memories

Dandelion Bouquets

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The dandelions are popping up everywhere.

That’s how I know it’s almost Mother’s Day.

As a little girl, I wandered the yard and picked the biggest, brightest ones. I bunched up as many as I could curl my small fingers around and carefully carried them inside, leaving a trail of yellow bits behind me.

“Here Mom! Happy Mother’s Day,” I’d say. As soon as she saw the bouquet in my hands, her eyes lit up, face filled with joy, and she’d kiss my cheek and say, “Thank you, my sweet petunia.”

Then she’d take them and set them in the clear, short-stemmed, pressed glass water goblet on the middle of the table, as if they were a dozen long stem roses.

There they would stay, on that brown table in our tiny kitchen with the matching turquoise appliances, Mother’s Day evening sun streaming in the small west window, until they wilted.

And in the springtime of my teens, right in the middle of that long brown table in the farm kitchen with the strawberry plant wallpaper and brown paneling, Mother’s Day morning sunshine streaming in that east window above the sink, until they wilted.

Year after year, I picked dandelions for my mom. And year after year, they went on display, filling my little heart with joy and pride.

Our dandelions appeared this week, and they don’t stand a chance of going to seed because as soon as my own girls see one, it gets picked… just for me.

The tradition continues.

Without fail, they bloom in three generations of hearts, as a sweet shared memory of the most beautiful Mother’s Day bouquet of all.

I love you Mom. Happy Mother’s Day.

dandelions for ma

Dandelion bouquets

What We Really Long For

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hockeyequipment

Me in my brother’s hockey equipment

I come from a hockey family.

Growing up, the boys played shinny at the Rec on weeknights while I “figure skated” with my friends. Saturday night at 6, it was Hockey Night in Canada with my dad and my endless questions: “Who were the Leafs playing tonight? What’s icing? Who’s LaPointe? Why is he on every team? How come there’s no goalie in the net?” He graciously answered each one, giving me my first hockey primer.

As a young girl I fell asleep watching the stars out the window of the backseat on the way home from countless practices and games. We spent evenings and weekends at rink after rink, burning our tongues on cheap hot chocolate and freezing our rear ends off cheering on my big brother and the team. He was a zippy little forward who made his little sister so proud! There are pockets of memories filled with shouts of “c’mon ref!” and that arena smell – cigarette smoke and Zamboni exhaust mixed with freshly-flooded ice and old hockey equipment. The winters of my childhood were spent running around the bowels of the home arena while the game went on, begging my parents for candy and red and blue Slush Puppies from the concession. I had uncles who made it to the juniors and cousins who are still hoping to.

When I heard the news from Humboldt, my heart broke. I went to Bible School in Saskatchewan and have connections to the people in that community, knowing they grew up with a deep love of the game.

At the vigil on Sunday night, I was overwhelmed by Pastor Sean Brandow’s clear presentation of Jesus. It was amazing to see him speak so candidly about the need we all have deep inside, and the question he asked at the end of his message stuck with me.

“What will you do with one breath? Each breath that you have left, what are you going to do with it? Will you seek the God who has walked and who has died to show His love and His concern and His care for you? Or will you get bitter and angry and frustrated? Come to the God of comfort.”

Comfort.

Isn’t that what we really long for, even in the day-to-day? Underneath all our efforts to make life just a bit easier, we hunger for true rest to be our lasting reality.

But where can we go to find it?

We search all over for a way to alleviate our suffering, and instead find a God who Himself suffered so that we could find comfort forever.

Easter Sunday has long passed, and yet, here we linger.

In Luke 24 the angel asks the women at the tomb – “Why do you seek the living among the dead? He is not here – He is RISEN.”

This is the crux of our faith: if Jesus is not risen, our faith loses its power.

A dead man cannot forgive or save. A dead man cannot heal and bring new life.

The memory of a teacher can inspire us to do good to others, to be kind in every situation, to share what we have with those in need. But a dead man cannot bring the true transformation required to find an eternal hope and a future free from pain and grief. It’s a deeply rooted change of who we are that shifts our allegiance from ourselves to Someone far greater. Someone who is worthy of our worship and brings a rebirth into a living hope and inheritance that will never perish, spoil or fade (1 Peter 1:3-4).

Without a living God there is no internal change and without that internal change, this hope to be a better person, the longing to be whole, and our desire for greater significance all become a frustrating and futile effort. We may be doing the right things but our hearts still struggle with bitterness, selfishness and pride that ultimately leads us down a path of ruin.

We need a way for the change to stay.

We need more than “Jesus the example”. We need the real Jesus – the One who walked through suffering, took our sin, conquered death and lives in victory.

We need the Risen Jesus.

The final verse Pastor Sean shared at the vigil was Romans 15:13 –

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.”

Our hearts are broken for Humboldt. Time cannot heal this wound – only Jesus can. And because of His wounds, we can find healing for ours.

Seeing with “Grandma Eyes”

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I wrote this when my first two daughters were just 3 and 1, in Spring 2014. These memories are so close to my heart! And I still wish I had “Grandma Eyes”, but I know that it often takes the passing of the years to bring the important things of life into sharper focus.

***

I came across a photo this evening from my trip to Tanzania nearly six years ago.

woman in tanzania

She was waiting for treatment outside an HIV clinic in one of the villages we visited.  I have no idea what happened to her.

In fact, I had forgotten about her until I saw this.

She said it was okay for me to take her picture.  I was grateful.  I never thought that six years later I’d look back on it and wonder if she was still alive.

Six years.

We spend our lives wrapped in the small moments.  Then suddenly something from the past appears to remind us that time waits for no one.

I was thinking about what happens every night at bedtime at our house:

“Mom.  MOM!  MOOOOOOOOMMMMMM!”

I enter the darkness and lean down over her little pink and yellow bed.  “Yes?” I whisper, and kiss her little plump cheek.

“There’s one thing I want you to do for me.”

“What?”

“Ummmm…” (quickly thinking of something) “…can you turn up the story?”

“Sure sweetheart.”  I move the volume button on the iPod dock one notch up so she can hear the story-on-tape a little better.

“Thanks Mama.”

“You’re welcome sweetheart.  Goodnight.”  I lean down for another kiss on her cheek, and stroke her hair.  “Time for sleeping.”

And then a cry from the other room, and a little one who just wants to throw one arm around my neck and rest her sweet head on my shoulder with her pint-sized stuffed Snoopy tucked under the other arm – the perfect position for the night.

Absolutely THE best.  And I slowly set her down with a kiss on her squishy cheek.

And then I stand up from the sides of their beds, and suddenly she’s three and she’s one and here we go into month 4 of another year.  My half-birthday has come and gone, and we’re nearing Easter celebrations.

Wasn’t it just Christmastime?

I’ve often said I wish I could see these moments with “Grandma Eyes” – with the wisdom and perspective of all those wonderful women who have gone before me.  The ones who know better than anyone that they sure do grow up fast, so don’t sweat the small stuff (and there is ALOT more small stuff than you realize, young mama!).

I look again at the woman above.

Time is short.

We must make the most of the moments, because the milestones come faster than we realize.

Oh Lord Jesus, help me savour the sweetness instead of sighing with heaviness.  Give me even just a glimpse of life through Grandma Eyes!

The Time Machine: Friday Truth

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The Time Machine series features posts from years past.

When you’re a parent of young children, you tend to listen to kids music from time to time. Our oldest has always been an early riser – and I mean EARLY. There was a time when she would wake up before the crack of dawn singing kids songs loud enough to wake the house. Thankfully, at that time we only had two littles and they did not share a room! When I wrote this, she was almost 3 and her younger sister was about 9 months old.

***

“Little is much when God is in it”.

It’s true. God can take a small thing and make it big for His purpose.

I’m thankful for that today.

I heard my oldest singing this LOUDLY first thing in the morning:

Little is much when He lives in your heart
Little is much when you know who you are 
Little is much when He lives in your heart
Little is much
-Mary Rice Hopkins

 Wow.  Kids song.  You did it to me again – got me right there in the heart!

Little is much when you know who you are.

How amazing!  Thank You Lord.

butterfly on dandelion

The Time Machine: To Myself – Read this when the kids are grown

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The Time Machine series features posts from years past.

I wrote this to wrap up 3 Weeks of Thanks one year when I had no kids in school. I love these memories!

***

The sun is bouncing into the living room right now, warming the floor and inviting me to nap right there beside the toy box   All.  after.  noon.

Alas, it is not to be.

But it sure is beautiful.

I want to remember this moment forever.  I will probably forget it when the next cloudy day comes along, because you really don’t remember exactly how glorious the sun feels until it’s right there on your face or your feet or whatever happens to be in reach.

I’ve got an inquisitive 4 year old asking me questions from the table behind me, while munching on the bread we made this morning in the bread maker.  She is an expert ingredient-adder, and always has to taste the flour (I don’t know why, I always tell her it tastes gross by itself).

“How’s the bread?” I ask.

“Good.  Do we have any more pears?” comes the reply.

“Nope,” I answer.

And she is on her way to look for a cowboy hat and a half-crocheted yellow scarf that doubles as a rope she uses to lasso anyone and everything.  Today she is Jessie the Yodelling Cowgirl from Toy Story 2.

The other two are napping for the moment.  A quick morning playtime in the backyard in the crisp fall air and warm sunshine, and that about does them in well for nap time.

Then, all at once, little voices echo from down the hall.

Everyone is awake.

These are the moments I will probably forget, because you can’t really remember everything after all, can you?

How I wish I could freeze time and hold this in perfect detail in my heart, and save it for when they grow up and go away and do the wonderful things (and the awful things) that adult children do.  For when I actually have to let go for real.

I know there will be grace then too, as there is grace now.

sunflower

3 Weeks of Thanks is nearly at an end for another year.  This weekend, we gather with loved ones over food prepared by hands full of love, and in this way return our love to the One who loved us first.

Generations gather.  Moms who once were where I am now will watch their own sons and daughters do what they once did, around this Thanksgiving table.  And we carry on in this way, each year getting a bit older and maybe even a bit wiser.

We give thanks – together.

What an absolutely beautiful tradition.

3WT Week #3

We love because He first loved us.

1 John 4:19 (NIV)