Winter and Spring, Together

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times... it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair."  

~ Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

My first scary dream of recollection was quintessential four-year-old fare:  A monster was coming to get me.  An actual monster -- green and scaly, about six feet tall with large, sharp teeth, spikes on its back, and a very long tail.  It looked rather like a cross between a miniature Godzilla and Triceratops, in fact, and he was glaring viciously at me through the small, diamond-shaped window located on the front door.  I was screaming as I sat in the living room just waiting for him to thrust his massive arm through the door, and my purpose was to protect my younger brother from his evil clutches.  So I sat there screaming, with my arms around my brother, fearfully waiting for this beast to break down the door and proceed, I imagine, to eat us.  That is why monsters chased children, after all:  To eat them.  

And then I woke up. 

I can look back on that dream now and laugh uproariously.  Sometimes I find myself wishing that my adulthood fears were as simple and, yes, lighthearted.  Monsters trying to eat one are as nothing compared to things like, say, cancer and mass shootings and natural disasters.  The former is imaginary.  The latter are quite real.

Just two months ago I was terribly afraid that my husband had cancer.  He did not and he does not, and I am relieved beyond words.  But oh, the fear that gripped my trembling heart. 

Three months before that I was shaken to the core by the Connecticut school shooting.  For weeks afterward I was terrified to take my daughter to her Mother's Day Out class on Mondays.  I reluctantly did take her, but the first three times I sat in my car for minutes afterward, weeping and praying for God to help me release her to His care.  

A friend of mine recently discovered that she has a rare form of sarcoma cancer.  She's younger than I am, and her daughter is my daughter's age.  

One of my dearest childhood friends has four children, the youngest of whom is battling leukemia.  He is more stable now after many months of treatment, but a fellow sufferer, a little girl they know, recently succumbed and passed away.  

And two nights ago a massive F5 tornado ripped through the town just north of us, killing 24 people and leaving destruction in its wake.  We know people who lost everything.  We know others who survived in closets.  We know others who drove madly to escape it.  The roads it destroyed are ones I drive fairly often.  I won't recognize them now.

Everywhere around me, week after week it seems for the past several months, I am reminded in the most sobering ways of the frailty of my life and of this world.  Never have words like these been more real to me:

"All flesh is grass, and all its loveliness is like the flower of the field... Surely the people are grass.  The grass withers, the flower fades, but the Word of our God stands forever."

"You do not know what will happen tomorrow.  For what is your life?  It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away."

"For He knows our frame; He remembers that we are dust.  As for man, his days are like grass.  As a flower of the field, so he flourishes.  For the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more."

"Trust in Him at all times, you people.  Pour out your heart before Him.  God is a refuge for us."

"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.  Therefore, we will not fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea..."

I told a friend recently, "The older I get, the more I want Jesus to come back now."  I think that's because I'm not afraid of dying.  I'm afraid of living.  The first thing I have to do in the morning is get on my knees and thank the Lord for this day.  I have to do it so that I can get up and face the day without the paralysis of fear around my heart, knowing that He gave me this day, and He will be sufficient for me, whatever it brings.  "Thank you for my life, Lord.  Thank you for my little family.  Thank you for my home, thank you for the Bible, thank you for salvation, thank you for where you have me.  Thank you, Lord, thank you, thank you, thank you..."

It's those littlest things that are the biggest things, and I think that's why the spring of hope and the winter of despair sometimes come together, as Dickens wrote.  The more one is aware of how quickly a thing can be taken, the more tenderly one will cherish it.  The more unpredictable life becomes, the more one is forced to trust the One who is in control.  God's love and presence are often revealed most beautifully after agonizingly horrific tragedies. And I think that's why I currently live in the crazy, beautiful paradox of "the best of times and the worst of times."  

Right now, as I write this, my daughter is telling my husband how sad she was to say good-bye to her best friend after their play date today.  "But we have to say good-bye at some point, Lilia," he says.  "We can't stay with them forever.  You know what I mean?"  

No, I don't think she does know, but she will.  Presently her world is made up of toys and tea parties, fairies and monsters.  But someday she will learn, as her Daddy and I are learning, that this life is passing away before our eyes.  She'll learn, too, I hope, that the worst of times can be the best of times, that Winter and Spring will sometimes kiss each other...

Sweetly.

"And I heard a loud voice from heaven saying, 'Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and He will dwell with them, and they shall be His people.  God Himself will be with them and be their God.  And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying.  There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away.'  Then He who sat on the throne said, 'Behold, I make all things new.'  And He said to me, 'Write, for these words are faithful and true.' "

~ Revelation 21: 3-5

Even so, come Lord Jesus.

Letter to Lilia

Dear Peanut,

There's a song by Keith Green to his son, and in it he sings, "Well if I could I would protect you from what you will see.  This world promised love and beauty, but it lied to me."  That is how I feel tonight.  I want to protect you, shield you, spare you (if I could) from the evil you will see in this broken, fallen world.  I want to keep you safe from it, like a mother bird fiercely guarding her nest from predators. 

Today, as I read the horrible news of precious little ones, not much older than you, whose lives were violently ended by evil, you were playing lightheartedly near me.  I asked you to come sit on my lap, just so I could hold you and have you near, smell your hair and feel your little hands on my arms.  And then I cried for nearly a solid half hour.  You comforted me by bringing me your "beebee."  How precious is your little life to me, Lilia.

I'm not really sure how to trust God with your future, how to let Him have the reigns.  How do I wake up each day and relinquish your care to His hands, when I love you so fiercely?  How could I endure the kind of anguish that so many parents are feeling tonight over the loss of their precious children? Oh Lilia, how could I endure that pain?  It would utterly break me. 

But Keith Green also sings in the same song, "Oh what a strong Shepherd holds you in His arms,"  and I remember this painting I have of Jesus holding a little lamb in His strong, wide arms.  So tender, yet so strong.  He loves that little lamb, and He is such a strong Shepherd, so much stronger than your feeble mommy and daddy, love you though we do.  We cannot protect you, not really.  Not ultimately.  Only God can do that.

The really hard part for me to swallow, Lilia, is that God doesn't promise me that He will always keep you safe from evil or from the danger of life.  I want Him to promise me that as I pray and beg Him to spare you... but He does not.  All creation groans under the weight of sin, all suffer. 

This is what He does promise:  To be the strong Shepherd holding you in His arms, whatever wolves assail and cliffs draw near.  It means that there will be danger, of some form or another, present.  But the Shepherd will be present, too, and He can hold you so much more strongly and gently than I ever could, whether here or in eternity.

I will do whatever is in my weak, frail, death-bound power to protect you, Peanut.  By the grace God has given, I will do it.  But ultimately, I must leave you to His care, knowing He loves you even more than I do.  And I will also pray:

"The Lord bless you and keep you, Lilia.  The Lord make His face to shine upon you and be gracious unto you.  The Lord lift up His countenance upon you, Lilia, and give you peace.... May the Lord bless you with long life, little Peanut, and show you His salvation."

I love you,
Mommy

It's a Lonely, Lonely, Lonely, Lonely World

I read a very sad and very insightful article this week.  The article, entitled "Cell Phones Do Not Make Good Friends," chronicled how our culture's compulsive use of digital technology (namely, cell phones) is eroding our personal relationships. In other words, people are more lonely nowadays, and they have fewer friends, and this corresponds in part to how obsessed our brains have become with techno-gadgets.

I sometimes yearn, I must admit, for an iPhone.  I usually do not, but sometimes I do.  When Jerry and I are on one of our crazy long road trips to Kentucky, for example, and Lilia is quickly reaching meltdown mode in her car seat, and we LONG to know where is the closest McDonald's with a play land -- THAT is when I yearn for one.  I fully realize the abundance of neato features inherent in the little gizmos.  I applaud Steve Jobs for his creatively brilliant brain.  And they can be covered in some cutesy little jackets and things to reflect one's personal taste.  They have their uses, and yes, I sometimes yearn for one.

But usually I do not.

I'll tell you what I do yearn for:  Friendship.

I'm going to be embarrassingly vulnerable:  I'm desperately lonely for friends.  Aside from my precious hubby, who is my dearest friend (as he should be), I have very few friends these days.  That is not to say that I do not have ANY friends.  I do, and some of them are exceedingly dear to my heart.  But the friend that one can label as a true friend, the kind of friend who loves dearer than a brother, is practically non-existent.

I don't think I remember a time of longing so desperately for a friend.  (See, I told you I was going to be embarrassingly vulnerable.)  I'm so lonely for a friend.

Which is why I find myself lately doing two things:  1. Abhorring more than ever the impersonal nature of our culture; and 2. Remembering dear friends of the past and present.

As far as Number One is concerned:  To be quite frank, I wish people would get off their cell phones.  I wish that they would stop checking texts when they are talking to me.  I wish they would turn off their cell phone when sitting at the dinner table with me.  I wish they would stop pulling out their phones to entertain my daughter and instead (here's a thought!) TALK to her.  Sing to her.  Play with her.  Read to her.

I don't say this to be cruel, and I fully realize that I check my own cell phone (old school model that it is) far too often.  Facebook beckons me too frequently.  In other words, I'm guilty, too.  But I've so far been able to avoid becoming one of those people who sits with a "friend" for two straight hours and never exchanges so much as a nod while I scroll through three gazillion posts and text messages.  No wonder people are lonely!

On to Number Two:  Dear friends of the past and present.  I consider myself blessed beyond words to have had some of the dearest, truest friends a girl could hope to have...

Molly, for example.  Though I see her hardly ever these days, and though we only occasionally email a friendly greeting and update, I will always treasure this friend found in second grade.  I remember all of our rambles as we rode "doubles" on her ten speed through alleyways and neighborhood streets at the risk of our lives, laughing the whole way.

And Missy (thank you, Mr. Varner!).  She always remembered to bake chocolate chip bar cookies for me before I came to her house (doughy and gooey in the center).  I love her no-nonsense, down to earth nature, and her faith inspires me and spurns me forward.

Melanie... we only just started becoming friends before she and her husband left town, yet somehow it seemed as if I had found a real sister.  I can share my heart over email with Melanie, and she "gets it."  She should, I guess, since she's practically my emotional, intellectual, and psychological clone.

Jenny.  What do I say about Jenny?  Frasier, fingernail-biting, eharmony, Matlock, and cross country road trips, for starters.  There is a verse in Proverbs:  "There is a friend who loves closer than a brother."  THAT is Jenny.

And there are others whom I remember with teary-eyed fondness:  Tara, whose beauty and laughter attract all in her path; Hilary, a lovely mix of goofiness and intellectual sophistication; Leslie, whose nutty humor was a carbon copy of my own, even if others questioned our "mental health;" and Emily, who roamed with me through high school hallways during lunch breaks and was my faithful "partner in crime" as we toilet papered the boys' homes. 

These are the kind of friends whose faces stay with you in the desert places of life.  Their voices and and smiles, the memories you share, do not fade away over miles and years.  They remain.  The friendship slackens through distance and time, perhaps, but the heart is somehow permanently knit.  Oh, how I miss these friends.

My husband is teaching through Proverbs in our Sunday School class, and he taught last week on the recurring theme of friendship.  Since my husband is a "data head," his lesson involved statistics -- lots of them.  Most of the statistics convey, like the article I recently read, the general and deepening loneliness of individuals.  We're speaking less.  We're watching TV more.  We're lonelier than ever.

There's a children's book by Eric Carle called, "Will You Be My Friend?"  In it, a mouse approaches many different animals (all bigger than him) and asks, "Will you be my friend?"  Of course the mouse is very small and vulnerable, and he takes great risks in approaching the other animals and asking them to be his friend.  Most of the animals sadly say "no" (even though they are not on cell phones). 

That is how I feel these days.  I feel like that little mouse asking people to be my friend.  They don't say 'no' but they don't say 'yes,' either.  Sometimes they never reply.  But there are some little sparks of hope here and there, when someone is willing to give it a shot and willing to start investing the time to become friends.  That, at least, is encouraging to my heart.

I don't know when, if ever, I will make another true friend.  I don't know when I'll have that kindred spirit with whom to regularly meet over coffee, girl talk, and prayer.  But I guess I'll keep trying, even though discouragement has overwhelmed me.  It is taking everything I have, but I guess I will keep trying and risking, like that little mouse in the silly children's book.  I will keep asking, "Will you be my friend?"

And maybe after some time, little or long, I will find.... another Jenny.  Another Melanie.  Another Molly or Missy or Tara.

In the meantime, I will ask the Lord to help me become the kind of friend that these have been to me, and I will thank Him that I have dear friends in memory, if not in presence.

Heartbroken

Goodbye, America.  I'll miss you.