Seven Months and Counting. . .

A few day ago the pain was so  bad (Monday) that I laid in bed and said to myself, "I think the foreskin of my heart has been circumcised. It felt cut up, sawed off, as if a butcher surgeon had hacked off several pieces of it and just for fun. Grief. Good grief! Today I feel better, but I have removed most of H's pictures from the walls, stay away from old familiar haunts, do not listen to his voice on the recorded lectures, no pictures on my facebook, etc., it seems to help. I need to be in new surroundings so that I am not triggered by everything...but I cannot get away from my future. . . where Hans lived so poignantly...where the promises of God are held and nourish my dreadful soul. How can I separate these two realities?  I am mostly triggered by introducing myself, "My name is J---Weerstra." All that it implies is before my eyes...

Soon a year will have come and gone and I can't believe I have actually existed this long without seeing Hans or talking to him or seeing him go through the house to get a cup of tea.  Will it ever get easier? I dream of new beginnings constantly but they disintegrate by nightfall, when I am the weakest. Well, its only been seven months...

God comes in on little cat's feet.

http://suchawondrousplacethisfaerytalespace.blogspot.com

God comes in on little cat's feet. A take on an old poem, but true. I sit before a roaring fire this cold November day and I can hear the furnace come on, oh so quietly. I think, how did the furnace get on? How did the air conditioners get turned off? Who did this work which makes my life so comfortable and easy. An uncle came and twisted a few knobs and then the furnace was lit. A few days later, Julianne and I went up on the roof and emptied the water and slipped in the dampers. And the deed was done, but for some reason, it seemed like a dream. Was Hans here in the middle of the night? Did he do this work silently while I slept? No, it was my beloved bridegroom who arranged this lovely event for me. Not because I am not able, but because I am not able right now to even think my way out of a paper bag.

The same is true for my teeth. A silent helping arm wrote the check to my dentist for no small amount. For me, it was a miracle that I was taking part in. Two dentists who held my hand and offered me consolation as they poked around my mouth. But this morning, the worst is over and I am nestled in my husband's black soft robe and thinking he is at Lowe's buying something for breakfast. And then I know that God has been here on little cat's feet and I haven't heard a thing, only the effects of His hand.

Mary Oh Mary!

A dark and yet divine fire devours me. For what end? Consider Mary Magdalen, "in spite of her past, paid no heed to the crowds, prominent as well as unknown, at the banquet. She did not consider the propriety of weeping and shedding tears in the presence of our Lord's guests. Her only concern

was to reach him for whom her soul was already wounded and on fire, without delay and without waiting for another more appropriate time (Luke 7:37-38).

And such is the inebriation and courage of love; knowing that her beloved was shut up in the tomb by a huge sealed rock and surrounded by guards so the disciples could not steal his body, she did not permit this to keep her from going out with ointments before daybreak to anoint Him (Mt. 27:64-66; Mk 16;1-2;

Jn 20:1).

Finally this inebriation and urgent longing of love prompted her to ask the man she thought was the gardener if he had stolen him and, if he had, to tell her where he had put him, so that she could take him away (Jn 20:15). She did not stop to realize that her question in the light of sound judgment was foolish, for obviously if he had stolen the Lord he would not have told her, and still less would he have allowed her to take him away.

The strength and vehemence of love has this trait: everything seems possible to it, and it believes everyone is occupied as it is; it does not believe anyone could possible be employed in any other way or seek anyone than him whom it seeks and loves...

And so the wounded soul so vexed rises up at night, and anxiously and forcibly goes out in search of its God. Since it is immersed in darkness it feels his absence and feels that it is dying without love of him."

And so my soul is purged of all remaining fears— of man, of the future, of self... so driven I am by my own darkness. . . that I die lest I find Him. Attach to Him and not to be my beloved earthly bridegroom. And hence my soul will be renewed and will be clothed anew, shed of its old skin.

Vanity, vanity, all things are vanity.

Dr. Wright says the basis of all loss (ergo-grief) is attachment. As I read that it highlights for me my attachment to Hans. This is another wonderful part of grief—the unveiling at how deep our feelings (attachments) are. I actually didn't think I was that attached to him. So it comes at a surprise and at a time when you can do nothing about it. But had I known, perhaps pride would not have kept my lips as sealed, but humbling myself I could have let outflowing love surround him. But instead I kept it in a reservoir marked "honeymoon" though we often talked about "those days" when we were embarrassingly free and bold. I am reminded of Fiddler on the Roof when Tevia's wife asks him, "Do you love me?" He says "Do I love you?" And then goes on to say a thousand things, but never quite says yes.

But attachment is a loaded word for me, for I am steeped in the theology of St. John of the Cross and I believe in the validity of a holy detachment from not only the things of earth but the things of the Spirit. And so I ponder. . . the whole notion of attachment. Part of my training has been in the theory of human development and the inherent quest for attachment. It is the unformed soul searching for God. At first our attachments are toward ma and then da and then siblings, peers and back then again toward the "one." These attachments form our concept of self. Then Christ comes and rips them all apart, reordering our "loves" as St. Bernard says. We love too much actually. And how does that fit in with Jesus making us "one" in marriage. If so, then why can't he undo that in death? And why does he hate divorce? What is really going on? We are not Buddhists holding ourselves from any attachments. For us, they are grist of real life...giving ourselves for others...but then loss becomes a way of life for us. I, perhaps, am too Greek. Hans always accused me of this. . .I want freedom from feeling anything which causes me pain and suffering. . . Wright says, any attachment will cause loss if removed. Even my old memories cause me pain. I remember traveling up Highway 28 on a motorcycle. . . the land was empty of homes back then. The ride was wild and full of adventure  in  1974. But those happy days of youth are over.    I miss them, I mourn them and I have a million more pictures I could show you. It is the good things which cause us pain as well as the negative ones.

This is where it helpful to know your theology. These losses are designed to turn us back to God. . . so we don't find ourselves partying up until the end and then "surprise"! find ourselves staring at the face of an angry God. But I am tempted to detach from all things, which is clearly impossible. My recent camping  trip revealed that I am very attached to order, cleanliness, make-up, fresh clothes, fresh scents devoid of skunk odors, clean nails and hands....and  the older I get the worse I get at attaching to my creaturely comforts. Soon I will lose my sense of taste, sense of smell, my vision, my hearing, my hair, the spring in my step, my loved ones, my "ministry" and a thousand other things that define my life. How will I cope then?

I am very bleak today, but I am processing the meaning of life, again. And again. And who is this God who walks beside us by fire and cloud?

In a Blue Room

I am back at home from my journey to the "mountains." We worked very hard and spent a lot of money to spend one night and one day.  Overall it was enjoyable but there were many triggers and I'm not sure what to do with them all—I saw a white haired but fairly young couple holding hands and leisurely resting under some trees, others slowly walking around the campground. I wanted to run up to them and tell them to hold each other, to thank God for an uninterrupted time together and to remind them that they could still touch one another and serve each other coffee and laugh together and to never never never take it for granted. Then I watched Mike take Nicole her breakfast, get her chair for her, kiss her, and it was "no big deal"—it just seemed so normal. But  for me it was a like a thunderbold in my heart. Just like my friend whose parents hosted her birthday party. Her mom was fluttering around making sure everything was ready. Suddenly she noticed that the fireplace had to be lit. She turned to her husband and said, "Can you light it?" And off he went, no questions asked, just a dutiful response to his wife's immediate need. But for me it was the only thing I heard all night, "Sure honey." I saw Hans move forward to light the fire. I don't mean to...it just happens. Like a filter that has settled over my vision and try as hard as I can, I cannot rip it off. It isn't a filter really, it's a heavy rubber film that threatens to suffocate me.

On another level I dream of church service that doesn't exist. Every morning I long for it, wishing it into existence. I don't know where this is coming from. . . but it is like a ghost that haunts me. I see a quiet room with a blue ceiling. From the ceiling one can see a thousand little lights whose rays shoot out in all directions. The benches are round and there is thick carpeting beneath our feet. There is only a Bible. The most beautiful music in the world is playing, no words. Then slowly, the Holy Spirit descends and our hearts awaken to His presence. The music changes and we begin to hear His name. The saints of Taize are singing to the Lord in French, then German then English. The Africans follow next and then the Russians. The melody is haunting but firm. My heart begins to quake, all my sorrow is coming to the surface and Jesus is taking it away. All the tears that I have shed at his feet in the work of the ministry are pouring out of my eyes, all my disappointments in people are puddling at the bottom of the floor. I am embarrassed but I know it is God and therefore continue to submit to His grooming. He is holding me and I feel His pure pleasure in my service to him over the years. But I am cut up and seemingly martyred. This is a room for his ministers. It is the sacristy and we are once again putting on Christ. And then someone comes and reads from the Bible from Malachi. A word is spoken that is firm, sure and full of love. The service ends with a song from one individual, a man wearing a black sweater. He then sprinkles us with Holy Water and with it comes light, love and hope. He cries out in a loud voice, "Go out into the world and bless the nations!" A flute plays and we leave. No one speaks.

Under a Starry Sky

It's five AM on Friday and I am awake. I am thrown off by my upcoming trip to the mountains. Emmie is going with me today. This is immensely comforting although I know she will talk my head off the entire weekend. I am really looking forward to a contemplative weekend retreat. I either choose the comfort of this child, or the quiet of the wind. I can't bear the quiet yet, so a child it is!  As I view the social landscape, I see friends are moving on with their lives, joining things—living. All the old arrangements are shifting. What was is passing. Soon Julianne and the kids were be gone from my home and I won't hear the sound of little feet running around, or homework being done in the dining room. (Or dogs barking for that matter!) Those scenes are passing into what  used to be.

From a distance you can see how rapidly life moves...when yours stands stiller than theirs. I have lived on Half Moon now for almost two years and everything feels like yesterday was just yesterday. But for all those who I live with me in this city, I see that change is continual and rapid. They have been praying for change, and imperceptibly to them, it has changed...I wonder if they know it? Or just does it seem normal?  What about me? Have things been happening to me? In me? I am not so anxious to say yes. I get up everyday, I think everyday, I reflect everyday but I don't know about change.

Yesterday the Lord asked me to describe what is on the horizon of my heart. It was an interesting experience. I didn't realize that those visions, nudges and inklings were of His doing. Of course, what else would they be. I see that God is talking to me all the time, I just don't settle down long enough to perceive it. Yes, the cloud is moving on in my life also...even though I know some critical components, I can't predict how it will happen. I only know that a simple overnight stay in a nearby mountain range has made me anxious—leaving behind all that is supremely comforting. When did I become such a scaredy cat?  When "did the normal" feel as if it could be wiped away in a moment? These are the effects of grief. Well its only been six months.

Recently my brother in law (Hans' brother) got remarried. He had been widowed for a little over a year. I was simultaneously thrilled and horrified. I could not understand my reaction to his good news until I finally realized that it came from knowing that he was being taken away from the country of the dead. It was as if we who are widowed have leprosy and can only stretch our arms to those who are on the "inside" wishing ourselves a part of them—to somehow feel normal again. T's marriage was a reminder that I was being left outside with all the other lepers but that somehow he had been allowed to leave. I was thrilled that he could leave... and be loved again. But for me. . . I returned to my solitary confinement with only my rags to wear and greet other residents of this foreign country in which I now live.   It was a momentary reaction and I'm over it now.

Do you see how I am out in left field all the time? Does any of this sound normal to you? I don't know myself any longer. In a way it is kind of exciting. My emotional landscape is totally different than anything I have ever known. It's kind of like being a newly arrived Martian on planet earth. The only hindrance is the fear that accompanies every decision, every turn in the road.

Well, I will make coffee now. Slowly I will make my way to start packing. All this work for a night under the stars. God, let there be a star over my house tonight. . . that once again points me to Christ?

I will think of you all tonight, sleeping under the same moon...El Paso, Las Cruces and the world. Wishing you a merry Christmas.

Blessings.

Mondays Always Make Me Blue

Hans died on a Monday at 6PM more or less. They say that death is a process and not a single moment. Long before the 6PM moment, he was already in heaven.. or at least in the presence of God. A week before he died, we scraped the back of his throat and the gag reflex was already gone. So. . . the signs were there in the physical. They were there in the spiritual also.


Nevertheless, Mondays come around every week and I am downcast again.  Oddly, I do not remember the 25th of every month which marks another month gone by.  Mondays are the mile markers for me.  I am not "getting better" every month because emotionally there is no time. That is what makes humanity so complex. We have chronological time and then we have "meaningful" time. For instance, I still "feel" 35  though I am way older than that. When I see other people my age, I cringe. It couldn't possibly be that I look that way too? Puffy cheeked, saggy eyes, rounded middle? Oh...the sadness of losing life, quickly or suddenly. It constantly reminds me that this life is a journey. You know, I don't really like that expression at all. For me it makes this life seem cheap and irrelevant. But I don't feel that way about my own life. My experience has been one of magnificent growth, revelation amidst fears, challenges, suffering and confusion. Every moment along the road, even the long dry spells have been fraught with mystery and wild abandonment to the unknown and as yet unperceived will of God. But the message is "This will not go on forever." There is a point to the journey. . . there is a point to my calling. . . to reach the end for which I was created. That telios point in time when I can say, "I am done" or "It is finished" having become and accomplished the life and work I was called to have according to His riches in glory.


Not long ago, Jesus told me, "Hans finished his race, now you finish yours." Of course. Jesus acts as if He doesn't even see the four foot sword that is still protruding from my heart.  And so I go on. I go to church (once in awhile) and see friends, eat out, go to movies and even give classes, and all the while, this sword is there. No one says a thing about it, so polite society has become. But then, what can you say? I get bored with the same old message...."some days good, other days not so good." What can one say? Only another widow or widower would understand. I am beginning to think that this sword will stay there and become part of my personality. I know, you disagree, you think that it will get smaller over time, but actually I don't think so. Perhaps it will become scar tissue, stretch marks if you will. You say to me, that even Jesus' wounds eventually became scars. So not this?  Not on this side.  I kind of think that this sword is used for the battle against evil, against distortion of the truth. I'm not making this into theology....but perhaps I may.


I am writing a lot these days. I have just finished writing a beautiful course on the Prophets. I am also done with the editorial changes to the Genesis Touch, and I am writing my autobiography. Almost everyone I know is in it. Look for it on sale at your local news stand. I am moving on to writing the series on "perfection" which Hans and I wrote together. I am giving several classes in January. One is the "The History of Theology in the West."   I quote from the Wesleyan website:

"Wesley (Charles) died on Wednesday March 2, 1791, in his eighty-eighth year. As he lay dying, his friends gathered around him, Wesley grasped their hands and said repeatedly, 'Farewell, farewell.' At the end, summoning all his remaining strength, he cried out, 'The best of all is, God is with us,' lifted his arms and raised his feeble voice again, repeating the words, 'The best of all is, God is with us.'"

Hans sounded just like this. He could talk about nothing but God at the end. I wanted him to embrace me, to love me, to tell me how beautiful were my eyes were to him..yadda yadda...but he could only see God, and His eyes. What a fellow he was. Dr. Munoz, his primary doctor said of him, "They don't make men like Hans  anymore and they never will again." It is true although I'm sure it can be said of all of us on some level. Will there ever be another Wesley? Another Hans? 

 But the line that really struck me is "Wesley died..." So...I softly whistle under my breath...he died too. Death is such an oxymoron to the living that it finds no cubby hole in our reality, really. We cannot understand the cessation of a person, his disappearance. Like my friend, Melanie Wayne wonders, "Where are they really?" Well, a just man lives by faith. We do not know, but we believe. 

The Lord has dealt bountifully with His servant

I have not written because I have been bound and gagged—by grief and sorrow and the lies of the wicked one, having had a party and feasting on my lament—there being no word of life to fight them off. That's what comes of not reading your bible everyday. It has powers we know not of and does wonders in the deep. My life in a nutshell from these two powerful psalms.


Ps 13  How long wilt thou forget me, O LORD? for ever? how long wilt thou hide thy face from me?How long shall I take counsel in my soul, having sorrow in my heart daily? how long shall mine enemy be exalted over me?Consider and hear me, O LORD my God: lighten mine eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death;Lest mine enemy say, I have prevailed against him; and those that trouble me rejoice when I am moved. But I have trusted in thy mercy; my heart shall rejoice in thy salvation.I will sing unto the LORD, because he hath dealt bountifully with me. 

Ps. 18:6-24

In my distress I called upon the LORD, and cried unto my God: he heard my voice out of his temple, and my cry came before him, even into his ears. Then the earth shook and trembled; the foundations also of the hills moved and were shaken, because he was wroth, The LORD also thundered in the heavens, and the Highest gave his voice; hail stones and coals of fire.Yea, he sent out his arrows, and scattered them; and he shot out lightnings, and discomfited them.Then the channels of waters were seen, and the foundations of the world were discovered at thy rebuke, O LORD, at the blast of the breath of thy nostrils.He sent from above, he took me, he drew me out of many waters.He delivered me from my strong enemy, and from them which hated me: for they were too strong for me.They prevented me in the day of my calamity: but the LORD was my stay.He brought me forth also into a large place; he delivered me, because he delighted in me. The LORD rewarded me according to my righteousness; according to the cleanness of my hands hath he recompensed me.For I have kept the ways of the LORD, and have not wickedly departed from my God.For all his judgments were before me, and I did not put away his statutes from me.I was also upright before him, and I kept myself from mine iniquity.Therefore hath the LORD recompensed me according to my righteousness, according to the cleanness of my hands in his eyesight.

This is not the end.

The Lord summoned Moses to the top of the mountain and Moses went up. 

We were Counted among His friends

In my evening meditation I was finally able to discern the basis of grief for me. Painted for you and for me with pictures from the heart.. The missing piece—

Together we climbed the mountain of God. The streams from which we drank were crystal waters and the bread we ate was the bread of angels. We were counted among His friends. We were children bidden to the secret wardrobe having entered through it to another land. And we rejoiced at the treasures we had found. And I am deep in the forest of God now, but I am alone and it is frightening in its solitude. The trees are high and blot out the sun. No clearing to pitch my tent. I feel like Eve in a garden without Adam...who has died,mysteriously. Won't God be with her?  There is no other who can hear her, only the wind which carries her whispers.

I want to speak of God in the language of the wise, of the mature, but there is not ear or eye who understands and has seen the crystal palace across the river, who has touched the glories of  invisible realities, who can say "I know." This is an existential loneliness, a joy which cannot be doubled. What, I pray dear God, do you suggest? 


I must find my way to the Tree of Life. To drink from the mouth of the River again. 

Darkness in the Dark

This is how insane I am. The single man across the street has been staying overnight with his girlfriend more and more. I have met her and she is a lovely lady. But often at night when the sun goes down and the darkness comes, I see his lovely house which was once full of light, closed and dark. No car in the drive way, only a few lonely dogs in the side yard, listlessly waiting for their master to return. It saddens me and I feel abandoned again. How quacky grief is. My heart cries out, "Why don't you just marry the girl and move back home?" What is wrong with my once sane, rational and lovely mind?

Church today was sadly predictable. My heart remained asleep. I am asleep, and every time I am awoken by the anointing i.e.,  the presence of God, new tears appear. I am caught between a flood and a drought. Neither is welcomed. And so I shy away from God, knowing that my fragile covering is only made of cheap toilet paper.

But I am finding that I am learning what the Master has for me this season. INSIGHT: The young man who gave the sermon on "suffering" spoke as one who had never suffered. His words were like palm knives, a thrust which does not kill but yet is painful. It is in the quality of the spirit that words reveal if the martyrdom of suffering has taken place within. In those people you can hear and feel the tenderness of God. There is a "dark knowing" of the ways of the Cross, a certain fragrance of charred remains— the combined scent of frankincense and myrrh. It is the nearest thing to holiness and a whiff of it is sufficient. It is the fragrance of Christ.

I shall never speak the same way again of suffering—so intellectually, so blithely, so incredibly stupidly.

Another blessing of my sacrifice of tears has been the awareness that I have been bound by convention, fears, confusion, and my own idiomatic ideals. But the fire has burned the ropes that held my hands tied. I am free because I can see both the beginning and the end. The books of Eccles. says that if you can see all things, but not know the beginning or the end, you understand nothing. Now I have experienced "the end" of all things and I will never be the same again. My robes, my spiritual garment has been singed with the fire from the altar and I am irrevocably changed. For good, thank God and may peace be upon my friend, brother, my bright companion, Hans.

Somewhere Beyond the Stars

Well I hate transitions. But they are necessary in life for growth. But oh...they feel so bad. The days become murky, the nights become fitful and shadowy, the joy is subdued if at all. Transitions. But light feels like life and hope is like medicine and a word from God feels like a life saver in an ocean storm. But my friends, did not the disciples experience this wave tossing also? I am afraid our lives must go through the swirling torrents to be made into five smooth stones.

But I have always experienced the depths of the ocean with a friendly face...my friend...who has gone on to the crystal sea and sees the four terrible beasts who stand before the throne. H. is hidden beneath the altar since he has no body yet. He is a spirit, no he is a soul who is delighting in the warmth of the bridegroom's embrace.

By the way, the "four terrible beasts" is a terrible translation. It should be "four awesome beings." These "beings" have consciousness and speak. I don't think they are merely symbols. I wish I could see the emerald rainbow. In fact, my next blog will be named that. What do you suppose that means? Can you guess?

I also wonder if Hans is with family? Scripture often says "And he was gathered up to his forefathers." It sounds wonderful to have family embrace your arrival. Hans so often prayed with Anne, his sister, before her death, they have no doubt embraced that the wilderness experience is over for them.

It reminds me of a 50 miles walk I took once. During the Kennedy Administration, he encouraged sports and excercise. The whole nation started walking. I, along with 40 other kids, walked from White Sands Missile Range to El Paso. After 10 miles I was in torment. After 20 I thought I was going to die on the side of the road. After 30 I no longer spoke. No one did. Even the kids who took off running were back with the slowpokes. After 40 miles, I prayed in tongues. At the 49th mile I quit. I could see the green steeple at the Northgate Shopping Center where the television crews were waiting. But I was finished. I could not walk one more mile. I quit. The van picked me up and returned to the base. In riding back to the base, deeply discouraged and ashamed, I fell asleep. They took me right to my house where my parents were waiting for me. When I woke up, I had tears in my eyes. To this day, I don't remember crying in my sleep, so I think that I must have teared up when I saw my house. The experience of suffering was over and my feet were to be wrapped and soaked in healing balm.

It must be so with those who die and return to the bosom of the Father. The tear wiped away from the journey of pain. The pain of insecurity, self doubt, confusion, shame, fears, betrayal, abandonment, war and trauma. We do not feel the weight of sorrow because we have grown used to the burden. But in heaven it is like floating on a sea of salt...you feel for the first time, the incredible lightness of being.

That is what prayer does for me. It gives me a foretaste of rest, of freedom from self condemnation and false expectations and I can just be a child again.

I am SO HAPPY for Hans that he is delighting in God today. You know how child like he could be when he was happy, as all of us are. So my beloved sings somewhere beyond the stars and I am so very grateful to God that he has been swept out of this terrible sea of the human experience.

Behind the Waterfall

It is Sunday morning and several things are happening. I must go to church and two of my grandchildren leave today. Having them here has been my attempt to get to know them although they have been very "tied up" with the El Paso grandchildren. It has been one big party all week. As a result of this, my grief has been minimal, seeping out only at night or when they are gone. Next to my desk is Hans' tie, watch and glasses. Things from which he was inseparable. Now it looks like he has been raptured and only his effects remain, body gone. Yesterday I was able to make a joke—not finding Hans' favorite bbq brush, I said, "Dad must have taken it with him."

The day before, Emmie was triggered by the swimming pool, remembering Grandpa taking her for a dip when she was little. The grief moments are less and what I am waiting for is the ability to think about H. with only joy and happiness. It's also odd that I have prayed for many people going through loss and Jesus took away their pain with just a simple request. But for me there is no respite except the passage of time and the sifting through the muddled feelings.

Sometimes I blame God, sometimes I blame Adam, sometimes I blame myself, sometimes I blame the cat.  I pour over pictures, memories, and events together, but after all is said and done, it still feels like I am at the end of the road. The truth is that I have turned the corner only I haven't been looking at my horizon—so deep into the details of life have I been. I must keep focused on the bigger picture.

On a wonderful note, Benjamin, Julianne's child has turned out to be a evangelist and has greatly influenced the other grandchildren who were open to truth. They are taking bibles home with them and are actually excited about it. Benjamin told them they HAD to change their lives and follow Jesus. So last night they laid in all their beds reading their Bibles. Shame on me. This morning Reese and I rummaged through all the Bibles looking for one that she liked. "Pray to the Lord for harvesters for the field is white with harvest." It was yesterday's meditation. But right under my own nose?

It feels like there are two clocks by which I live—an outer clock and an inner one. The outer one is rushing by...filled with dinners, friends and appointments. The inner clock moves slowly and quietly and measures time by the memories.  Honestly, I really miss Hans. I miss him the most at the end of the day when we found refuge in one another and from the world. Even the world of our children and we just found one another. Like the author of "The Shack"Bill Young says, he is just behind the waterfall. And until this mortal puts on immortality there will be no sighting.

The Search for Wisdom

Good morning. It is 6AM and I have been up for a while. There are no new metaphors in my head. The horizon of my state of being is flat again, perhaps a little nervous since I am heading for eye surgery on Friday. The surgery is not without risk. But what could be worse than today? Blindness might give me a new lease in life or for sure seal the deal and I would want to move on for sure. My life is seldom boring.

There is, I might say, a tentative excitement in the air as I move farther away from April 25, 2011. I am changing I can tell.  My denial is coming to an end and I am beginning to view the future without Honey. He would want me too...he would be disappointed in my giving up. He would actually be shocked. I'm sure he thought "I would be just fine without him." He was part of the process of making me whole. I thought I would be "just fine" without him too. That's how big of a fool I was. Marriage is a strange spiritual knot. The pain in death and divorce prove the existence of spiritual ties—their breaking can be heard around the world.

I am reading a book whose subtext is called the 'search for wisdom." The gist is that the older people have more wisdom than the young and this author is trying to cull it out of them. So he interviews people over 70 years old to discover how they use their "wisdom." Or how does their wisdom play out in real life. One 94 year old decided to get involved in passing the McCain-Feingold bill in her state. She was constantly on the phone cajoling senators to pass it. "She would nap in the afternoons and scrap it out in the mornings while her husband of 80 something would increasingly withdraw into his own little world of sleep and television. She outlived him. Maybe "wisdom" was really more temperament rather than "wisdom."

All I know is that desire to withdraw into my room and watch nothing but movies is a real threat to my call and the remainder of life. I have to push through to light. I have so many things still left to teach and so much spiritual energy in me. But . . . my flesh is weak and the devils are strong. If you see me advertising something you will know a miracle has taken place. I might begin with something easy... like ministry skills..or church planting. All of these are easy things for me. The life of virtue and devotion is more taxing. The most fulfilling and requiring the most preparation is teaching the bible which oddly enough is more rewarding than anything else.  God's word is like honey on the tongue. Incredibly sweet.

How does a young "old person" use their wisdom? How does a Christian allow wisdom to guide them? I wonder about that in my own life. I must make decisions now completely alone and as a free agent. It is a bit challenging.

Please pray for me on Friday at 9AM. Pray for Dr. Gulbas and staff. Pray he has a steady hand and isn't hung over or something awful like that. Ask Jesus to guide his instruments.

The Invisible Hand of Love

Yesterday I woke early and went out in the backyard. I picked up dog poop in the morning dew. Soft and icky, but gathered in a big pile, Then I offered it as an offering to the gods of the modern life—the trash barrel as my altar. I proceeded to cut the grass with a nifty lawnmower than was practically humming with pleasure as it did its neat little trim job on the unruly grass. The lawn was finally green having fertilized multiple times. I picked up lawn chairs and shaved behind the ears. Then hauled off all the clippings to the trash. I rearranged the patio furniture and set the table with white linens and candles, all the while the dogs were thinking we were having a party. They couldn't wait for the cupcakes so they got in a big fight with one another over some scrap which lay on the ground. It was a chewed up ball. Then I shocked the pool and set up a picnic table with colorful umbrellas. In my jamies still i went ot the front yard and watered all the desert plants which were wilting with thirst. It was now 11 AM and I was still going strong, raking and pulling up dead things and watering my feet with the hose every once in a while. Running into the bathroom I noticed my face was BRIGHT red..fruits of a busy life. Then I took a shower and made myself beautiful (or so I thought.) Wondering the whole time, how is it that I had all this energy and still wasn't tired. I said "Who has done this?" Who had taken care of the lawn for me. The chores of Friday, having cleaned the garage and emptied the sad space into an orderly picture. Where did the life to do this come from? Who is working with me to take care of this place? Things that my earthly husband had done for me...always...making sure that I lived in a miniature castle. A queen for sure. Now someone was performing magical tasks around my place and it wasn't me, yet it was.

Was my heavenly bridegroom loving me? Didn't my patio look festive and ready for a sweet time in the spirit as I walked the grounds this Sunday morning, the dogs quiet in repose? Who in the world had done all this work?

But  yet I miss the sure hand of the flesh of Jesus. His gift to me of a thousand fold. A man whose name I have taken forever...Christian.

The Pillar and the Cloud

Every day is like the same. Nothing new under the sun. I wake up with pain and I go to sleep with pain. I somehow manage to exist during the day. The days do not grow easier to bear. I just keep going. But neither to the left nor to the right do I see the cloud or the pillar of fire. I have no direction except the beating of my own heart which refuses to stop. Last night a wicked thought came to my mind as I held the bottle of sleeping pills. I knew that even though I cannot hear my Master's voice, there are other presences readily available to speak. I must journey on, even in the dark. I share my burden with the only one who understands how the wearing of the yoke and mantle feels, the Christ himself. My head is too small for just one. It holds the treasures of eternity and no one mind can store its weight and so I must return the gift of abundance back to the giver.  s

Lady Cowman's book was written for me. She writes her story on every page. Streams in the Desert is  finding that stream of refreshing in a dry gnarly wilderness where only the gila monsters and jackals live.

Oh where is the hidden stranger who walks beside me? Where is the rescuer and the comforter? Where do they hide in the night. I cannot be still for the forest of noise overwhelms me with its silence and my heart returns to April 25, 2011. Night after night the scene replays its majestic and awesome picture that severed my heart in two.

A Place That He Has Made

Here's a poem that signified something for me. What does it for you?

Have you come to the Red Sea place in your life?
When, in spite of all you can do,
There is no way out, there is no way back.
Then wait upon the Lord with a trust serene
Till the night of your fear is gone.

He will send the wind, He will keep the floods,
When He says to your soul, "Move on."

And His hand will lead you through-clear through--
Ere the watery walls roll down,
No foe can reach you, no wave can touch,
No mightiest sea can drown,
The tossing billows may rear their crests,
Their foam at your feet may break,
But o'er the seabed you will walk dry ground
In the path that your Lord shall make.

In the morning watch, 'neath the lifted cloud
you will see but the Lord alone
When He leads you on from the place of the sea,
To a land that you have not known;
And your fears will pass as your foes have passed,
You will be no more afraid,
You will sing His praise in a better place,
A place that His hand has made.

Annie Johnson Flint (Streams in the Desert)

Thin threads

It has been some days now since I have not been in constant pain. Perhaps I am ending the mourning period in an unprecedented speed. Just like God to do that for me. His sparrows. I still have no joy however, but simple pleasures are beginning to return. I still spend an inordinate time online and watching movies or reading. My work suffers terribly. I work slowly on the taxes and pray that Uncle Sam understands grief with its highs and lows, no its lows and very lows.

There have been such odd things that have brought comfort to me in this period. I am beginning to think that I don't really know myself at all. I feel like I am in a straight jacket half the time and need to be spoon fed tiny bites of something called medicine. For example, yesterday I was reading about CS Lewis' life after his wife died. He never recovered from her loss. The author said that here was man that knew God and knew the ways of God and yet after her death, he never wrote again. He was effectively silenced and never again wrote another word. He also became an effective deist. I too have trouble trusting God now. I can't seem to muster up the faith walk again. He will have to carry me through until I can see the sunshine once again. I feel very much like the disciples on the road to Emmaus who were grief sticken, saying to the stranger who walked beside them, "We had hoped...."

It is a terrible moment when your hopes are lost. Hope is a priceless gift of salvation and for the first time I cannot see my future, nor could they. They were returning to the life they had known before. My problem is that I didn't have a life before that I can return too. But gladly, the disciples were not left in the dark, and rejoiced when  they recognized him in the breaking of the bread, which I hope soon, will happen to me.

Never in my wildest dreams would I have suspected I would end up on this barren island yet I am beginning to get used to the endless shores of what is before me. Nothing can separate me from the love of God, but it sure feels like the thread is very very thin.

Endings

It has been some days since I posted. Mostly because I have been flatlining in my emotional life. I have had neither bad days nor good ones. Though I am absorbed by finishing taxes and an endless supply of movies, my head has been clear of thoughts, heart freed from anguish. Yet my questions remain. I am only trodding now, hoping that putting one foot in front of another will lead me to where I want to go. Which is I don't know where. I wish we had a beach or an ocean or something cosmically grand to look upon. I am unable to see the big picture right now and I am sure that is what I lack. The other word of note is that I hear nothing from God, but the silence of the leaves falling outside my window as the wind does spring cleaning again and again. Even my flowers have died. The desert heat is too harsh for the tender flowers. But the pain is gone. I am not looking at pictures anymore. It is less painful than to remember. I am grateful to the a/c man that he solved a mystery to which Hans and I worked frantically to solve and never did. Sometimes only an expert can handle these things. Our knowledge is limited. I apply this principle to the mysterious ending of my life with Hans.

Morning shadows

The sun has chased away the shadows of evening. The moon long hidden in

the waves of light. So too my night of shadows has disappeared and only to be seen behind me every once in awhile. 

So many endless sunrises ahead of me. Hans dwells in a place where there is no night. 

How the wild the earth seems now, a wilderness indeed. Like Pilgrim’s wife, I travel alone with only my children in tow. Will they make it through the long dark night. Will I? 

Even in beauty there is a sting. 

We too are traveling to the celestial city. I know the way but not the perils therein. I embark upon my lonely boat with only the ghost of St. Brendan to guide me. I wonder what blue lagoons we will chance upon. Or see the marlins dance in yonder depths. 

Oh what I would give for a firm hand right now...one wearing the wedded ring of long ago that was lost in boughs of earth. Pictures make more sense than words. I pick up the oars of life and make my muscles strong...for someone did that once before me. But now it’s my turn at the helm. . . doesn’t matter that I am a woman, used to hiding in the curve of his hip. 

Long the road seems ahead to the horizon. A giant figure stands awaiting. 

Waiting for the Third Day

He descended 

The days have been flat without life. No metaphors, no pictures, just endless amount of hours. No voice of God either, just silence. Am I being tested? Am I being watched? By the powers and principalities as well? I am sure of it. A Christian does not live alone on the stage of life. There is the cloud of witnesses. They witness our lives as we make choices. I don’t even have any decent choices to make. That is the predicament. I am adrift in a sea of nothingness. I have no internal energy to make things happen. I feel dead myself. Although I embody the living dead. Hans at least is fully alive, even without his body. I on the other hand just exist. 

This is a dangerous time for me, for the powers know that I cannot live without life, psychologically or emotionally. But that is the path that has been chosen for me at this time. I must travail in it. The valley of nothing. 

Why this path?  No stimulation. No nothing. Not even pain anymore. Just days. Well, I will make not make my bed here. I will wait until He comes and rescues me from this place of dark and gloomy walls. 

And on the third day....




He visited His people. 


Of course you realize that all righteous actions or inspirations come from God. So I can do nothing until He calls me forth. This is the Lazarus principle. I am dead dead dead until He indicates otherwise. Then I have the opportunity to respond. So here I lay...resting.  I can look upon this as God's kindness, but of course that would be stretching me. . . so I rest and stretch and rest and stretch. I am anxious in my grave. Death, death, death, to the visionary within.  I only expect a few of you to understand this process. But that's ok, what is a pioneer for anyway? 

Hands

I am here at a Loss and Grief Seminar in Scottsdale AZ. There are varied internal reactions within. I only trust abut half of them. I have come to the place where I know that I am human and not everything I call myself is under my own control. Things happen to people. We wish they didn't, but they do. We don't mind it when they are pleasant surprises, but negative heart breaking things are not friends and yet they happen to us anyway. What occurred to me this morning, is that there are many things going on in grieving, mourning, etc., whatever you want to call it. The breaking of attachments, soul ties untying, role redefinition and a bunch of other things which are all unnerving. But I guess the only way to describe the final outcome is trauma. It leaves a mark on you forever and we will never be the same. More than anything,  it means  our worldview is changed and in so many directions at once that we suffer an internal destabilization that we call grief.

One visceral reaction I had this morning was when we were called to place our beloved's picture on a table. I just couldn't place his picture up there. All the photos were of people who had died. I was not able to let go of him as "living." To me he still lives, though not with me. It took 8 hours for me to finally relinquish one picture to the mound. I knew that this was an exceedingly important moment in my healing process. I guess I finally admitted it. But it is a realization that only stays a moment and then leaves me. To me he is alive for it is still unbearable to not think so.

Reality knocks. We grow soberminded and realize that we realize something new. A place. A new truth. Life knocks something out of you, and something new comes to you. I don't know if I will ever be the same again and so I have to ask myself, what and who am I now? What does it mean to be me? I can't go back anymore to the old place, I am catapulted into some other place.

I think the reason why the picture on the left is so comforting is because visually we are still connected. I see and can almost feel his hand holding mine. I wish it were flesh and blood but it's not anymore. Now bonds which were made in the heavens are all I have. And it is a lot. I am sure of that. This hand will carry me through the rough times ahead as I make this journey of self discovery.

I also love this picture. I think that Hans will look like this when we see each other again. I will recognize his hands immediately. They were so important to me. Hands say so much about a human being. I am beginning to heal or grow some how. 


Blessings to you in El Paso. What does the Lord have in store for our city in 2011/12?

The Terrible Days of Summer

Yesterday was the most terrible of all the days so far. I don't know why or what triggered it. I sympathized with the "fish out of water" thing. That's how I felt—thrashing for air. Jules suggested I see myself as a pioneer woman who lost her husband on the wagon train. No room for self pity. You had to keep going. I asked her if we had guns. She said, "Of course!" I said, "Gimme one. I'm going to blow out my brains." She didn't look pleased. Later on I watched 6 episodes of Jerry Seinfeld and I didn't laugh once. That's serious. 


My insanity is over now and life has resumed back to "normal." Normal for me means I can work, read, laugh, and think about the future with hope and excitement. Yesterday, everything caused heartache. Is grief a chemical thing? Who knows. I hope to get some answers from the Grief and Loss Seminar I am attending this weekend. I am going back to Scottsdale where some "experts" are helping people who need this kind of help. If real grief is like yesterday then we dozen of these kinds of clinics.


Today I tried setting up the pool for the kids. It was pitiful. But I am not giving up. I will wrestle with the instructions, opening sealed boxes and spreading out the rubber flooring. I don't like this part of widowhood. It's too hard and it makes me think a nice condo would be better than a house or a ranch. I need to learn to get the older kids involved.


The air conditioner problem is fixed in the back apartment. A simple suggestion solved two years worth of struggles. Wrap the down draft! Wow. Nice cold air.


I am in fog these days and so my posts are dismal. It is representative of where I live these days. My usual colorful mind is asleep and doesn't want to wake up. I think it is a form of dissociation..? Nothing but God brings comfort. 


Come fall and winter,  come soon.

"It's the little things that count!"

Received a card from Hospice today, again sending their condolences along with a message of hope and instruction regarding grief. I was surprised at some of the things they listed. The obvious are sadness, anger, guilt, relief, but others are emancipation, yearning, anxiety, shock, fatigue, loneliness and helplessness. Even the body reacts to loss in hollowness in the stomach, tightness in throat, oversensitivity to noise, shortness of breath, weakness in muscles, dry mouth, sleep disturbances, crying and headaches. Sometimes I experience one, sometimes all. 

As I reflect on the state of our family today, I see that all of us are pretty destroyed by Hans' loss. He was so so important to us, to me, his wife, especially his daughters but also his sons. Frankly we are all devastated by his loss. He was just SO important to us. He was, as I have said, bedrock. And it does feel like the floor has been pulled out from beneath you and suddenly you find yourself on the floor wondering what happened! But because of his faithfulness, I think I often took Hans for granted. It wasn't like he was the center of our lives, or that all of life revolved around him in some narcissistic way, it was that we were secure in his presence and his ability to keep us from harm.  It never occurred to me that he would not be here. Unthinkable. Although we joked about it often. I would say, "What do I do about this when you're gone?" But that wasn't a serious question. He was a foundations guy, he would always be with us.


I think of a lot of really good husbands get taken for granted. A sort of "Dad will always be there..." And they tend to get marginalized in the fracas of life. Especially when the Dads are quiet and uninvolved. We think they are not involved, but nothing could be further from the truth. Dad's "Presence" is involved in a way that makes everyone brave enough to launch forward in new ventures and ideas. Dad's presence is not like Mom's. These are so totally different that their importance can be overlooked. But just ask a single mother what it's like, they feel the absence of weight (presence) every day. 

I was thinking that Hans' presence was very much like Jesus presence, someone who is always there for us. It's the same kind of security. And we just assume that Jesus will always be there. But the Scripture says to seek Him while He may be found. There will be a time when He can no longer be found. I know what that feels like first hand. But another thing even more potent is this issue of taking Him for granted.We can live with Jesus in the background while we run around and live our lives without him.


If I have any regrets it is that I didn't do enough for Hans. I was too busy, consumed with pulling the barge of ministry. Both of us were so fully engaged in it that we ignored the smaller less obvious things in life. I would have paid more attention to him. But I am struck with how similar this is to my relationship with Jesus. I need to talk more, think more about what Jesus wants and less of my own needs. Sometimes we are so consumed with the issues of life that we ignore Him—because He will always be there.  

I remember one time, I looked at his key ring. It was just a bunch of old keys on a string.  I remember thinking, "These keys are pitiful."  That day I went to the bookstore and bought him a beautiful key ring.   He was genuinely pleased with the gift and was so proud of his new key ring. Of course, later one, he lost his keys. But hey, the point was that a lot of our life was like that—no time for anything personal—our minds on the work of God and on his people. Of course I do not regret our service, that's the eternal stuff of which only God knows and rewards.  But it is a point of regret here, because these are the ways that we show we love a person. The small things count.


And I wonder if we need to rethink the hundreds of small things we can do for Jesus. He says that when "you do these things for the least of these my brethren, you do them unto me." This does not refer to the general poor of the earth, it refers to the poor of the Kingdom, the least in the kingdom, the humble ones, the meek. The ones that are overlooked in the kingdom, because they are not the talented, beautiful princes that everyone follows and wants to befriend.  The "least" are the "little ones" who angels always face the Lord.  

There were hundreds of things I could have done for Hans that I didn't do. I regret those things so much. Not exactly guilt, but love in retrospect. I wonder if we all don't take our relationships for granted? The one thing I did do in the last year of his life, I made sure not to ask him to move any furniture for me. Although we did move a lot of stuff!  I gave him hours of uninterrupted time to study and write. I gave him some really great meals and trips to the outback. But most of all, hours and hours of uninterrupted time to read his beloved bible and to pray. And I gave him a beautiful pair of boots which he wore all the time to please me. See...the small things count. It was a small act but it made me so happy. I wonder if we can do more for Jesus like this? For our lives really are to revolve around Him and we must not take Him for granted and sadly I think we so often do.

Birds of Paradise

Today is Saturday. A week ago I was at a renewal center is Scottsdale taking in the opulent but natural environment of the west. I felt hopeful for the future, that something would happen to our nation and our meager little existence. I was made for big dreaming, none of this small time stuff for me. But El Paso is a country under the spirit of apathy and tradition. We are in a rut, and need a powerhouse leader to take us out of this, to wake us up out of our million year sleep. We need a messiah to transform our place of residence. We have no vision and without it we perish. 

I know of no other city like this. A city recently voted the most dangerous border town in the USA. Can you beat that? How can we be the beautiful in the midst of this pool of criminals and hotheads? This should be our joint prayer. "God, turn us into the springs of hope and make us birds of paradise."

EJPieker, Nature Photographer

I remember coming home from Pasadena in 1992 fresh from seminary. I was pumped with ideas. But withn a year I was the same lethargic soul I had encountered in every place along the road. What is it about the desert landscape that scorches life. The sun becomes our enemy, its blazing arms preventing us from creating anything, except on an individual level—each man doing what is right in his own eyes.

Three years ago, I had a vision of the El Paso valley. It was scorched black, nary a tree was standing, but charred broken limbs. The spirit of God asked, "So do you really think that the seed you've sown can grow here?" I feel mildly rebuked. It would take a miracle to grow this seed. It would also take on the attributes of its soil and become another individualistic tree in the desert of limbo. I wondered what had scorched the land? Violence? Abortion? Some kind of darkness had come over the land and had burned it beyond recognition.

This is where I live. Live? This is where I exist from day to day, fighting off this spirit of malaise. The oppostite spirit is hope, renewal and prophecy. This is what the weapons of our warfare are in this desert nightmare.

I sound pessimistic, but I am not. I am committed to this battle of discipling the nations. We must know our enemy and he is death, loss and fatalism, brought in by the immigrants of a war torn nation beside us. It will cause us to be stronger in the end.

Friday I went to the cemetery and we had lunch with Hans—peanut butter sandwiches and grapes. Emmie wanted to know if Grandpa eats in heaven. How can one eat when one is full? Not possible. We are the only hungry ones. I find that I am hungry all the time since Hans died. I am not eating at all, my appetite has vanished. But internally there is a deep emptiness that feels like an unbearable monster...(that's the wound). I wasn't very good with heartbreak as a young woman, I am even worse now that I am old. The young have the future, we have only the now. Of course these are just "feelings" and must still be judged by the light of day, which is coming soon.

On a different note, I am looking for a movie called "Pope Joan". Has anyone access to this movie or know of its whereabouts? It is a remarkable movie about a brilliant young scholar born in the wrong time in the wrong gender. Please let me know.

Have a good hot day and for all you "foreigners" who live in the forest, pray for us.

Not Moving Forward....

I want to go on living my old life. I just want to resume what we were doing before Hans' dying. In this way, he continues to live, through me, and through the vision and the dream. Does that sound wrong? i know they say that you have to find a new normal, but is that right? Must everything change because of this? I can't bear more loss. . . I think I will go crazy if too many things change. Even throwing away stuff and de-cluttering feels like more loss.

Julianne says the only way she can cope is to talk about H. in the present tense. He likes this, likes that..etc., since he is alive, why not? If he is alive, shall I put back my wedding rings?  But I don't want to deceive myself.The  grief manual says that this stage is difficult and comes in three phases. First is denial, he's not dead! Did he really die? I can't believe it! It seems unreal. Part of this expecting the person to walk in the room, or come back like from a long trip. Or even to tell someone "its time for the joke to end." The second phase is beginning to believe that he really is dead. I fluctuate between these two. When I believe that he really is dead and never coming back then i completely fall apart. In this phase everything is a sad reminder of his demise. Lately his glasses and watch make me incredibly sad. I can't bear to see them. Pictures, always have the same effect-bad. I had a very bad meltdown on Tuesday afternoon. It was good to cry, although it didn't really "heal" me. 

But then there many many hours that I do not think of him at all if I am busy or writing.  I always feel better with people around. While he was alive it was the other way around. I only wanted to be alone just the two of us. I find that grief does not make sense. Everything is out of kilter and there is no rhyme or reason to anything. 

In watching Harry Potter this evening, Doby dies and Harry has to bury him. I found myself crying. Doby's last words were "Harry Potter." Last words?  He's an elf, what do we expect? 

Next week I am going to a "grief and loss" retreat in "Scottsdale Az. By the way, I didn't have to show my passport anywhere. BTW Just discovering the beauty of Arizona. It is filled with all kinds of natural wonders. I need natural wonders right now...I am in need of anything beautiful.

Quite frankly, I feel like a woman with a bramble bush in her hair. It's messy and pokey and not very attractive. I don't blame anyone for staying away. One day up the next down. One day sane and energetic, the next day sad and faithless. I am continuing to learn however, new books came in the mail this week. I wonder what God is up to. 

The Lesson of the Tulip Bulb

It’s been good for me to garden. I am redoing the courtyard. Today’s lesson from the garden was thought provoking. I know I told you that Patty had planted tulips. Big beautiful purple tulips. There was no other color in the garden but those. She had left a big purple ribbon on them, tied, and the whole scene was lovely. Today and for quite a while now, I noticed that the tulips were long gone. The purple ribbon laying in the ground covered up by dirt. In their place stood white stringy dried up stalks. They didn’t really stand, they were laying all over the ground. Like Hans. Toward the end, he couldn’t stand up either. His vitality was reduced to a long body on a bed of white sheets. No longer to stand erect as God has made man to be. Lev 26: 13. (Man does not crawl on his belly unless he has totally given in to the snake in the garden.) I was sad when I saw these flowers. God, I prayed. Does everything have to die? “Yes. No. Look below.” I pulled up the bulbs, invisible and not seen. Roots were all over the place and strange white thick stalks were beginning to emerge from the root itself. Like Hans, laying up in the valley on a bluff overlooking El Paso. Laying below the surface but not dead.  I know that Hans is not the root, but merely a branch, who lays waiting for his body to be raised. I get the picture now. Jesus has gone ahead to prepare the place, the soil for his new existence. And he waits for me and for all of us. 

I think to myself more often than I care to admit,  “Where are you God? We used to be such friends. And now, when I think I need you the most you are clearly silent.” Not seeing or hearing the voice of God, I see that I am so dependent on these tangible visible signs to my senses. I am still such a child in the faith. Needing those immature and feeble assurances. But God bypasses those. He speaks directly to my Spirit. And He was teaching me this lesson of the tulip bulb through my eyes, and even through my disappointment. 

But even more, I realize He has given me the energy to work all morning in the hot sun, lifting and bending. He was the "wind beneath my wind" (pardon the terrible metaphor). I plant eight big red plants in the garden, having to dig holes to match. "So, You are the One doing this gardening. You also helped Hans with the garden too." 

I got on my knees without my pillow at one point and immediately touched the solid concrete walkway. I remembered Hans’ knees— dark brown from the years of bending down and pulling out dead things in his garden. I quickly got the pillow, for I am vain enough not to want the "gardeners knee". But Hans didn’t care about such things. He made things beautiful for us. And now I do it for him and for my visitors too. Everyone must see that God is for life, not death and inherent in the plant is the sign of life everlasting.

Widowhood by the Book

I am playing the widow thing by the book. Today i covered the "mechanic" syndrome. i feel totally helpless around tools, wood, screws and anything electrical. I especially feel overwhelmed with instructions. They are just too simple. If they were more complicated I would probably get it. I bought my upteenth fountain today. But I had to assemble it. I panicked. This is where widowhood gets interesting.  I struggled with part a going into part b and turning  the screw to the left. But I did not let it get to me. Viola! I got it to work. 

But everything inside me was crying, "This is a man's job!" It's been a while since I was a single mom. I got also got spoiled because H was a handyman. Ahh. little girl.Talitha Cum... My grown up self refused to buy into this image. But it sure was hard to overcome. I see what God is doing. He is taking me down the low road. I don't like it much. I have gotten too domesticated like the women of Egypt. They suffered terribly in childbirth because they were so soft, unlike the Israelite women who just popped those babies out. Yes, I am too soft now. But hey....I'm old. Look at poor old Sarah, she had a kid at 120? Something like that. I bet she learned not to laugh at God's ideas. Those of you who knew "us" know this is the truth...I was spoiled by Dr. Weerstra. It makes a great love story but it's not great when reality comes knocking. 

There is nothing new under the sun. I remember the widow across the street from us some 10 years ago. She was 88 and still climbing up on the roof to fix her air conditioner. I remember thinking "Yuck!  How awful is that?" 

Just Thinking out Loud.

May 25, 2011 Tuesday

It was light this early morning, so I decided to mow the lawn. The electric mower is so quiet I did not disturb the neighbors, if I have any. Then I fertilized the grass and watered. By 9AM I decided to remove the mulch from the courtyard and water the plants. In between a friend came by and we talked of things in the Kingdom. It was a good visit and we were refreshed. Then back to removing the mulch, bag after bag. But during this go around, I began meditating on a piece of our discussion. It became more in my mind, growing in meaning, as I continued to reflect upon it, bag after bag. 

It is no secret that the human being receives information through the senses of the body—eyes, ears, touch, sound, and smell. If not for the senses, we would be tossed into outer darkness (perhaps that is what hell is).

I think I love Emmie through my eyes, because she is a such a beauty—her fresh little face, her sparkling eyes, her mischievous grin. But then I also love her through my ears, the quality of her voice, the incredible way she says "Grandma" and her use of language that is far beyond her years.  I also love her through touch, the way she crawls into my lap, or Grandpa's lap so effortlessly, as if we were chairs. 

I hear that widows do the same thing. That when they miss their mate they miss the total person, his or her voice, touch, sight, smell, and sound. We take in people and life with our five senses. That's a total experience and all of these things addict us to their being if they are "on the mark." Hans always said he fell in love with my voice. I had a friend who has a lovely voice and when we were looking for houses and calling real estate agents I always had her do the calling. They were lulled into submission by the quality of it.  I fell in love with Hans' profile, this has been my way since a child. Every boy I ever liked, had a similar profile. Sight was important to me. But that was just a part of it. I also loved his voice, and his touch, so gentle. I knew that these are the things I would lose when he died. I didn't know how to keep those things alive. If I had them, I thought, I could endure the year of grieving. I have heard of widows going into the mate's closet and just smelling the air, the clothes and being immensely comforted. 

It was this way for me a week ago. I found a small digital recorder that I bought the last year of his life. As we traveled or sat in the backyard, I would interview him, or provoke him with a piece of Scripture. I listened to these nine or ten recordings last week. I spent the day with the recorder, just listening to his voice. The pauses, the reflection or intonation, his slight Dutch accent and my own. I sounded so peaceful and happy, poking fun at his stogy old self. I was a little bit better. I have not gone into his closet. I cannot bear it yet, though I have moved into his office and put all his hats in a case.  When I have another down day, I will enter the closet. Perhaps if there is anything that made me feel secure and safe it was his odor, his peculiar fragrance that I inhaled every day. And every day it spoke to me, that life was not only ok, but great! And so it is a huge loss for me. His fragrance still fills the closet but I cannot go near there yet. It would set me back and pull off the emerging cover of my wound. 

But my meditation didn't end with Hans. This morning's discussion had to do with church life.  I noticed it pretty much uses only one gate to the soul. The ear. We listen to the sermon, we listen to the worship, we listen to the words of the songs, we listen to Christian radio. Perhaps many of us can enjoy the sounds of other voices or our own.  But there are four other gates missing. This weekend I went to church on Saturday and Sunday and "experienced" church. I took it in with all five senses. But some were disappointing. My sniffer was dismissed. The eye was displeased or vacant. It had nothing to look at.  How can I have a total experience when all there is ....is listening. We have motion, smells, lights, sounds, bells and whistles some have called it. Even some small thing would have been appreciated. Church, let him who has an ear, hear. 

How can we learn to open these other gates? What can we do to enhance our experience of God through them? Well, just thinking out loud.