Good Grief

Meat my failure.  

Hello my Friend.

How are you?  You said the weather was nice when you texted and I wanted you to know we are coming dangerously close to cracking the 60 degree barrier.  I might not be swimming in the morning like you are but I am flirting with the idea of going outside without a jacket which is almost as impressive.

We haven’t debriefed from Easter yet.  I know it was a week ago and the world has moved onto other things but I’m having trouble getting past the trauma and thought perhaps we could go over it together.  I want to move on to other events such as creating a protocol for when your teenage daughters come in the door sobbing because of an Avengers movie.  What would Jesus do anyway? 

The whole day was poignant.  I’m not sure I’ve used that word before, it means to evoke a keen sense of sadness.  I came to consciousness and the blanket over my subconscious dissolved like an Alka-Seltzer in boiling water.  Pulling my pillow over my head to replace the weight of sleep, I think I groaned as the reality of grief rolled over my mind.  With a sense of dread that only grief affords, I took stock of my psyche and found a wound hanging out somewhere near the pit of my stomach and examined it.

Death: inescapable, irreversible, and implacable.    

Staring straight at the hurt, I realized as I have every morning that it wasn’t going anywhere so I might as well get out of bed and move on to the next thing.  Which this morning meant making tea quietly in the kitchen and decorating an Easter table before the children woke up.  Slipping outside to gather flowers for my vase, the beauty of the morning didn’t even register.  I was going through the motions of celebration without any of the joy.  Rousting chocolate from several hiding places, I continued with my display.

Moving onto breakfast next I prepped the meal and waited for my monsters to tromp downstairs.  Tea was poured, prayers were said and before I realized it I was being told to “go sit down while we clean the kitchen.”  I couldn’t tell you much about the afternoon.  Did we go for a walk?  The next thing that registered in my mind was the need to start making supper.   

This is where things started to go wrong.  No.  That’s not true.  They went wrong days before when I staggered to the store with a shopping list and no idea of what meat to buy for Easter dinner.  I walked to the back of the store and stared at the ginormous display of hams and assorted cow parts.  Nothing was registering and I was entirely unable to figure out what to buy for dinner.  My phone made constant noise as questions were texted across continents, familial concern mixing with motivation and tenderness as funeral preparations took shape. I didn’t care what I ate for dinner which is why I made the deadly mistake of purchasing a marinated roast.  

In fairness it had an orange sticker, which made me think, “this must be a deal and the answer to all my problems.”  I grabbed it, threw it in the cart and went to  stare at cheese for a while.  Had I been in my right mind, I might have seen a Southwest Marinade label that would have tipped me off to the colossal mistake I was making.  As it was, I missed the ominous soundtrack as the camera panned mid frame on my roast like an Alien hiding in the wreckage of Sigourney’s ship.  It wasn’t going to end well. 

Oblivious to foreshadowing I started dinner with high hopes.  The roast went in the oven and vegetables were prepped.  Minor distractions kept me busy until, ahead of schedule I removed the roast to rest and prepped the gravy.  It was when I tasted the gravy that I realized my mistake. The roast had been marinated in what could only have been called a caustic mix of nastiness.  You know those demented food shows where 3 stooges venture off and eat spicy food that is essentially inedible?  Well one of those guys escaped and got his hands on the roast and in an attempt to prove his manhood, ruined it with flavorless heat.  To make matters worse, in an effort to cover his tracks, he placed an orange sticker on the roast and because I’m a frugal moron he ruined my Easter dinner.    

I cut a piece off the roast to confirm my worst fears.  Entirely inedible.  WHO SELLS FOOD LIKE THIS?  I was so upset I sat on my kitchen floor with a cup of tea waiting for the will to live to return.  “Mummy?  Whatcha doin?”  it was a teen, checking in on me.  “A lot.”  I retorted.  “I’ve managed to ruin dinner and am figuring out what to do next.”  Reassurances of “it can’t be that bad,” were soon replaced by abject horror they tasted the Scofield sample.  My middle child offered to find me a glass of wine.  The eldest, after tasting the roast, offered to drink it.  “Chicken!” I shouted.  The girls looked at me nervously.  “Don’t stand there, someone go get chicken breasts from the deep freeze.”  “With Yorkshire pudding?” was the quizzical reply.  “Of course with Yorkshire pudding because why not.”  “What do we do for gravy?” someone asked.  “Make more,” I replied though I was out of stock. 

What followed was one of the most bizarre meal preparations my household has experienced.  My children, in some inexplicable silent form of moral support, sat in the kitchen, chatted and helped me through the preparation of the entire second dinner. By the time we were done we had a bizarre meal of chicken, with peculiar white sauce/gravy, Yorkshire pudding and roast veggies.  All the time I was aware I was making family history, an Easter that would go down in the books as “do you remember the Easter mum bought that roast?’  My grief, inability and lack were creating something kind of amazing: a moment of love, grace and redemption.  If redemption can be thought of cooking a chicken dinner when you want to hide under the table and cry.  

Which got me to thinking about Easter…

The disciples numb with grief heading out to the tomb.  Their amazement to find the end was really not an end at all: there was hope that was divinely given when all human ability failed.  

So I wanted to encourage you, if you like me, were viewing life through tears of grief this week.  That the Lord might cause you to know that though you are at the end of yourself, He has no end.  His goodness doesn’t cease, his love never fails and death does not get the last word. 

I'm praying for you this week,

xoxKaren 

Happy Easter

My God make flowers grow on rocks

My God makes flowers grow on rocks,

While all the while the devil talks

“There is no soil for purchase there,”

And thus he tries to sew despair.

Yet all the while the flower grows

The peace of God is its repose.

Sun warms and feeds the petal face

 It questions not  thy Master’s grace.

“This is the place for me to be”

Sings our fair flower fearlessly

While ceaselessly the devil drones

Wellsprings of Grace the master hones.

My God makes flowers grow on rocks,

While all the while the devil talks

At summers end the boast is gone

As sweet perfume still lingers on. 

Thinking of you this week,

xoxKaren

No Substitute

The crucible of waiting, there is no substitute for the
lessons learned in the fire. 

I figured I was heading into a rough week when the cockatiel took a nose dive into the takeout.  In fairness, it wasn’t his fault.  A slip of a serving spoon and a quick jolt to catch it meant the little fellow was negotiating his rice allowance one moment and the next was knocked off his feet and slathered in a liberal amount of butter chicken sauce.  Few things are harder than catching a spooked, tandoori dipped bird as he runs across a carpet leaving little red foot mark stains.  Cockatiels can perform surprisingly complex evasive patterns for an animal with a brain the size of a popcorn kernel.  Movie night experienced an enforced intermission as I took him into the shower to get clean.  Tried to get him clean, I should clarify.  By the time I turned on the water he was pretty cross and more interested in sampling his feathers than cleaning them.  This left me, trying to direct the shower spray onto his tiny frame and dodging any of his attempts to run up my arm and hide his buttery body in my hair.   

Events like this leave me wary, so I started the week with caution: double checking emails before I sent them, reading and rereading my calendar to ensure I was on time to scheduled events. When I made it to Wednesday without any major feat of stupidity I felt relieved and let my guard down.  That was a mistake.

Wednesdays are busy days with classes to attend, people to visit and chairs to move.  The day crashes like a wave on a summer shoreline, filled with a kinetic energy that keeps me running.  Community life involves the sharing of information and sometimes, I get overwhelmed by the sheer amount of talking that is required to get through the day.  It is both enjoyable and exhausting which is why by 6:30 pm on a Wednesday you can generally find me taking a 40 minute power nap.   

This particular Wednesday however, I was determined to appear well balanced and helpful as I was meeting a substitute teacher who was stepping into afternoon classes for an absent teacher.  Memorizing the relevant emails, I was prepared to meet and introduce Mrs. Substitute to the minion children she would teach.  At the expected time, Mrs. Substitute climbed over sprawled children in the halls and made her way upstairs.  She was lovely.  Friendly and thoughtful, she quickly went over what she understood to be the plan for the afternoon.  She appeared to have the first class plan, but seemed to be missing the second class activities.  Filled with enthusiasm, good intentions and maniacal friendliness I explained the plan for the second class.  She asked a few questions about timing, seeming a bit perplexed.  I explained pulling up relevant emails and forwarding them as she seemed to be missing a bit of information.  Her mastery of the subject made for easy communication and soon we were both up to speed on the shape of the afternoon.  Feeling confident I had fulfilled my duties, I introduced her to her class and ran off to do other things.

An hour later I was back upstairs, introducing Mrs. Substitute to class 2.  The students were buzzing with energy but gracious as they greeted this new face.  As soon as everyone was in the correct room, I excused myself to running around and making molehills into mountains and back into molehills again.  It was a good afternoon. 

After class I found Mrs. Substitute and thanked her for her time.  She was smiling and genuinely seemed to have enjoyed her afternoon.  Have you ever noticed that some people excel when you throw them in the deep end?  There is a subset of people who seem to have mastery of the storms.  Overexcited students, lack of resources, nothing seems to phase them.  When they are working out of their gifting, they soar.  That was Mrs. Substitute that Wednesday.  I finished up my jobs and collapsed into the car.  My daughter drove us home, leaving me to answer a phone call that came in on the way.

It was Mrs. Absent Teacher checking in.  She had just chatted with Mrs. Substitute and wanted to see how things went.  She is sweet like that, taking the time to ensure that everyone survived in her absence.  I assured we were all accounted for.  I was feeling relieved until I heard her say one small phrase.  

“Pardon me?” I asked.  “You broke up a bit there, what did you say?”             

“I said, I didn’t expect Mrs. Substitute to stay for the second class, she wasn’t going to, but I’m glad she did.”                                                                  

“Ummm.  What do you mean she wasn’t going too exactly?” Panic started in my stomach.                                                                                                

“Just that,” she replied merrily “She wasn’t booked to stay for the second class but she did.”

In half of a second it all made sense.  Mrs. Substitute was sketchy on the plan for the second class because she wasn’t supposed to teach it.  The emails she didn’t receive weren’t sent to her.  In an instant I realized that I had roped poor Mrs. Substitute into staying and teaching a class she hadn’t anticipated teaching.  My patient explanations and email sharing was me assuming she was going to teach the second class.  Mrs. Substitute didn’t even bat an eye as I completely reworked her afternoon.  I expressed my dismay to Mrs. Absent teacher who reassured me the Lord was behind it all and that what had transpired was a good thing.  I bit my tongue and did not reply that I was getting tired of being the agent of idiocy behind His good works.  The rest of the drive home was filled with a fair amount of groaning and self-loathing.  The first thing I did when I got in the door was put on the kettle and penned an email to Mrs. Substitute apologizing for my general existence. 

I spent a bit of wondering if I overwhelmed Mrs. Substitute.  Useless introspection but it did get me thinking about my force of personality and considering the fact how we behave can affect those around us. She responded a few hours later with an entirely gracious email telling me not to worry and how much she enjoyed herself.  I fussed for a bit longer and then decided it was time to put away my embarrassment.  With the Lord’s mercy being new every morning, I couldn’t afford to hover over it for too long as I would probably do something daft the following day that would eclipse this event.

It actually made me thankful that God isn’t thrown off by my strong opinions or the force of my personality.  Mostly I’m thankful; other days I find this fact plain vexing.  If you have ever had to wait on the Lord, you will know instantly what I am talking about.  “Waiting on the Lord” is a Christianese term which roughly translates “I’m in an impossible situation that cannot be fixed without the Lord’s intervention.”  Implicit in the term is the fact that the Lord is taking far longer than anyone expected to turn the situation around.  For those with struggle with impatience, fear, anxiety or trust such situations are exceptionally difficult. 

I have made myself sick with worry over situations that I could not change as I waited for the Lord to intervene on my behalf.  Bible verses stating “fear not,” would mock me each morning I came to consciousness and remembered the situation before me.  Sick with dread is a familiar term to me and I have spent years of my life attempting to obey the words, “fear not.”  Yet no matter how I have cried, fasted, or begged God for deliverance, nothing I have done has been able to speed him up or to stop the work he does while I am waiting. I have a deep appreciation for the word crucible: a situation of severe trial, or in which different elements interact, leading to the creation of something new (google search, pathetic citation.)

If this is where you find yourself today my dear friend, might I remind you of something?  You might be using the force of your entire Christian self to get God to move on your behalf.  The act of waiting might bring you to such depths of fear you can barely see your way through.  My prayer is that you might understand that God is teaching you about his sovereignty and his goodness.  His intention is to burn away your fear and panic until what is left is something entirely new.  A peace that you did not expect, an understanding you did not have and a word of comfort you never knew.  God does not make us wait because he is unkind; he makes us wait because there is no substitution for the process of waiting on him, powerless and dependent.  It is in these fires we learn about his kindness, faithfulness and provision. 

If you are in the uncomfortable place of waiting on the Lord, I want to remind you that it is a good place.  His eye is upon you.  He hears your prayers.  He is by your bedside and sees the tears you cry. Do not think you have been abandoned.  You are just waiting.  

"And after you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you."1 Peter 5:10 ESV 

xoxKaren