weekend we finally met up together. He went to the storage unit with us; we had a pleasant talk. I asked for his permission to share a letter he had written to us. His voice deserves to be heard.
"I hope the days are getting better for you. That maybe forlorn has become a foreign word. I, myself, am still swimming in a sea of melancholy. Everything has begun to fade to grey. I miss Jolene (my queen). Everything seems to empty without her. Every day (or night), I tell her that I love her . . . and that I am sorry. Somebody from MHCD, that I had not seen in awhile, asked me how Jolene was doing. That is always a hard situation. I'm sure you know all about it."
We agreed to set a time to meet, once or twice a month. If I don't plan for it, it won't happen.
So when you think of me and my loss, send up an extra prayer for Marius.
Footnote: Since almost no one reads this blog on the weekends, I have decided to publish Sunday nights - Thursday nights. On Wednesdays, I hope to post guest blog from fellow authors. We can all learn from each other.
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