grief

The Last of the Year

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The waiting and longing of Advent has given way to Christmas. With the lighting of every new candle, the anticipation grew. Excitement filled our hearts for the night when we would finally celebrate the coming of a Saviour who changed everything, and will one day change everything again! We have not rushed through this season as if it’s a series of events to be endured, rather we’ve embraced it as a loud, lingering celebration of the only One who can truly heal our hearts!

We would be fools to pretend that things are not complicated, even and especially during the holidays. Sorrow and grief. Conflict and frustration. Strained and broken relationships, realities that we almost cannot comprehend, the sinister coldness of apathy gripping our hearts. There are those who are not with us this year, and we feel the gap acutely.

Jesus, be near!

In our home, the tree lights still glow as carols softly fill the living room. The halls are still decked as we gather around the table filled with once-a-year treats. Snow is finally falling and the north wind is rushing down from its Arctic home, bringing the conditions we’ve been waiting for to enjoy sledding, skating and warming fires.

Tonight, in these last moments of the year, we’ll reflect on God’s goodness and grace in these past twelve months, marking those moments as evidence that He is faithful and holding them as beacons to remind us that He is able to carry us through the year to come. May this be a time of growth into a deeper understanding of the Lord, and the transformation power that comes from yielding to His work in our lives.

A Covenant Prayer in the Wesleyan Tradition

Father in heaven,

I am no longer my own, but thine.

Put me to what thou wilt, rank me with whom thou wilt. 

Put me to doing, put me to suffering.

Let me be employed by thee or laid aside for thee, 

exalted for thee or brought low for thee.

Let me be full, let me be empty.

Let me have all things, let me have nothing.

I freely and heartily yield all things

to thy pleasure and disposal.

And now, O glorious and blessed God,

Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,

thou art mine, and I am thine. So be it.

And the covenant which I have made on earth,

let it be ratified in heaven. Amen.

-John Wesley

Happy New Year, friends. May the Lord’s presence surround you.

Image: mine

Remember Again

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Sunsets on the beach. Ice cream cones. Milestone celebrations. Long drives, late nights, lazy mornings, laughs with friends and family, moments of rest in beautiful places… this summer has been filled with so many gifts to our family. After a particularly difficult year navigating the channels of grief, we have felt the warmth of God’s mercies in so many places. 

My mom calls them “bouquets from the Lord” — things throughout the course of the day that draw your attention to God’s goodness and care for you and yours. Coincidences that, in hindsight, seem to be more than just happenstance.

I need to take the time to remember, because I can be a forgetful person. It’s a human thing, I guess. A stormy season can erase memories with monstrous waves that threaten to wash us out to sea. We become fearful that God really isn’t who He says He is, and we forget the things He has done in the past.

“Don’t you care if we drown?”

Our hearts begin to echo the disciples’ question of Jesus in Mark 4:38. In the moment of our peril, we cry out to Him and wonder if He sees, knows, cares. But more than that, can He really save?

“He got up, rebuked the wind and said to the waves, ‘Quiet! Be still!’ Then the wind died down and it was completely calm. He said to his disciples, ‘Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?’” 

(Mark 4:39-40 NIV)

Yes, He can save. And yes, He does. Time and time again, I pray that He would help me remember the end of this story. The One who commands the winds and the waves does the same in me, and I don’t have to look too far to see Him working in and through my life. What a bouquet from the Lord! He is worthy of our praise! And He is full of mercy, caring for us in all seasons.

I will remember the deeds of the Lord;
yes, I will remember your miracles of long ago.
I will consider all your works
and meditate on all your mighty deeds.

(Psalm 77:11-12)

Image: Stocksnap

Sweet Summer

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This week marks the first anniversary of the sudden and unexpected loss of my father-in-law.

Twelve months of firsts. Twelve months that haven’t gone exactly as planned. Twelve months of shuffling, adjusting, making space for a new reality. Twelve months that have brought moments of pure grief, pure joy and everything in between.

And a new awareness: twelve months of the faithfulness of God in dark, unfamiliar places.

For the Lord is good
And His love endures forever
His faithfulness continues to all generations.
(Psalm 100:5)

Yes, Lord, You are faithful. 

As our family moves into the fullness of the sweet summer months, we are experiencing the goodness of the Lord in a thousand little ways, in a thousand little places. And while we intentionally remember what He has done, we recognize there are many things we don’t understand. Living in the tension between the two, our hearts are tuned to His love and care.

Even in the gift of a fresh, late June morning, thick with humidity, at least as much this arid city will allow. More than we’re used to, anyway. Lilacs and roses soak the air with heavy, sweet fragrance as bees bumble from bloom to bloom.

Summer is fleeting in this part of the world, so we tend to make the most of the warmth and sunshine while we have it. Responsibilities give way to relaxation, but we’re learning from the story of the Grasshopper and the Ants! Committing to completing the tasks on the to-do list feels like a sacrifice when we know that before long, autumn will appear for a big colorful show, ushering in our regular tasks and routines.

The weaving together of work and play is an art! Striking that beautiful balance of completing some big jobs and kicking up our heels for some fun seems to be the challenge of these short summer months. I am praying for the strength to do the hard things and the wisdom to make space for the best things. 

I watch my friends and family as their birds leave the nest, knowing that our time is coming. We’re not quite there but we know that soon we’ll be into the “everyone doing their own thing” season of life. We’re catching glimpses of it. The inevitable shift is in motion, and it’s all brand new. I feel like a first-time mom all over again – but this time instead of bouncing a sweet babe on my hip, I’m juggling social plans and big emotions. I’m relearning many things as my role moves from teacher and trainer to coach and cheerleader.

Amid the shifts in family dynamics, the gravity of the passing of time grounds me. I am fully aware that we have just a few years left before our own birds start spreading their wings and heading out.

Lord, stamp eternity into my eyes. Help me not to waste the difficult moments. Help me to trust that You know all things, and in Your time You make all things beautiful.

These past twelve months have driven me even deeper into the perfect love of God. I have discovered that no matter where the road leads, no matter what season we are in, He is good. He is a refuge in times of trouble. He cares for those who trust in Him! (Nahum 1:7). It is only by His grace that I wake each morning, ready for what the new day holds. And by His grace, I can confidently say: Praise be to the Lord, to God our Saviour, who daily bears our burdens (Psalm 68:19).

Image: mine

Not So Fast

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Grey skies and gusty winds. 

Something chilly this way comes. 

We had a taste of spring last week. The sun soaked up all the snow on the front lawn and the grass peeked out. I spied the irises poking up from underneath last year’s batch and excited birdsong filled the neighbourhood. All has gone back to sleep now. A fresh dusting of grainy snow has come, with a wicked windchill to boot.

February is reminding us that winter isn’t quite finished. We need the moisture desperately so I have vowed not to complain about any of the snow from now until June, even though I’m sure a late May snowstorm isn’t anyone’s idea of great fun. Living in the shadow of the mountains, we can get snow in just about any month of the year.

This is the hard part, though. We’ve had our winter fun with skating, tobogganing, hot chocolate, puzzles, board games and movies and we’re ready to seed our veggies, watch for the first leaf bud and listen for our favourite winged migrants to fill the neighbourhood with song.

Not so fast, says late February. Time for the shoulder season. 

The freeze-melt-freeze-melt-freeze-melt cycle of late winter. Warm days mean cloud arches that block the sun’s rays and the sweet smell of fresh mud, and cold days mean cloudy skies that threaten more flakes and thin, nearly-invisible layers of ice in unexpected places. We know could be in a days-long, bone-chilling, teeth-chattering, finger-numbing polar vortex climbing the walls with cabin fever, so instead of complaining, we choose embrace this shoulder season and make the most of each day, whatever it brings — be it sun or cloud, mud or ice, or both in the same day.

It’s coming at the right time. The tension of the now and the not-yet and the longing for the warmth of spring reflects the nature of the Christian season leading up to Easter, as we prepare our hearts to celebrate the promise of new life in Jesus. We sense the change in the natural world, but it feels too slow for us. We want the warmth of April at the end of February, and it is never to be. We may catch a glimpse as the sun returns, but the journey has its own pace and it will not be rushed.

The journey has its own pace, and it will not be rushed.

 I need to hear that again and again heading into the month of March. We know that the snow will return many times before late spring, so we embrace the pace of the natural world, learning to wait patiently for warm breath to draw life from the soil and hope from our winter-weary hearts. In the meantime we persevere, praising the Lord for the pleasant days and praying for patience on the tough ones.

Even here in the shoulder season the echoes of the Incarnation are heard throughout our lives: Emmanuel, God with us. When we’re not quite where we want to be, or where we hope to be, we rest in the knowledge that we are not alone.

Spring always returns.

For this God is our God for ever and ever;
    he will be our guide even to the end.
(Psalm 48:14)

(Image: mine)

Joy in the Morning

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“Weeping may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning.”

When I was a girl we went to a little country church where our aging pastor stood behind a huge walnut-coloured wooden pulpit and reminded us of these words from Psalm 30. He would say it once with as much passion as he could muster without raising too many eyebrows, pause, and then repeat it in quiet confidence. It may have been the only phrase that brought murmurs of “Amen” out of a tight-lipped group of unflappable farming families steeped in tradition.

Out of all the forty-five minute sermons he preached, this sentence took root my heart like no other.

Weeping may last for the night.

The holiday season has come to an end and we’ve moved into a new year with all of the old sorrows and struggles. Grief ebbs and flows, new challenges arise as old ones fade, and as we navigate the changes and make space in our life for the unexpected, we weep for the losses we’ve experienced in the past 12 months.

Joy comes in the morning.

Struggles never resolve at the same time, do they? The night may be fading away and morning joy is dawning in many places we once waged war with the darkness, and yet there are other places in the thick of inky blackness with terror on either side, awaiting first light.

And the peaceful places under a rose-gold dawn remind us that one day every bit of dark will have the full light of the sun blazing on it, bringing beauty from ashes and life from desert wastelands.

Isn’t this the good news of Jesus?

As I tread softly into this new year with all of its unknowns, these words bring me comfort:

The desert and the parched land will be glad;
    the wilderness will rejoice and blossom.
Like the crocus, it will burst into bloom;
    it will rejoice greatly and shout for joy.
The glory of Lebanon will be given to it,
    the splendor of Carmel and Sharon;
they will see the glory of the Lord,
    the splendor of our God.

Strengthen the feeble hands,
    steady the knees that give way;

say to those with fearful hearts,
    “Be strong, do not fear;
your God will come,
    he will come with vengeance;
with divine retribution
    he will come to save you.”

Then will the eyes of the blind be opened
    and the ears of the deaf unstopped.

Then will the lame leap like a deer,
    and the mute tongue shout for joy.
Water will gush forth in the wilderness
    and streams in the desert.

The burning sand will become a pool,
    the thirsty ground bubbling springs.
In the haunts where jackals once lay,
    grass and reeds and papyrus will grow.

And a highway will be there;
    it will be called the Way of Holiness;
    it will be for those who walk on that Way.
The unclean will not journey on it;
    wicked fools will not go about on it.

No lion will be there,
    nor any ravenous beast;
    they will not be found there.
But only the redeemed will walk there,

    and those the Lord has rescued will return.
They will enter Zion with singing;
    everlasting joy will crown their heads.
Gladness and joy will overtake them,
    and sorrow and sighing will flee away.

(Isaiah 35 NIV)

What a promise! Strengthen my hands, steady my knees, Lord. Weeping may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning.

Sunrise Beauty (image: mine)

Light and Life

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Everything feels upside down this year. 

A green Christmas may be the norm for our neighbours to the south, but up here it’s strange to be able to walk barefoot on my front lawn five days before Christmas.

The other day as we were driving I observed the lack of snow. 

“It doesn’t feel like Christmas,” I sighed.

“Mom!” My oldest daughter began, “Don’t you know? It’s in the singing of the street corner choir! It’s going home and getting warm by the fire! It’s true, wherever you find love, it feels like Christmas!” 

I laughed as she quoted the lyrics of a song from one of our favourite holiday movies and for a moment, I forgot that December 25th will likely not be a scene from Currier and Ives this year.

This morning I heard the distinctive weathered-gate-hinge squeak of a blue jay from somewhere nearby. My eight year old and I instantly flew to the window, searching all around for a glimpse of the brilliant blue bird. The rusty-pump-handle sounded again, and suddenly he bolted out from the neighbour’s yard to take refuge in the tall evergreens across the street.

“There he is!” She shouted. “Wow!”

A fleeting glimpse to be sure, but a glimpse nonetheless. My heart warmed.

Like the surprise blue jay, Christmas cheer seems to come on unexpectedly this year and only lasts a moment before it disappears into the wind. Death has upended our family celebrations, and the grief is palpable as we prepare to gather together, fully aware that things will never be the same again. It’s one thing to objectively state that death is not the end and that we have hope in the Lord Jesus, and another thing entirely to sit with so large a gap in the room that once was filled with a beloved person and their unique personality, gifts and talents, and all the shifting dynamics that come along with loss.

The light has gone too quickly.

And yet…

In just a few short hours, daylight will fade into the longest night of the year, and the soft glow of candles and Christmas lights will fill our home as we once again witness the remarkable truth that darkness will not last forever. The words from an old hymn I haven’t thought of in years float through my head.

For the darkness shall turn to dawning
And the dawning to noonday bright
And Christ’s great kingdom shall come on earth
The kingdom of love and light.
-H. Ernest Nichol

For the Christian, Christmas is the moment when the Light of the World broke through the darkest night, bringing the hope of resurrection and the promise of new life. It is the moment when we no longer need to crawl around alone in the pitch black feeling our way through briars and thistles. It is the moment when our eyes are opened to the wondrous truth of Emmanuel, God with us, whether on mountaintops of jubilation or in deep valleys of grief.

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
(John 1:5 NIV)

Lord Jesus, as we enter into this year’s Christmas celebrations, may we know Your healing presence in ways we never imagined possible. May we discover Your peace that passes all understanding, guarding our hearts and minds and reminding us of who You are and why You’ve come.

Light and life to all He brings
risen with healing in His wings.
-Charles Wesley

Merry Christmas, friends.

(image: mine)

With Joyful Praise

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“With joyful praise in all things.”

The sign hangs in the living room, a constant reminder of the call to choose joy anyway. I couldn’t have known when I put it up months ago that I would need it so much this year.

And now, Advent is near, inviting us to participate in a season of longing for the deliverance only Christ can bring, reminding us that there can be no true hope, joy, peace or love without our beautiful Saviour.

Can I see Him in all things?

The recycling truck rumbles down the street in the slow light of dawn. Kids work on various projects, inspired after a good night’s sleep. I can hear one’s pencil on her paper, bringing characters to life and crafting wild adventures for them, page after page. The other three bring me piece after piece made of felt and pompoms, carefully fashioned as Christmas surprises.

“Mom, look at this!”

The excitement of this season is still palpable in our home. Although things are different now in many respects, some things remain the same, grounding us in the familiar, reminding us of who God is in the midst of it all.

Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
    for his compassions never fail.

They are new every morning;
    great is your faithfulness.

I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion;
    therefore I will wait for him.”

The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him,
    to the one who seeks him;

it is good to wait quietly
    for the salvation of the Lord.

Lamentations 3:22-26 (NIV)

Lord, may these words wash over me in this season. Give me eyes to see Your new mercies every morning. May I remember that You are my portion, that You are good, and that it is good that I wait quietly for Your salvation.

With joyful praise in all things.

(image: Stocksnap)

Dust Settling

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The zinnias are coming up and the sunflowers are standing at attention. Blush pink, bright red and orange-yellow roses are in bloom. We’ve enjoyed more than a few handfuls of Saskatoons and our sweet little strawberry plants have given us about three beautiful ripe berries altogether this summer. They’ve found refuge from hungry birds under the shade of the hollyhocks, which is probably why we’ve found any at all! Deep purple pansies nod their heads in the wind, grateful for the bit of sunshine cast their way for part of the afternoon.

We’ve had more rain this July than in years past so things are still looking quite well but the long, dry, hot days of summer are upon us and soon shades of yellow and brown will fill the horizon.

The dust is settling in our world, but not the way we had hoped. May and June surprised us with some deeply sad and extremely hard things, and now we are left with the pieces that remain.

“Dear Lord, thank you for today. Thank you for this food. And please help us because we don’t have a grandpa anymore. Amen.”

Our six year old son prays this daily as we gather around our old dining set. We are wading through the thick reeds of grief and loss, but like catching a glimpse of a stunning marsh bird in flight, or hearing its song, our experience has been peppered with the heart-lifting joy of a child’s perspective.

What a gift.

Tomorrow would have been my father-in-law’s 71st birthday. We wanted more time. We planned for more time. We knew the sudden diagnosis meant less time in the long run, but four weeks felt much too fast.

He loved good ice cream. 

Tomorrow, we will eat the best of the best, and we will remember.

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.”

Hebrews 12:1-3 NIV

Image: mine

Lament

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I’ve written these posts for years with the hope that one day my children will be grown and interested enough to read them. So this, my dear children, is for you.

When a whirlwind of grief descends upon you, upending the life you once knew, put your hope in the Lord. His love never fails, even when suffering surprises you with its coldness.

I remember my affliction and my wandering,
    the bitterness and the gall.

I well remember them,
    and my soul is downcast within me.

Yet this I call to mind
    and therefore I have hope:

Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
    for his compassions never fail.

They are new every morning;
    great is your faithfulness.

I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion;
    therefore I will wait for him.”

The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him,
    to the one who seeks him;

it is good to wait quietly
    for the salvation of the Lord.

It is good for a man to bear the yoke
    while he is young.

Let him sit alone in silence,
    for the Lord has laid it on him.

Let him bury his face in the dust—
    there may yet be hope.

Let him offer his cheek to one who would strike him,
    and let him be filled with disgrace.

For no one is cast off
    by the Lord forever.

Though he brings grief, he will show compassion,
    so great is his unfailing love.

For he does not willingly bring affliction
    or grief to anyone.

(Lamentations 3:19-33 NIV)

Image: Stocksnap/NASA

Stunning

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Stunning.

A young woman sitting on the summer grass in a white strapless party dress with a black stripe, legs hidden under her large skirt. Her dark hair was swept back in a classic early 50s style, dark lips curved into a slight smile.

The first time I ever saw the faded black and white photo I couldn’t believe it was the same sturdy woman who served me the best homemade perogies fried in onions and butter and always had ice cream in her freezer. I peered closer. It was definitely her, just not the way I knew her.

Our grandmothers weren’t always grandmothers, were they?

Decades after the party dress was gone and only the family album remained, a gaggle of grandchildren ate carrots straight out of her garden, dipped fresh rhubarb in a dish of white sugar from her kitchen and clambered up into the dusty hayloft while she mucked out stables in her tall rubber boots, jeans and t-shirt, cropped bleached blonde hair blowing in the prairie wind.

A stark contrast to the figure on the lawn.

Strong childhood memories are tied to pickled beets, beet borscht and finely crafted doilies, and her signature classic fragrance was Estee Lauder Youth Dew. She moved away when I was still young and distance kept her from the day to day of my life, but I still wrap my family in blankets made with the crochet skills I learned from her strong, well-manicured hands.

Hardy and hardworking, sharp as a tack, quiet but feisty, she loved classic country music, Scrabble and her “Story”, a particular soap opera with a 50-year run. She was a bit of a dish fairy with a penchant for abandoned coffee mugs. At least, she thought they were abandoned. Every time you’d put down your coffee mug for more than a few minutes, regardless of how full it was, you’d blink and she had whisked it away to the sink full of warm, soapy water for a scrub. “Where’s my coffee mug?” you’d say and she’d chuckle and shrug in her way.

Despite a remarkably challenging life, her faith formed her and held her. She rarely spoke of the difficulties but the lines in her face revealed more than words ever could. In recent years, she found herself in a more restful season living closer to family, and I’m so thankful my children came to know and love her, sharing Christmases together in our home. Over the past nine years we visited her at the seniors lodge, then in long-term care and finally, her hospice room where we sang her favourite song while and my eldest daughter played violin, like her great-grandfather had so many years before.

Tears would slip down those finely etched cheeks, her words barely intelligible as she sang along.

This weekend, she passed into the loving arms of Jesus, finding the true rest and peace she so longed for. On my final visit, I leaned close, kissed her cheek and told her I loved her and that I would see her again. Although her speech was muffled by her illness, I could still hear her say, “I love you too”.

I come from a long line of determined women.

Some would say stubborn, I would say tenacious. 

Some might say bullheaded, I would say unshakeable. 

Some could say unbending, I would say steadfast.

She was the first of us all.

She was stunning.

Image: mine