The Dance of Motherless Daughters

 

In early 2006, I ran across a book while searching for something that would help me love my nephews well after the sudden and devastating loss of their mother. The book, Motherless Daughters, by Hope Edelman (2006), was the results of a nation-wide bereavement study, coupled with Edelman’s own research on mother-loss. I bought the book, thinking, at the very least, I would gain understanding into losing a mother by death, and would perhaps learn something that could help me understand a bit more about what my nephews were going through at the ages of 5 and 9 years old. I was surprised, however, to find that Edelman’s book gave me profound insight into another experience of loss that had touched my life indirectly (or at least I thought it was indirectly at the time).

My mother, Wanda, was a motherless daughter. This fact I knew my whole life, and I also knew that it was her greatest sadness. Mom’s mother, Edith, passed away unexpectedly when Mom was only 3 years and 3 months old. I grew up knowing about Mom’s mother-loss, but it was not until I read Motherless Daughters, that I truly had comprehension of how life-altering Mom’s early experience of loss was for her. This is what Edelman (2006) said,

            Our mothers are our most direct connection to our history and our gender. Regardless of how well we think they did their job, the void their absence [through dementia or death] creates in our lives is never completely filled again. (p. 69).

I had always wondered why Mom had a hard time moving past her mother’s death, even as an adult. Edelman (2006) helped me understand that

motherless daughters constantly try to situate their mother within the current context of their own lives. [Britton, 2021, p. 34] ... The surviving member of the relational dyad continues to live in the loss of the interactional identity [between herself and her mother] but must find a way to continue the bonds of the relationship moving forward. (p. 44).

I realized that Mom had been in a renegotiation of her relationship – her dance, if you will – with her mom since she was 3 years old. With very few real memories to enlighten her view, Mom continued to grieve her mother-loss with every new milestone in her own life: her graduation from high school, her wedding, the birth of her children, her career, the loss of her brother, the births of her grandchildren. She reached for that interactional identity and sought ways to continue her inextricable bond with her mother.

I, too, looked for ways to have a relationship with a woman I never met and only saw one image of in a family picture. I longed to have known my Grandma Owens, wondering if I would have called her Nanny or Nana, like so many children in Arkansas call their grandmothers. I just knew she would be delighted to know my cousin, Karen and me, and would have called us her “twins,” since we were only 10 days apart in age, and had dark hair and dark coloring. We would have been her shadows, learning all we could from our grandma, while our moms watched on with pride. This is how I learned to have a shared relationship with this woman I never met, but who touched my life deeply because she had an interactional shared identity with my mom.

On this day last year, 365 short days ago (December 31, 2023), I spent my last 24 hours with my mom on this side of heaven. It was a quiet, peaceful Sunday. As she lay in her bed, warm under her blanket, transitioning to a new life, I sat vigil next to her. We “watched” the KC Chiefs play, something we would often do together. I held her hand, spoke softly to her, and reminded her how much I loved her. When nighttime came, I couldn’t pull myself away to go home and sleep. I told Marty I didn’t know what to do. He said, “What does your heart tell you to do?” I said, “It tells me to stay.” So, I did. I curled up in the recliner where I could watch her breathe, and drifted off to sleep, lulled by the rhythmic inhalations and exhalations coming from her bed. I had heard a very measured, even breathing like this before so it didn’t scare me. In 2018, I sat for 34 days next to a person in an ICU whose very life was sustained by a ventilator. As I closed my eyes next to mom and dozed in and out, I imagined that I was just hearing a ventilator doing its job again. I slept.

At 5:50 a.m. or shortly thereafter, the night aide made one last check on Mom as she was completing her rounds for the night. She woke me up with these words, “Happy New Year, Miss Wanda.” I heard Mom’s rhythmic breathing and started to close my eyes again. But as I lay there quietly, I suddenly realized the “sound of the ventilator” had stopped. The rhythm was no more. I opened my eyes and looked over at Mom just in time to see her take two deep and relaxing breaths. She closed her mouth and it was over. In that sacred moment, shortly before 6:00 a.m., I became what my mother had been for 86 years – a motherless daughter.

Mom and I had always had a good relationship, but like many mothers and daughters, we struggled during my adolescence as I tried to become my own person. Added to my own emotional and physical upheaval was the fact that Mom had her own emotional struggles during those years. She was not the best version of herself for about 10 years, and to be honest, she was a very difficult person to be around most of the time. Because we had a shared relationship, however, and because our interactional identity was so strong, we weathered that storm and, I think, became closer as a result. Mom’s final 20 years of life were peaceful, serene, and without some of the emotional chaos that had marked the previous 10 years. We never had the kind of relationship where we went shopping or out to lunch, but we had quiet moments together playing games, reading books, and just living life. I much prefer that, I think.

Over this year, as I’ve reflected on Mom’s life, and as I’ve tried to “continue the bonds of the relationship [with her] moving forward,” (Britton, 2021, p. 44), I’ve thought much about how changing the dance steps to walk her home with dignity became not only my mission but my heartbeat. When I wrote my doctoral dissertation in late 2020 and into early 2021, Mom was at a critical juncture in her health care. COVID-19 caused many dance steps to be changed for everyone, but for Mom and me, I felt like we started a completely new dance. As I listened to other daughters of dementia share about their caregiving journeys walking their mothers home, I was also negotiating big changes in Mom’s own dementia journey. For the sake of the research, I had to bracket my feelings and distance myself and my own experiences from that of my participants. But once, the research study was complete, I was able to reflect on all I learned. What I wrote about my participants, I lived out with my mother over the next 2½ years until her death:

            Each daughter’s candid and thoughtful dialogue about her caregiving journey revealed conscious and unconscious efforts to change the dance steps in order to move with the innocence of dementia as daughters worked to protect their mothers’ identity, preserve their relationships with their mothers, and insulate themselves from the loss of shared identity by following their mother’s example and drawing on their lifetime of intimate exchange with their mothers. (Britton, 2021, p. 323).

Like all of my participants, I “made a commitment to stay with Mom until she passed, regardless of the difficulty of the journey” (Britton, 2021, p. 324). One of my participants shared, “And I’d often say, we’d go for walks and I’d say, ‘I’m gonna walk you all the way home. And I did ... literally” (p. 330). Walking Mom home became,

about the intimate exchange between [us] – mother and daughter, caregiver and cared for. [It was about] the privileges and pains of caregiving, the gratitude and the regrets, of learning to do something because it is the right thing to do, even if it was never or will never be reciprocated. (p. 330).

Just as many of my participants came to realize at the end of their caregiving journey, I realized that it was my privilege to “overcome past relationship issues in order to provide safe, loving care for [my] mother that guarded her dignity and promoted [my] sense of perceived obligation in caregiving” (Britton, 2021, p. 430). But more than just fulfilling an obligation, I extended my shared relationship with my mom. I learned how to continue my bonds with her;

I felt a sense of accomplishment and purpose from having mindfully walked her home. ... My shared identity with Mom was irrevocably altered, [and I feel that today] I have a stronger relationship with [her] as a result of [our] shared dance. (p. 446)

Today, it has been 365 days since I last held Mama’s hand, since I last heard her rhythmic breathing. It’s been 366 days since I’ve looked into her twinkling blue eyes. It’s been over 366 days since I’ve seen her beautiful smile. I miss her as much – maybe more – today as I did on January 1 of this year. There is so much I want to tell her. I catch myself looking for her. I hear myself making a mental note to tell her about the latest family happenings. I still remind myself to “go get Mom” and bring her to the church service, or family dinner, or birth of her great-granddaughter. These intrusive thoughts stop me short every time. Even now, as I write this, my eyes burn with the tears of missing these moments of our shared relationship. I miss Mom more than I can say. There was a time in my life where I didn’t know how I would feel when she was gone, but our shared dance steps changed that. I’d walk her home over and over again if I could.

She speaks to me even now. As part of gathering up and sorting through the last of my parents’ keepsakes, I stumbled on some writings of Mom’s when she was only 23 years old. I was a new bride with a new purpose – to share in life and ministry with my pastor-husband. And Mom spoke to me; this young, 23-year-old woman who was embarking on a life of ministry with her new pastor-husband in 1957 said,

I’ve been thinking lately about the job of pastor and his wife. You know, Honey, we are the servants of the people there. We’re nothing but instruments in God’s Hand for the purpose of serving and ministering to His people at that place. I have a lot of self to get rid of before I’ll be the servant of the people I ought to be. I pray that self will die that He may live in me. (Wanda Owens, 12-5-57)

Today, I remember Mama. I remember all she was, all she stood for, and all she taught me. I remember the good times and the challenging times. I remember the laughter and the tears. But most of all, I remember the privilege of changing the dance steps so I could walk her home and preserve our shared identity. It’s been one year since she left for heaven, and I cannot wait for the day when I can join her and tell her how much her life impacted my own.

Happy New Year in heaven, Mama. I love you.

 

Britton, K. B. (2021). Dancing with Mom: The shared identity between caregiving daughters and their mothers with dementia: A qualitative narrative study [Publication No. 28546883) [Doctoral dissertation, Northcentral University]. ProQuest Dissertations and Theses Global. https://www.proquest.com/docview/2572567030?pq-origsite=gscholar&fromopenview=true&sourcetype=Dissertations%20&%20Theses

Edelman, H. (2006). Motherless daughters: The legacy of loss. Da Capo Lifelong Books.

Of Lasts ... and Firsts

Of Lasts … and Firsts

“This is the last time I will …”

                “Do you remember the last time we …”

                                “This is our last day in …”

 If you’re like me, you’ve said it before: “This is the last … .” The last day of vacation, the last ride on the roller coaster, the last time to cross the threshold of a hated class, the last time to see someone you love on this side of heaven. It seems the lasts are always mentioned and are often marked in our  memories as fond or foul. Some lasts are significant and we can clearly demarcate the moment they occurred. I remember the last time I left a hospital with a brand new baby; I savored every moment of that last birth experience. And I will always remember the last “first day of kindergarten”  with my youngest child. I looked at the doors of the school as we approached and thought, “Ok; this is the last time I start a child in this school. Thirteen more years … I can do this.”

Some of our lasts are significant, but we can’t pinpoint the moment those actions or occurrences became the last – we only know they were in retrospect. I remember my babies crawling, and I remember their first steps, but I don’t remember the day when they no longer crawled anywhere. I remember my son’s imaginary friends who went everywhere with us. And then one day, I woke up and realized they were no longer a daily or even weekly mention. When did they go away? When was the last time he talked about these treasured “members” of our family?

Maybe you’re like me; the lasts in your life take on an importance that you know must be documented, or that are so seared in your brain that they become a core memory. Here are just a few of the lasts that I carry with me and refer to often:

   

• I remember the last conversation I had with my sister-in-law before her death. I was in Thailand and she was in Northwest Washington. We had an email conversation about next steps in caring for my parents. At the time, I had no idea it would be the last time we talked, and I wish I would have expressed my love for her in that email – but I didn’t know.

• I remember the last walk down the center aisle at my church as a single woman. I knew life would never be the same as I leaned on my dad’s arm and all eyes were upon me. I tried to savor every moment of that last time when it was just my dad and me, walking in the sanctuary.

• I remember the last day my daughter sat with her high school classmates and sang with her high school choir. I treasured every moment of her graduation day, knowing it would never be the same again around our house.

• I remember waking up to see my mom’s last two breaths on this earth.

This has been a year of lasts for us. Beginning with Mom’s first day in heaven, I have experienced the last time to see her on this side of eternity. I have attended my last Sunday service at my beloved church in rural Hesston. I have driven out of Halstead for the last time as a resident of more than 14 years. I have locked the doors to my little house on Chestnut for the last time, bidding its safety and security a fond farewell. Marty and I said goodbye to a single life (very willingly!), experiencing the lasts of doing things “our own way.” And now, we have experienced the last day in our De Soto home. For me, this last is not as significant – I only lived in the house for 3 months. But for Marty, his last day in De Soto marked the end of a 26-year journey of living, loving, and raising a family in a house he and Joni built and a home they treasured. So, we pause to remember the lasts.

The lasts are important. They signify pivotal moments in our lives that represent change. We mark time by the lasts. We set up “stones of remembrance” (Joshua 4:1-8) because they help us recognize God’s goodness to us, even in the hard times of life. The lasts remind us that “there is a time for everything” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). They remind us to treasure those around us, and to absorb the wonder of God’s world more keenly and with reverence. But the lasts also do one thing that nothing else can do … they signify the firsts that follow. And firsts can be good, if we let them be. Firsts can comfort us in our moments of lasts; firsts can excite us for a new beginning; firsts can delight us with the realization of new skills gained or new experiences attained. Firsts represent new things. And God calls us to place our hope in the firsts: “See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland” (Isaiah 43:19).

What is better than a first? A first time to watch the wonder of a child’s gaze when they discover something new. A first time to experience a thrilling new piece of music. A first look at your new baby. A first breath in heaven. When my mother said goodbye to 2023, she woke up bright and early on January 1, 2024, with her first glimpse of heaven. Even as I watched her last two breaths here, Mom took her first breath in the arms of her Savior – how could I deny her that first just to hold onto my lasts? And although our lasts are often deeply embedded in our memories, they can be enhanced by the firsts that come along after.

Today, we celebrate the first! Today, we step inside our brand new home for the first time as its homeowners. We will be the first to use the dishwasher, the first to cook on the stove, the first to fill the house with the perfumed scent of candles, the first to sleep in the safety of this home’s walls. I’ve never experienced a first like this – a brand new home full of possibilities. It is a little bit like what I imagine Mom felt when she heard, “Happy New Year, Miss Wanda,” and opened her eyes to the beauty of heaven. Oh, I know our first day in our new home pales in comparison to the first day in heaven, but the freshness, the possibilities, the wonder that the old life is over and the new life has begun (2 Corinthians 5:17) are gifts we do not take for granted. We experienced the lasts – the good moments and the sad moments – we will treasure the memories and remember the lessons for the rest of our lives. But today – we rejoice in the firsts. We rejoice that God has made all things new for us.

Welcome to our new home!

From Lasts … Happy to be HOME	To Firsts … Our Door is ALWAYS Open

 

A Time for Everything

A Time for Everything

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens”

(Ecclesiastes 3:1 NIV)

As I pass another milestone in my life—3 years of solo life—I find myself reflecting on the lessons these years in the wilderness have taught me. I am struck by Solomon’s words in Ecclesiastes that there is a time for every activity (3:1). Solomon outlines those activities in the following verses: birth, death, planting, harvesting, killing, healing, breaking down, building up, weeping, laughing, mourning, dancing, casting away what is unneeded, and gathering what is needed, embracing, withholding embrace, seeking, losing, keeping, throwing away, destroying, creating, silence, speaking, loving, rejecting, war, and peace (vv. 3–8). This list is comprehensive! It is more than just a comparison between what is positive and what is negative; it is a declaration that even the hardest activities we encounter—death, break downs, grief, separation, setting difficult boundaries, loss, getting rid of encumbrances that keep us from worshiping God fully—all contribute to God’s purpose for us. Each activity is not just the antithesis of another activity; weeping is not just the opposite of laughing. Weeping has its own purpose, a truth I’ve had to learn to accept in my own life. I’ve had to think deeply about casting away what is unneeded to make room for the harvest of good things the Lord is bringing me. I’ve had to learn how to create boundaries around harmful relationships; unhealthy behaviors; thoughts that invade my peace and security in Christ; and even good things that in and of themselves are not harmful, but for me in this space are unhelpful.

I recently read a story in my devotional that illustrates my reflections on these last 3 years as I look forward to Year 4 and the blessings God is bringing to me as a result of my dependence on Him:

            John Vincent, a Methodist Episcopal bishop of the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries and a leader of the Sunday school movement in America, once told of being in a large greenhouse where clusters of luscious grapes were hanging on each side. The owner of the greenhouse told him, “When the new gardener came here, he said he would not work with the vines unless he could cut them completely down to the stalk. I allowed him to do so, and we had no grapes for two years, but this is not the result.” There is rich symbolism in this account of the pruning process when applied to the Christian life. Pruning seems to be destroying the vine, and the gardener appears to be cutting everything away. Yet he sees the future and knows that the final result will be the enrichment of the life of the vine, and a greater abundance of fruit.[i]

As I read this story, I realized that 3 years ago, God came in and said, “I will work with you to continue to grow you, but first, I must completely cut you down to the stalk.” The first year I was completely and utterly dormant, reeling from the shock to my system of having been cut down. The second year, I slowly began to grow again, building a much stronger root system and stalk that would be my anchor for the future. This third year I started bearing fruit—fruit that is far sweeter than any fruit I’ve ever known. I am healthier, stronger, more confident, and poised for a new purpose and new ministry. These years have been seasons that, if I take Ecclesiastes 3 seriously, were necessary and purpose-filled. Viewing them this way changes my perspective on my suffering. Here is how I sum the “time for everything” I’ve experienced since September 23, 2020 in three seasons: a time to be cut down, a time to regrow, and a time to bear fruit.

A Time to be Cut Down

I did not know I needed to be cut down on that sad day in September 3 years ago, but as I’ve reflected on my life before and since, I can see why God had to “cut [me] completely down to the stalk.” It was literally the only way He was going to be able to show me His glory through rebuilding my life. Cutting down is the process of removing the life-sucking parts of the vine that are slowly choking out any nutrients and stifling the vine’s growth. Cutting down interrupts the damaging growth process so a new and healthier growth can occur. For me, I first had to hurt before I could heal. I had to confront some ugly truths about myself and my relationship with God. It was painful at the time. I cried, I ranted, I lamented. There were some very dark days as I was stripped down to my roots and forced to lean into my relationship with God because that relationship was all I had left. As the writer expressed,

            It is a comforting thought that trouble, in whatever form it comes to us, is a heavenly messenger that brings us something from God. Outwardly it may appear painful or even destructive, but inwardly its spiritual work produces blessings. Many of the richest blessings we have inherited are the fruit of sorrow or pain. We should never forget that redemption, the world’s greatest blessing, is the fruit of the world’s greatest sorrow. And whenever a time of deep pruning comes and the knife cuts deeply and the pain is severe, what an inexpressible comfort it is to know: “My Father is the gardener” (John 15:1).[ii]

I call this time to be cut down the gracious path of grief. It was in those most heart-wrenching moments of pain and loss that I learned to shift my dependence from myself onto God. There was no way I could restore my life on my own. I needed my Master Gardener more than I had ever realized I needed Him before. And He walked with me on that path, offering grace for my failures at every turn, flooding me with life-giving mercy as He refused to remember my transgressions. His “mercy was more”[iii] than the wrongs I had done and without the grief I experienced from the cutting down, I would not have understood “how lavish His grace or how faithful His ways”[iv] are to me.

A Time to Regrow

The next two years were a time to regrow. It was a slow and painful process but God was patiently building new systems of nourishment, new leaves, and buds that would eventually become new fruit in my life. One of the major lessons I learned in those years was that walking through the season is important. My friend calls it the “solo experience.” I like that phrase because most of the days I spent in the regrowth season I was required to experience alone. Again, I had to learn how to depend on God more than on anything or anyone else, and this lesson was best learned in a solo journey. Some important leaves of truth emerged during this time of regrowth. In fact, these leaves are what made it possible for the regrowth to occur. Here are a few:

• God is Sovereign
• God is Sufficient
• Support Systems are Necessary
• Seeking Therapy is Essential
• I am Stronger Than I Thought I was
• Soloing is OK
• Waiting on God is an Absolute
• God Hears and Answers the Cries of my Heart

I gave myself fully to the healing and regrowth process. I surrounded myself with many counselors—family; friends; church members; Biblical podcasts; books, and music—in every aspect of my life I wanted to hear from God and learn from God. That meant I must tune out the distractions of complaint, bitterness, and comparison. I engaged in weekly therapy sessions with a Christian therapist and made this time a priority in my life. I joined a life group at church where I was surrounded by mature Christians who loved me and prayed for me on a regular basis. I made myself vulnerable and accountable to these support systems and, most of all, to God. After spending about 18 months studying the attributes of God, He took me through one of the most profound journeys I have ever been on—a time of waiting. The season of regrowth culminated with the promise that in the waiting, God is working. A journal entry from February 2023 perfectly illustrates what the time to regrow came to mean to me:

Psalm 130 says, “I wait for the Lord, my soul waits and in His word I hope. My soul waits for the Lord more than the watchman for the morning, more than the watchman for the morning.” This is the time I must put into practice what I say I know. This is the time I fully trust God’s Sovereignty. This is the time I say, “Your ways are higher than mine. I want mountains to move; You want me to climb. So I’m gonna trust You will work Your will in Your time. Your ways are higher than mine.”[v] And this is the time I step my toe in the Jordan,[vi] trusting that I won’t be swept under, that on the other side of this time of testing is a land overflowing with milk and honey.

A Time to Bear Fruit

As I enter Year 4, I believe God has poised me for this time of bearing fruit. It’s time for God to re-energize the life of the vine and to bring forth luscious fruit filled with the sweetness of His companionship and hope. My branches, supported by the leaves of learning I gained during the time of regrowth, are just beginning to bud with God’s fulfilled promises. I have new direction, new hope, a new outlook on life, and a new appreciation for the pain of my past. I have learned to “trust in the Lord with all [my] heart and lean not on [my] own understanding. In all [my] ways [I seek to] acknowledge Him, [trusting that] He will make [my] paths straight.”[vii] By far the biggest TRUTH I take into this new season with me is that God is in the details of my story.[viii] I have countless examples of how He heard the cries of my heart and is answering even the prayers that I was too scared to utter. Each new revelation of His care for the very minute parts of my story is a new budding fruit on my vine.

Do I still need the Master Gardener? Absolutely! I still need daily tending from His Word, through prayer, and through the fellowship of other believers. God will still be in the business of tending to the “suckers” that try to grow and divert His life-giving nutrients from my life. This is why I must stay “rooted and grounded in love” as “Christ [dwells] in [my] heart through faith.” His promise to me is when I put my roots down deep into His soil, I will have “strength to comprehend...and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge...[and I will] be filled with all the fullness of God.”[ix] This, then, is restoration and healing.

 I now know what Solomon meant when he penned Ecclesiastes 3 thousands of years ago. The time for every season he spoke about are pages of my story, filled with the richness that each season brings. I must accept every page, every season, and every moment as God’s loving provision to cut me down, regrow me, and bear His fruit in me. God IS in this story.

---

[i] Miller, J. R. (2008). September 19. In L. B. Cowman & J. Reimann (Eds.), Streams in the desert: 366 daily devotional readings (pp. 356–357). Zondervan. (Original work published 1925)

[ii] Ibid.

[iii] Getty, K., & Getty, K. (2019, August 11). His Mercy is More [Song recorded by Matt Papa & Matt Boswell]. On His Mercy is More. Getty Music Publishing. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hxOApooUSFI

[iv] SovereignGraceMusic (2018, July 27). How high and how wide [Video]. YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x-kof4NOGAQ

[v] The Collingsworth Family. (2021, March 12). Your ways are higher than mine [Video]. You Tube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8LDm8xB5ipQ

[vi] Joshua 3:1–5 NIV

[vii] Proverbs 3:5-6 NIV, with personalized words

[viii] Katy Nichole. (2022, July 6). God is in this story [Video]. YouTube

[ix] Ephesians 3:16–19 NIV, with personalized words

Don't Fight the Black Keys!

The LORD your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves. He will take great delight in you; in his love he will no longer rebuke you, but will rejoice over you with singing.” Zephaniah 3:17 NIV

No one I've ever known who plays piano enjoyed learning how to play on the black keys. It is much easier to stay on the white keys. First, the black keys require your fingers to adjust; you must spread your hand in a way that feels unnatural at times. Second, you have to remember if the selected black key represents a tone one half-step up or a tone one half-step down. Finally, you must learn to read your music cognizant of the fact that certain notes on the page are now played on the black keys, and again, you must remember if those tones are higher or lower in relation to what you have just played or are going to play.

But the truth is, if every song ever written was only played on the white keys, we would never know the beauty of a minor scale, save one. We would never know what it feels like to move down into a darker tune, or modulate up to a joyful melody. The black keys add a richness to our music.

My life is full of black keys. My life song is riddled with the darkness of minor tones. It is punctuated by pitches that are both saddening and joyful, sharp in nature and resolved in perfect harmony. It's time to quit fighting the black keys. It's time to accept that the Master Composer allows black keys in my life to bring about a beautifully complex melody. And to add even more depth, He underscores the tune with ancient words of TRUTH and HOPE, even in the midst of discordant tones. It's time to accept all of my life as His beautiful song He sings over me every day.

How about you? Is your life full of black keys, too? Do you fight the melodies and harmonies the Master Composer is penning? Or, do you lean into the difficult passages, taking your time, wading through the hours of practice and meaning-making required to bring your beautiful song to life?  "The LORD your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves!" His battle cry is the oratorio He sings over you; He protects you, goes before you, walks beside you, undergirds you, and follows behind you. You do not need to fear playing the black keys as you trust in the One who composed your life song. I know it's hard; you are going to spend countless hours on the black keys. But I promise it will be worth it when you realize that everything - yes, even the black key moments - worked for your good because you love Him and He used those moments for the purpose of making you more like Him (Romans 8:28). God is singing over you, so go ahead, play those black keys!

Waiting on the Lord

 *Written on February 11, 2023*

I have always considered myself a rather impatient person. I think it comes from being orderly, logical, and having the ability to see the steps needed to complete a project. When I am in a group, I get impatient if the process seems to be taking too long or others are not able to grasp the essential parts of the discussion. I remember become very frustrated one time in a team meeting at work when the presenter wanted to move very slowly through every minute detail of the material prior to giving us the book. While we had not yet read the text the presenter was showing us, the concepts the presenter outlined were straightforward, clear, and easily grasped. Several of us in the group became impatient with the process, and to my regret, I finally snapped, “Just show us the book already! We understand!” Not my finest moment.

                I also have a patient side, born through years and experience, and just plain maturity. I was able to exercise great patience when teaching my children to read, ride a bike, tie their shoes, and do many other developmental tasks. I have a strong level of patience when studying or writing. I can practice piano for hours without becoming frustrated and impatient. So, in some ways, my patience in learned tasks counterbalances my impatience for the tasks I find boring or superficial.

                I am in a season of waiting, an exercise in patience, a time when I believe the Lord is looking to see if I will truly follow Him. I cannot see the steps to the end result, which is altogether frustrating for me! It’s hard to not know what will come of this time of waiting. And it’s also difficult to feel that God is on the verge of doing something but still asks me to wait. I would not necessarily say He’s being silent, but it is taking all my mental energy to listen. I find myself leaning into the Word more, listening with greater resolve to the teaching and preaching at church, examining the comments and encouraging words I receive from others. I am introspective, on the lookout for anything God might be wanting me to deal with during this time that once completed, will signal the end of the waiting period. Is my sense of urgency a product of impatience, or is it the lure of the Holy Spirit to prepare me for the next thing?

                In 2006 as I traveled on a long boat up a long river to an Iban village on the island of Borneo, I looked ahead to where the river bend obscured the path. With every bend or curve, I wondered if the village would come into view. I had to mentally tell myself to simply enjoy the view right in front of me and to not waste this moment in time by my impatience to reach my destination. When the Israelites finally crossed the Jordan after wandering in the desert for 40 years, Joshua instructed them to “consecrate yourselves, for tomorrow the Lord will do amazing things among you” (Joshua 3:5). The Israelites were to “move out from [their] positions and follow” the ark of the covenant once it came into view. “Then you will know which way to go, since you have never been this way before,” Joshua said (Joshua 3:3-4). I remember reflecting on my long boat ride and resonating in my spirit with Joshua’s directions. It wasn’t for me to know which way I was going; it was only for me to see the leader and follow. The promise was that if I obeyed, I would know which way to go.

                As I am in this time of waiting, I do not know which way to go. The reason is quite simple: I’ve never been this way before. Oh, yes, I’ve had similar situations to this one, but this time there is another element that is present, one I don’t remember ever feeling or interacting with in the previous times. There is a strong anticipation of the happy day to come, almost as if God has promised it will arrive if I just see Him, obey Him, and follow Him. It is this very anticipation that is making the waiting so hard! I am impatient to see His new thing. I am eager to arrive around the river’s bend. But there is also doubt – I worry that I am not getting this sense of anticipation from God but that I’ve made it up in my own mind, thinking that these signs I think I’m seeing are really just my own imagination or the result of wishing for so long. And it’s that part I am having difficulty with during this time. I am applying myself – I am studying, I am praying, I am seeking counsel, I am learning everything I can about myself and what I feel like I need to know (with God’s guidance) for the time the new thing comes. I am amazed at how my thoughts are directed toward different things than they were when I encountered similar situations in the past. And yet ... there is absolutely no certainty that I will receive the prize in the end. From a human standpoint, it seems quite impossible. My thoughts are circular; I think about the impossibility of the new thing from the vantage point of my present stance, and I get discouraged. But just as quickly, I get a sensation that God is saying, “Just watch Me! You are going to be blown away by how I work this out!” and my happy anticipation and willingness to wait takes over, like a child waiting for Christmas morning for the longed-for present she knows she will receive from her good and loving parents.

I read a brief story recently - a social media post by a person at least 10 years ago. The post was about the person’s little girl. The parent was watching her as she patiently waited in her chair, eyes fixed on the front door, her packed suitcase nearby and ready. As the parent watched, they wondered what the child was thinking about as she waited for a loved one to come through the door for a visit. Even though the parent had told the child the loved one would not be coming that day; in fact, it would be several days before the loved one arrived, the child never moved. “And yet she waits,” the parent wrote. I cannot get that image of the little girl waiting out of my mind. I keep hearing, “And yet she waits,” every time my thoughts go toward the future. The little girl’s patience was exemplar; it showed a pure belief that her loved one would indeed come. It demonstrated the level of trust the little girl had in the promised event. And it painted a picture of deep faith – a child’s faith. She never doubted for one moment that her long-awaited day would come. “And yet she waits.” Oh, to have that kind of wholehearted faith, that pure belief, that perfect trust in the promise to come!

If I only understood more about the Psalmist’s words, “Delight yourself in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart.” I know that if I focus on God, if I fill my life with learning to know Him and His character, my desires will become aligned to His will. The desires of my heart will resonate His heart for me. But what is the process when I wonder if I am already hearing His voice, when I wonder if He has truly shown me what is coming around the river’s bend and He is only asking me to wait to see if I will obey? Can I know, with assurance, that my patience will be rewarded with His good gift? And what if I am not hearing His voice or seeing what is to come? Will I still follow Him? Will I still obey? Will I still step into the Jordan, even though I have never been that way before? I don’t want this time of waiting to be in vain; I don’t want to be this focused on God now only because there might be a certain reward (gift) at the end of the testing. Does God know that? Does He truly know my motives – as far as I have examined them to be – are for Him to lead me around the river bend, wherever that is?

Psalm 130 says, “I wait for the Lord, my soul waits and in His word I hope. My soul waits for the Lord more than the watchman for the morning, more than the watchman for the morning.” This is the time I must put into practice what I say I know. This is the time I fully trust God’s Sovereignty. This is the time I say, “Your ways are higher than mine. I want mountains to move; You want me to climb. So I’m gonna trust You will work Your will in Your time. Your ways are higher than mine.” And this is the time I step my toe in the Jordan, trusting that I won’t be swept under, that on the other side of this time of testing is a land overflowing with milk and honey.

From Christianity Today:

Waiting upon the Lord ... there's a believing trust that God's in control of everything and that He knows what we don't know and He sees what we don't see. So in light of that, we can step back and say, “God, your timing is going to be best.”

So whether we're waiting on a spouse, or a job, or maybe a sickness to go away, or whatever it is that we're facing, there's a constant trust where we say, “God, I'm waiting for Your time and I'm resting in You and in Your Sovereignty, knowing that You love Your children, and You care for them, and that You know when I'm ready for something and what it is that I'm ready for. So I'm going to trust You.”

A lot of times, while we're waiting on the Lord, [we say], “Now what do I do? Do I just sit back and just do nothing?” What I've found, and when you look through the Scriptures, it seems that while we're waiting on big answers for questions that we have, let's be faithful in what it is that we do know that we're supposed to be doing. And as we do that, oftentimes I find that the Lord is answering some of our questions that we have or things that we're waiting for in that. So it's in our obedience and following what we do know that oftentimes we discover the answers to the things that we don't know. Or that God uses that to put us in the right place to bring about some of the things that we've been waiting on. So, patient waiting on the Lord isn't some kind of passive thing, but it's an active engagement with what we already do know, trusting that God will guide us where He wants us. (Garrett Kell, Senior Pastoral Assistant, Capitol Hill Baptist Church, June 3, 2021; https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VYjrTDxRzYw&t=18s)

“But as for me, I watch in hope for the Lord, I wait for God my Savior; my God will hear me.”

 

Following the Straight Line

 

“Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a worker who does not need to be ashamed and who correctly handles the word of truth.” 2 Timothy 2:15

"OK, Kerry, just follow this straight line I made for you and you'll be fine."

"But, Dad, what if I get off the line? This mower is hard for me to maneuver."

"That's ok. Do your best. If you get a little off, just look at the line and correct your course. It doesn't have to be perfect. It will all work out in the end."

"But, Dad, what if I can't make out the line? Sometimes I can't see where I'm going!"

"Kerry, look down the line. Do you see that post down there? That's your reference point. If you cannot see the line in front of you, just keep your eyes on the reference point. I promise you will stay the course. You'll be able to look back when the lawn is done and see a beautiful straight line. It will all work out."

Every time I mow the lawn, I hear my dad's instructions in my head. I have a particularly challenging part of the yard; whenever I mow that part, I can rarely see where I've been already. I can rarely see the straight line. After much frustration mowing one day, I finally heeded Dad's advice from long ago: I found a reference point. Now when I mow, I have a fence post on the west end of the lawn and a sidewalk line on the east. As long as I keep my eyes on the reference point, no matter which direction I'm facing, I can keep the straight line.

When I veer off the line a bit, I still hear my dad saying, "That's ok. Just make an adjustment, correct your course. It will be fine in the end." And he was right. When the lawn is finished and I survey my hard work, even if I can see where I got off the straight line, I can also see where I adjusted and corrected my course. Rather than being an ugly reminder of my lack of perfection, the course correction is a beautiful reminder that the overall picture remains whole. The job is still accomplished; the reward for my labor is still intact.

Paul’s encouragement to Timothy in his second letter was to present himself to God as one already deemed worthy to do the job. I know for a fact that the first time I stood behind a lawnmower, I was not worthy to do the job well. However, my dad’s belief in me and his patience in teaching me how to do the job made me a worthy candidate for other mowing jobs down the road. In the same way, I am not worthy to stand before God as his worker, yet He placed His stamp of approval on me when His Son took my sins upon Himself. God said on that day, “You can stand before me with confidence; you can present yourself to me as one approved because I see you through the righteousness of Christ.” This is why Hebrews 4:16 admonishes us to boldly approach the throne of grace with full confidence and without shame. I don’t have to vet myself to be a worker; Jesus already placed His stamp of approval on me.

My job is to keep a straight line. How do I do this? First, I set my eyes upon Jesus, the Author and Perfecter of my faith. He is the standard by which I measure and He is that reference point I need to walk a straight line in life. He does not expect me never to veer; He knows I will occasionally need a course correction, but overall, God is building my capacity to follow His straight line. Paul told Timothy to be the one who correctly handles the word of truth. The phrase, “correctly handles,” or as the KJV puts it, “rightly divides” literally means to “cut straight.” The only way I can see my reference point and follow the straight mowing line is to be in the Word of God. It is there I receive the direction from God that helps me know when I am veering to the left or to the right. It is in His Word where I receive instruction in course correcting. The prophet Isaiah spoke to the nation of Judah when they were contemplating veering from the straight line. God’s people were enticed by the nations on either side and were shunning God’s instructions in favor of “carrying out plans that are not mine [God’s], forming an alliance, but not by my Spirit” (Isaiah 30:1). In so doing, Isaiah said God’s people were “heaping sin upon sin” (30:2) They needed a course correction and fast! Later in Isaiah 30 we are told how to correct a course that is veering from the straight line, how to reset our reference point to God: “In repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength ... Yet, the Lord longs to be gracious to you; He rises to show you compassion. ... Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, “This is the way; walk in it” (30:15, 18a; 21).

All we need to do to cut a straight line is listen to our Father, set our eyes upon Jesus, the Author and Perfecter of our faith. He is the One who will make our lines straight. He is the One who will look back on our life and say, “Job well done. Let’s go have a tall glass of iced tea and rest.”

Hope Waits in the Dark on Good Friday

 *Written on April 7, 2023*

Hope waits in the dark. Today is Friday; it’s Good Friday. The day when the most poignant – the truest – example of hope waiting in the dark unfolded on a hill far away where all hope seemed lost. As the sky darkened, the earth rumbled, and the clouds thundered, our HOPE willingly stepped into the dark – for me, and for all mankind ever to come. Even as God turned His face away from the HOPE of all men, He knew the dark would only last momentarily and very soon, HOPE would burst forth, in glory and power, shattering the dark that had held it back.

            That day when HOPE stepped into the dark was a day of great promise. Jesus went and shook the gates of Hell, setting captives free with HOPE. Jesus conquered death by walking straight into it. He was the HOPE in the dark, and He brought with Him LIGHT, PEACE, STRENGTH, and RESTORATION.

            So yes, today is GOOD Friday, and the dark is a necessary and important part of God’s story for us. But even in the dark, He did not leave us alone, abandoned, or alienated from HOPE. We may not have been able to recognize it for a few days, but HOPE remained. His love for us tethered our hope and made a way for us to put our faith in things that are unseen.

Don’t be afraid of waiting in the dark;

HOPE remains there with you,

Waiting for just the right moment

to restore and heal.

Jesus is our LIVING HOPE.

 

Hope waits in the dark.

Hope clings to the promise.

Hope makes the heart sing.