I was 15 years old when I stepped into Logansport High School for a speech team meet. It was one of the first meets I had competed in and I was nervous. Hours had gone into memorizing, practicing and delivering my Drama. Standing outside the classroom, waiting for my turn to compete, I watched the other students hustling to their speech rooms. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the boy who would someday be my husband. I remember thinking he was the cutest boy I had ever seen. All memorization of my speech was forgotten as he smiled at me and introduced himself. My heart went weak when I looked into his brown eyes.
Somehow, in that moment, I knew he was for me ... forever. How is it that your heart knows these things?
Today marks our sixteenth wedding anniversary.
Fooled you, didn't I? Of course, my sixteenth birthday was sweet. That day, I was able to go on my first date with Jerry Willis. I wasn't allowed to go out on dates until I turned sixteen. We spent 8 months, from the time we met until my sixteenth birthday, writing notes and calling each other on the phone. We were from different towns, so we went to different schools. That meant, no seeing each other in the halls at school, no sharing classes ... The week I turned sixteen, we went to our first dance.
The distance between that first dance and today has been paved with better and worse. I am thankful for the worse and blessed by the better. The worse has brought us closer and made our marriage stronger.
All too often, I think two people enter into marriage with "rose colored glasses." You know the ones I'm talking about. The glasses that say your marriage is going to go down in history books as being the first where no one argued, disagreed or hurt each other. I wore those on our wedding day. Go ahead and laugh, I am. They came off the first day we argued. Imagine my disappointment when I found that Jerry Willis did not always think I was perfect. Go ahead, laugh again, I am.
I remember thinking that day our marriage was over. How could he possibly stay married to me and how could I love a man that didn't agree that I was always right? Lucky for me, Jerry didn't wear "rose colored glasses." He was somehow better prepared for that first argument. After my yelling and crying ... he sat me down and explained that disagreeing wasn't a sign of his love for me ending. We were going to have our arguments. That was just part of life together.
On the day of our wedding, I slid a gold band on his finger inscribed with 1 Corinthians 13:13 "And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love." Since that day, my husband has unknowingly taught me the scripture that comes before that verse.
1 Corinthians 13: 4 - 8 " Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy; love does not parade itself, is not puffed up; does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil; does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth, bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails."
My husband's love for me is never failing. At the end of each day, I know I am loved.
I have a picture frame. It was given to me on my wedding day by the boy I married. A poem is penned on one side ... " To The One I love" ... " I cannot promise you a life of sunshine ~ I cannot promise riches wealth, or gold ~ I cannot promise you an easy pathway that leads away from change or growing old ... But I can promise true devotion, a love to last forever ~ All the happiness love can bring as hand in hand we walk through life together, I do love you ~"
I'm not sure of the author. So, I give credit to the person that wrote this poem. And, I give credit to man who has kept that promise for sixteen years.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Our Team
I watched as my oldest son and my husband loaded a weeks worth of clothes into our church van. What seemed like a hundred teenagers buzzed around that van and the church bus. Each person was loaded down with bags of clothes, cereal boxes and the ever present cell phone. The parking lot surrounding our church seemed to hum with activity.
It was early Saturday evening, our youth group was packing up for a mission work camp in New York. My husband and I had spent the day going over a list of necessities. That morning, I had busied myself with all the duties that define me as "mom." The typical reminders of what to pack and how much to pack.
As the bus was loaded down under its week long burden, I began questioning what we packed. Did we remember everything? They would be gone from home for an entire week. What if they needed something that I failed to pack?
As I watched those teenagers, I realized I just wanted to leave the parking lot and spend my evening as planned. Supper out at our family's favorite restaurant and watching a movie together. I wanted to ignore the fact that two of my guys were leaving before dawn the next morning. On a trip that would take them hours away from me and my other two sons.
As I sat there feeling a mix of worry and sadness, one of my younger boys asked "Hey Mom, is that a team?" I followed his pointing finger to the crowd of teenagers and adults busy passing duffle bags into the back of the van.
"What Bud?" I asked, confused.
"Right there. Is that a team?" My boy pointed with more emphasis.
Again, I looked from his finger to the crowd. In all my rambling thoughts and mix of emotions, I had missed what a small boy clearly saw. Our team.
"Yes, Bud. That's a team, our team."
The conversation had been short but prophetic. His young eyes saw what mine should've seen from the start. That group of teenagers and adults formed a team of believers embarking on a mission. They were setting out to play a game they had practiced for in the month previous. Our youth pastor put hours into planning this trip. Youth group meetings revolved around schedules, packing lists and fundraisers. Then, there was the game plan. They went over salvation and bringing others to the saving knowledge of Christ. Each meeting included concentration on the game book ... the Bible.
It didn't matter what was in their bags ... it mattered what was in their hearts. Jesus. And that's what our team was all about. Taking Jesus and sharing Him and His love.
I looked across the sea of teenagers loading their possessions and found my oldest son. He's tall, thin and handsome. I sat in that parking lot looking at the young man that was my little boy. In my mind, I heard him answering my hundred questions of "did you remember to pack ...?" The answer was the same each time. "Mom, I packed my bible, my devotional and a pocket new testament."
I looked at my boy ... I know that God has shaped his spirit in a way that I could never even begin to measure. My son gave his life over to Christ on the day after 9-11. The day after a mark of history in our nation, my son and I knelt on his bedroom floor and I listened as he recited the sinners prayer. He made that choice on his own. I can't take credit for his strong convictions. Sure, there have been family members, friends and others that have influenced him. But, in the end, credit is due our Father and only Him.
And now, I was sending my son to the very city that launched his salvation. For some, New York holds pain from 9-11, a place where they grew up, a tourist spot they enjoy vacationing or maybe even a national symbol of survival after terror. For me, New York reminds me of 9-12. The day my son became a part of the team and now he's off recruiting team members in that same city.
If you're standing on the sidelines, wondering what it takes to be a part of the team ... stop wondering. Get in the game. Grab your play book, recite the game plan and follow the Coach.
This team doesn't have a limit on players allowed. All are welcome.
John 3:16 " For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life."
It was early Saturday evening, our youth group was packing up for a mission work camp in New York. My husband and I had spent the day going over a list of necessities. That morning, I had busied myself with all the duties that define me as "mom." The typical reminders of what to pack and how much to pack.
As the bus was loaded down under its week long burden, I began questioning what we packed. Did we remember everything? They would be gone from home for an entire week. What if they needed something that I failed to pack?
As I watched those teenagers, I realized I just wanted to leave the parking lot and spend my evening as planned. Supper out at our family's favorite restaurant and watching a movie together. I wanted to ignore the fact that two of my guys were leaving before dawn the next morning. On a trip that would take them hours away from me and my other two sons.
As I sat there feeling a mix of worry and sadness, one of my younger boys asked "Hey Mom, is that a team?" I followed his pointing finger to the crowd of teenagers and adults busy passing duffle bags into the back of the van.
"What Bud?" I asked, confused.
"Right there. Is that a team?" My boy pointed with more emphasis.
Again, I looked from his finger to the crowd. In all my rambling thoughts and mix of emotions, I had missed what a small boy clearly saw. Our team.
"Yes, Bud. That's a team, our team."
The conversation had been short but prophetic. His young eyes saw what mine should've seen from the start. That group of teenagers and adults formed a team of believers embarking on a mission. They were setting out to play a game they had practiced for in the month previous. Our youth pastor put hours into planning this trip. Youth group meetings revolved around schedules, packing lists and fundraisers. Then, there was the game plan. They went over salvation and bringing others to the saving knowledge of Christ. Each meeting included concentration on the game book ... the Bible.
It didn't matter what was in their bags ... it mattered what was in their hearts. Jesus. And that's what our team was all about. Taking Jesus and sharing Him and His love.
I looked across the sea of teenagers loading their possessions and found my oldest son. He's tall, thin and handsome. I sat in that parking lot looking at the young man that was my little boy. In my mind, I heard him answering my hundred questions of "did you remember to pack ...?" The answer was the same each time. "Mom, I packed my bible, my devotional and a pocket new testament."
I looked at my boy ... I know that God has shaped his spirit in a way that I could never even begin to measure. My son gave his life over to Christ on the day after 9-11. The day after a mark of history in our nation, my son and I knelt on his bedroom floor and I listened as he recited the sinners prayer. He made that choice on his own. I can't take credit for his strong convictions. Sure, there have been family members, friends and others that have influenced him. But, in the end, credit is due our Father and only Him.
And now, I was sending my son to the very city that launched his salvation. For some, New York holds pain from 9-11, a place where they grew up, a tourist spot they enjoy vacationing or maybe even a national symbol of survival after terror. For me, New York reminds me of 9-12. The day my son became a part of the team and now he's off recruiting team members in that same city.
If you're standing on the sidelines, wondering what it takes to be a part of the team ... stop wondering. Get in the game. Grab your play book, recite the game plan and follow the Coach.
This team doesn't have a limit on players allowed. All are welcome.
John 3:16 " For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life."
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Stand in the Gap
Ezekiel 22:30 "So I sought for a man among them who would make a wall, and stand in the gap before Me on behalf of the land, that I should not destroy it; but I found no one." This particular verse is undeniable proof that our prayers DO influence our God.
When God calls us to stand in the gap for our nation, who will he find? Have you given up on prayer and any possibility that your prayers might change our nation?
So many people are facing trials during this economic crisis. Yes, I called it a crisis ... because that's what it is. Of course, that's just my opinion. But, I'm a "common man" type of gal. I live in a very small town, you might say it is a symbol of Middle America or the Heartland of America. We have the local market, small factories, theater in the center of town (not the big, fancy Kerasotes), the drive-in theater at the edge of town and a church on every corner. I can drive to work and wave at pretty much every person I pass ... not just because I'm friendly but because I know those people by name. You're a celebrity on the front page of the newspaper in my town when you win best of show in the cattle judging at the local fair. In my estimation, that beats any front page news in any other town.
My small town is hurting. I feel it when I go to the grocery store, the theater, my church and my job. The economic situation is weighing down on all of us. I went to see a movie with my husband and oldest son last night. The theater down town was near empty. Families that did come weren't buying popcorn and sodas. That's a rarity here. Friday nights at the movies used to fill our theater.
When I stop at the grocery on my way home from work, I pass neighbors and friends who don't have much in their shopping cart. It's not because they aren't hungry or that they don't have a family to feed. It's because they can't afford to pay for their needs. One of the women I know through my job shared with me that she couldn't afford to buy a tomato for her husband. She stood at the local market holding a green tomato and wanting to buy it for her husband. He was craving a fried green tomato. She put it back and went home.
Factories in my town are closing, going under the pressure of an economy that doesn't have a heart for the common man this great nation was built upon. If the local factories aren't closing, they're downsizing. Layoffs are a common occurrence these days. Our men are forced to collect unemployment and sit waiting for a call back from the factory they helped to support. Sure, they look for jobs but there aren't any to be found.
Why is this happening? We could spend days pointing fingers at the Democrats or Republicans. In fact, we have spent days doing that very thing. Each day, the news is filled with our politicians laying blame at the opposing party. Blogs are filled with facts, numbers and names ... each person pointing at political leaders to explain how we got to the point of crisis. After all, it couldn't possibly have anything to do with us, the general public. You won't find that here in my blog. Today, I'm pointing the finger back at ... us.
I believe that God has lifted His protective hand from our nation. We have spent too many days living our own lives without care or concern for the product of our actions. We've become a nation filled with consumers looking for the next best thing to make them happy. All to often, we search for something that to fill the void in our heart and lives. Only to find that the void is a specific shape ... God shaped. Only God can fill the void in our lives. We can't fill it with material items. Sure, we might feel better for a while but soon we'll find that the next best thing really wasn't the best after all.
So, how do we face the trouble we're in? How do we survive the crisis of our economy? I believe that God is searching for men and women willing to stand in the gap and pray for our nation.
When He calls, where will you be?
I feel that Ezekiel 22:30 is profound. It lets us know that He wants to hear our prayers, He wants to save us from our corrupt nature. For me, the final words of this passage are convicting ... "But I found no one." In a nation built upon Christian values and the fact that there is one and only one God, surely He will not look and "find no one."
I challenge each of you to respond to His call with Isaiah 6:8 "Here am I! Send me."
When God calls us to stand in the gap for our nation, who will he find? Have you given up on prayer and any possibility that your prayers might change our nation?
So many people are facing trials during this economic crisis. Yes, I called it a crisis ... because that's what it is. Of course, that's just my opinion. But, I'm a "common man" type of gal. I live in a very small town, you might say it is a symbol of Middle America or the Heartland of America. We have the local market, small factories, theater in the center of town (not the big, fancy Kerasotes), the drive-in theater at the edge of town and a church on every corner. I can drive to work and wave at pretty much every person I pass ... not just because I'm friendly but because I know those people by name. You're a celebrity on the front page of the newspaper in my town when you win best of show in the cattle judging at the local fair. In my estimation, that beats any front page news in any other town.
My small town is hurting. I feel it when I go to the grocery store, the theater, my church and my job. The economic situation is weighing down on all of us. I went to see a movie with my husband and oldest son last night. The theater down town was near empty. Families that did come weren't buying popcorn and sodas. That's a rarity here. Friday nights at the movies used to fill our theater.
When I stop at the grocery on my way home from work, I pass neighbors and friends who don't have much in their shopping cart. It's not because they aren't hungry or that they don't have a family to feed. It's because they can't afford to pay for their needs. One of the women I know through my job shared with me that she couldn't afford to buy a tomato for her husband. She stood at the local market holding a green tomato and wanting to buy it for her husband. He was craving a fried green tomato. She put it back and went home.
Factories in my town are closing, going under the pressure of an economy that doesn't have a heart for the common man this great nation was built upon. If the local factories aren't closing, they're downsizing. Layoffs are a common occurrence these days. Our men are forced to collect unemployment and sit waiting for a call back from the factory they helped to support. Sure, they look for jobs but there aren't any to be found.
Why is this happening? We could spend days pointing fingers at the Democrats or Republicans. In fact, we have spent days doing that very thing. Each day, the news is filled with our politicians laying blame at the opposing party. Blogs are filled with facts, numbers and names ... each person pointing at political leaders to explain how we got to the point of crisis. After all, it couldn't possibly have anything to do with us, the general public. You won't find that here in my blog. Today, I'm pointing the finger back at ... us.
I believe that God has lifted His protective hand from our nation. We have spent too many days living our own lives without care or concern for the product of our actions. We've become a nation filled with consumers looking for the next best thing to make them happy. All to often, we search for something that to fill the void in our heart and lives. Only to find that the void is a specific shape ... God shaped. Only God can fill the void in our lives. We can't fill it with material items. Sure, we might feel better for a while but soon we'll find that the next best thing really wasn't the best after all.
So, how do we face the trouble we're in? How do we survive the crisis of our economy? I believe that God is searching for men and women willing to stand in the gap and pray for our nation.
When He calls, where will you be?
I feel that Ezekiel 22:30 is profound. It lets us know that He wants to hear our prayers, He wants to save us from our corrupt nature. For me, the final words of this passage are convicting ... "But I found no one." In a nation built upon Christian values and the fact that there is one and only one God, surely He will not look and "find no one."
I challenge each of you to respond to His call with Isaiah 6:8 "Here am I! Send me."
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Quiet Things
Love is in the quiet things. A gentle kiss good morning, a whispered "I love you" from a child's voice, a clean kitchen when you didn't have to ask for it ...
His name was Theodore Hugh Fleming. Hugh (or Hughie) to all of his friends. By the time my sister and I came into his world, Hugh's hair was already graying and his face showed a good measure of wisdom in wrinkles. My sister, Mary, and I were lucky to grow up right across the yard from our Grandpa. He lived in a large two story yellow house. To be honest, as much time as I spent in his home, I can't tell you much about anything outside of the kitchen. You see, my Grandpa was a professional chef and anything Mary and I wanted could be found in that kitchen. My favorite was Chop Suey. This was his specialty and we loved Friday nights when he would make up a big pot. Mary and I would wheel our little red wagon across the yard and pull the pot back home.
I have lots of memories but what I remember the most is the way he loved Mary and me.
Love can be measured by huge bouquets of flowers, expensive jewelry or other flashy gifts. But, those are all loud things. My grandpa loved us with quiet things.
Grandpa didn't have alot of money but he saved up his dimes all year and then put them in coin wrappers for our Christmas gift. He showed up to all our ballgames (Mary and I were cheerleaders in high school). All our friends loved Grandpa. You could pick him out of the crowd in a heartbeat. He was the one in the plaid pants and striped shirt. I guess some kids would've been embarrassed for their Grandpa to show up in that outfit. Not me and not Mary. We loved it. That was Grandpa. Most kids might tell you that their Grandpa smelled like cigar smoke, pipe tobacco or after shave. Not my Grandpa, he always smelled of something cooking. Another thing that I loved.
He'd show up on our doorstep early summer mornings with fresh picked cherries from the tree in his front yard. Most times there were fresh caramel rolls or funnel cakes to go along with the fruit. Corn cakes were another favorite.
Grandpa always had a big garden. I remember his knobby fingers and the way they looked when he snapped green beans from the garden. He picked all the green beans and left the buckets on our doorstep for my mom to can. I think that was his quiet way of loving my parents. They didn't have to pick all the beans. He did it for them.
Just a year after I was married and had moved to Nebraska, my Grandpa's house burned to the ground. Thankfully, he wasn't home when it happened. But, when he found out that his home was gone ... he cried and said he could never go home again. Grandpa didn't cry often, so this was huge for all of us. We saw a side of him that rarely came through.
The night he passed away, we all gathered around his hospital bed. We prayed and sang a hymn. Mary and I told him we'd be back the next morning. Grandpa couldn't talk, his voice was gone. Gently, he shook his head "no." It only took a few moments for us to understand that Grandpa knew he wouldn't be there the next day. He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it.
That was the final quiet way he showed me his love.
In remembering Grandpa's life, I realized that our society has pushed quiet love into the background. Society has decided that love must be measured by the flashy things. But that's all wrong ... real love is quiet and not boastful. It's gentle and doesn't require any acknowledgement.
My husband and I moved home from Nebraska and built our house on the very spot where my Grandpa's house stood. The view from my bedroom window is the one my Grandpa enjoyed from his back door. I watch the sunrise from my front porch and know that I am looking over the very field my Grandpa saw each day.
This morning, I sat on my front porch and had a cup of coffee. It was early, a thin layer of fog blanketed the field across the road. I sat there for a long time, enjoying the morning and missing the quiet man that I was blessed to call Grandpa.
1st Peter 3:4 "Rather let it be the hidden person of the heart, with the incorruptible beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is very precious in the sight of God."
His name was Theodore Hugh Fleming. Hugh (or Hughie) to all of his friends. By the time my sister and I came into his world, Hugh's hair was already graying and his face showed a good measure of wisdom in wrinkles. My sister, Mary, and I were lucky to grow up right across the yard from our Grandpa. He lived in a large two story yellow house. To be honest, as much time as I spent in his home, I can't tell you much about anything outside of the kitchen. You see, my Grandpa was a professional chef and anything Mary and I wanted could be found in that kitchen. My favorite was Chop Suey. This was his specialty and we loved Friday nights when he would make up a big pot. Mary and I would wheel our little red wagon across the yard and pull the pot back home.
I have lots of memories but what I remember the most is the way he loved Mary and me.
Love can be measured by huge bouquets of flowers, expensive jewelry or other flashy gifts. But, those are all loud things. My grandpa loved us with quiet things.
Grandpa didn't have alot of money but he saved up his dimes all year and then put them in coin wrappers for our Christmas gift. He showed up to all our ballgames (Mary and I were cheerleaders in high school). All our friends loved Grandpa. You could pick him out of the crowd in a heartbeat. He was the one in the plaid pants and striped shirt. I guess some kids would've been embarrassed for their Grandpa to show up in that outfit. Not me and not Mary. We loved it. That was Grandpa. Most kids might tell you that their Grandpa smelled like cigar smoke, pipe tobacco or after shave. Not my Grandpa, he always smelled of something cooking. Another thing that I loved.
He'd show up on our doorstep early summer mornings with fresh picked cherries from the tree in his front yard. Most times there were fresh caramel rolls or funnel cakes to go along with the fruit. Corn cakes were another favorite.
Grandpa always had a big garden. I remember his knobby fingers and the way they looked when he snapped green beans from the garden. He picked all the green beans and left the buckets on our doorstep for my mom to can. I think that was his quiet way of loving my parents. They didn't have to pick all the beans. He did it for them.
Just a year after I was married and had moved to Nebraska, my Grandpa's house burned to the ground. Thankfully, he wasn't home when it happened. But, when he found out that his home was gone ... he cried and said he could never go home again. Grandpa didn't cry often, so this was huge for all of us. We saw a side of him that rarely came through.
The night he passed away, we all gathered around his hospital bed. We prayed and sang a hymn. Mary and I told him we'd be back the next morning. Grandpa couldn't talk, his voice was gone. Gently, he shook his head "no." It only took a few moments for us to understand that Grandpa knew he wouldn't be there the next day. He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it.
That was the final quiet way he showed me his love.
In remembering Grandpa's life, I realized that our society has pushed quiet love into the background. Society has decided that love must be measured by the flashy things. But that's all wrong ... real love is quiet and not boastful. It's gentle and doesn't require any acknowledgement.
My husband and I moved home from Nebraska and built our house on the very spot where my Grandpa's house stood. The view from my bedroom window is the one my Grandpa enjoyed from his back door. I watch the sunrise from my front porch and know that I am looking over the very field my Grandpa saw each day.
This morning, I sat on my front porch and had a cup of coffee. It was early, a thin layer of fog blanketed the field across the road. I sat there for a long time, enjoying the morning and missing the quiet man that I was blessed to call Grandpa.
1st Peter 3:4 "Rather let it be the hidden person of the heart, with the incorruptible beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is very precious in the sight of God."
Monday, June 29, 2009
Jorden
I haven't blogged in a while. I've been struggling with something. So, rather than continue to sulk in my own depression, I thought I'd share it with everyone. My hope is that it will help me and perhaps reach someone else who may be going through a similar struggle. Here goes ...
This past Friday, we celebrated the life of my husband's niece, Jorden Aryne Sopher. She went missing three years ago. In May of this year, her body was found in a wooded area, overgrown with vegetation. Jorden was a beautiful young woman. I had the honor of being her Aunt Aine for sixteen of her eighteen years. This honor was given to me on the day I met her and her siblings. I was a young sixteen at the time. I remember that each of my husband's nieces and nephews welcomed me with an immediate "Aunt Aine." At the time, Jerry and I were dating and nowhere near the age of being married. But, those children seemed to sense that I would someday be a part of their family.
Since that day, I think I've taken for granted that the children in my life accept me so openly. Over the years, there have been new faces added to the family. Each one of them following suit of the children before them. They love me unconditionally and without any expectations. I can walk into a family gathering and, even if I don't receive affection from the adults, I receive it from the children. There are always hugs and "love you's" from beautiful red head girls, sweet brown haired young ladies ...
Here is where my struggle begins. Have I returned that unconditional love? Have I accepted each child just as they are without any reservations?
I can answer that with a simple .... no.
And this is where my depression takes root.
There is no way to go back and give extra hugs to Jorden. The last one I gave her was a quick hello and goodbye in front of the local video store. My husband and I ran into her while we finished renting our movies and she was headed inside with a crew of children in tow. We asked the usual questions ... "you ok?" and "you'll call if you need anything?" ... a quick hug and goodbye. Her sweet smile.
What would I do if another child in my life was taken? Jorden's disappearance and death have made me stop and think. Think about my nieces and nephews. Think about my boys. Think about regrets, could haves and should haves. I regret that I didn't tell Jorden more often that I loved her. I could have called her, asked her to go out for lunch or to a movie. I should've sent her birthday cards, Christmas cards and told her she was extremely special ... just like her sisters and brother. Just like my other nieces and nephews. Just like my three sons.
On Friday, we attended a memorial service for Jorden. There was no casket, no ashes ... her body is still being tested to determine a cause of death. Her adoptive family created a beautiful memory disc. I watched as Jorden grew up in pictures. There was one particular picture that stood out to me ... Jorden at about 3 years old, wearing a little dress and stockings that were way too long for her short legs. She was holding a Barbie doll with unruly hair. Jorden's hair was a bit disheveled itself. Plastered across her small face was the sweetest smile. They played a song ... one that I love, "When God Ran." It tells the story of the prodigal son. And, how God loves us unconditionally. When I hear that song, I can almost see our heavenly Father standing at the end of a long road that is overgrown with dense trees, a fog hanging just over the treetops ... and the moment He sees one of His children at the other end of that road ... He runs to meet them.
I know that my faith will see me through this time of sadness. I know that God takes home those that have accomplished their purpose through Him.
Another thing that I know without a doubt. I will soak up every smile, laugh and "love you" that the children in my life give me. Only God knows the time that each of us will be called home. No sadness, depression or anxiety can add one day to our lives.
If there is a heavy burden weighing on your heart, if an incredible sadness seems to be hanging over you ... meet God at the end of the road. He's there waiting for you. Just as He waits for all His children. That's where I am tonight. At the end of that road and God is running to meet me and wash my sadness.
This past Friday, we celebrated the life of my husband's niece, Jorden Aryne Sopher. She went missing three years ago. In May of this year, her body was found in a wooded area, overgrown with vegetation. Jorden was a beautiful young woman. I had the honor of being her Aunt Aine for sixteen of her eighteen years. This honor was given to me on the day I met her and her siblings. I was a young sixteen at the time. I remember that each of my husband's nieces and nephews welcomed me with an immediate "Aunt Aine." At the time, Jerry and I were dating and nowhere near the age of being married. But, those children seemed to sense that I would someday be a part of their family.
Since that day, I think I've taken for granted that the children in my life accept me so openly. Over the years, there have been new faces added to the family. Each one of them following suit of the children before them. They love me unconditionally and without any expectations. I can walk into a family gathering and, even if I don't receive affection from the adults, I receive it from the children. There are always hugs and "love you's" from beautiful red head girls, sweet brown haired young ladies ...
Here is where my struggle begins. Have I returned that unconditional love? Have I accepted each child just as they are without any reservations?
I can answer that with a simple .... no.
And this is where my depression takes root.
There is no way to go back and give extra hugs to Jorden. The last one I gave her was a quick hello and goodbye in front of the local video store. My husband and I ran into her while we finished renting our movies and she was headed inside with a crew of children in tow. We asked the usual questions ... "you ok?" and "you'll call if you need anything?" ... a quick hug and goodbye. Her sweet smile.
What would I do if another child in my life was taken? Jorden's disappearance and death have made me stop and think. Think about my nieces and nephews. Think about my boys. Think about regrets, could haves and should haves. I regret that I didn't tell Jorden more often that I loved her. I could have called her, asked her to go out for lunch or to a movie. I should've sent her birthday cards, Christmas cards and told her she was extremely special ... just like her sisters and brother. Just like my other nieces and nephews. Just like my three sons.
On Friday, we attended a memorial service for Jorden. There was no casket, no ashes ... her body is still being tested to determine a cause of death. Her adoptive family created a beautiful memory disc. I watched as Jorden grew up in pictures. There was one particular picture that stood out to me ... Jorden at about 3 years old, wearing a little dress and stockings that were way too long for her short legs. She was holding a Barbie doll with unruly hair. Jorden's hair was a bit disheveled itself. Plastered across her small face was the sweetest smile. They played a song ... one that I love, "When God Ran." It tells the story of the prodigal son. And, how God loves us unconditionally. When I hear that song, I can almost see our heavenly Father standing at the end of a long road that is overgrown with dense trees, a fog hanging just over the treetops ... and the moment He sees one of His children at the other end of that road ... He runs to meet them.
I know that my faith will see me through this time of sadness. I know that God takes home those that have accomplished their purpose through Him.
Another thing that I know without a doubt. I will soak up every smile, laugh and "love you" that the children in my life give me. Only God knows the time that each of us will be called home. No sadness, depression or anxiety can add one day to our lives.
If there is a heavy burden weighing on your heart, if an incredible sadness seems to be hanging over you ... meet God at the end of the road. He's there waiting for you. Just as He waits for all His children. That's where I am tonight. At the end of that road and God is running to meet me and wash my sadness.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Homerun
Have you had those days where it doesn't matter how hard you try, what you say or do ... it's just not your day? Maybe you feel like it's always someone else's day, a good game for the other guy and not you, somebody else always gets the promotion at work. You know that feeling I'm talking about. The deep down, nothing's gonna help it feel better kind of day.
One of my boys could tell you how that kind of day feels. Sure, he's just a little squirt and his troubles don't match our "grown up" rotten days. But, in his life, it doesn't get much worse than being the only kid on a baseball team that couldn't get a hit in the game.
His inability to hit the ball isn't from the lack of trying, practicing or giving it his all. The little guy has spent hours outside playing catch with his Dad and brothers. My husband and I have thrown countless pitches and given him pointers that he always takes to heart. For some reason, the bat just doesn't get there at the right second. He can hit the ball any number of times in our backyard but when it comes game time, no hit.
Generally, he gets one shot at bat each game. His coach gives him pointers, lets him know he can hit it and my boy squares up to the plate just like he's practiced ... no hit. He walks away from home plate with his shoulders slumped, his face a mirror of discouragement. All the while, my heart sinks with each step. In my mind, he should be getting a homerun. He's worked hard enough and practiced long enough, he deserves a homerun hit.
Last week, I was determined that he would have a hit at the next game. My husband and I worked with him each day. We even mowed a ball diamond in our backyard. (Yes, we are that crazy. Call me a redneck.) On Saturday morning, my son was up and ready to practice at 7:00 a.m. He blew through my bedroom door and yelled "It's morning, I'm ready to practice hittin' just like you said!" He practiced his heart out that morning and was all set for his game that afternoon.
At the game, my little guy walked up to the plate for his first pitch and swung as hard as he could. Slam!! I think I was the loudest parent on the bleachers. My son had his first good hit of the season. No, it wasn't out of the park but he got to first base. Then, his team batted him in for a point! I went wild. Our friends sitting near us gave me looks of bewilderment and other spectators looked at me as though I were crazy.
Guess what, I didn't care. All I could see was my little boy's face as he crossed home plate. His hands were raised in victory fists and he looked right at me and his Dad. His smile would've lit up a Christmas tree! I will admit there were some tears behind my sunglasses.
I realized something as I stood there cheering for my boy. God is alot like that, isn't He? God is like that parent in the bleachers. The parent that doesn't care what anyone else thinks. All He cares about is loving us and cheering us on. He helps us practice, encourages us to keep on going and yells the loudest when we cross home plate.
Maybe it's because He knows just how hard we work to get our first good hit. He's right there when it seems like everyone else has a good game but not us. Today, if you're discouraged and you feel like no one cares, look up in the bleachers. God's right there cheering you on.
Phillippians 3:14 "I press toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus."
One of my boys could tell you how that kind of day feels. Sure, he's just a little squirt and his troubles don't match our "grown up" rotten days. But, in his life, it doesn't get much worse than being the only kid on a baseball team that couldn't get a hit in the game.
His inability to hit the ball isn't from the lack of trying, practicing or giving it his all. The little guy has spent hours outside playing catch with his Dad and brothers. My husband and I have thrown countless pitches and given him pointers that he always takes to heart. For some reason, the bat just doesn't get there at the right second. He can hit the ball any number of times in our backyard but when it comes game time, no hit.
Generally, he gets one shot at bat each game. His coach gives him pointers, lets him know he can hit it and my boy squares up to the plate just like he's practiced ... no hit. He walks away from home plate with his shoulders slumped, his face a mirror of discouragement. All the while, my heart sinks with each step. In my mind, he should be getting a homerun. He's worked hard enough and practiced long enough, he deserves a homerun hit.
Last week, I was determined that he would have a hit at the next game. My husband and I worked with him each day. We even mowed a ball diamond in our backyard. (Yes, we are that crazy. Call me a redneck.) On Saturday morning, my son was up and ready to practice at 7:00 a.m. He blew through my bedroom door and yelled "It's morning, I'm ready to practice hittin' just like you said!" He practiced his heart out that morning and was all set for his game that afternoon.
At the game, my little guy walked up to the plate for his first pitch and swung as hard as he could. Slam!! I think I was the loudest parent on the bleachers. My son had his first good hit of the season. No, it wasn't out of the park but he got to first base. Then, his team batted him in for a point! I went wild. Our friends sitting near us gave me looks of bewilderment and other spectators looked at me as though I were crazy.
Guess what, I didn't care. All I could see was my little boy's face as he crossed home plate. His hands were raised in victory fists and he looked right at me and his Dad. His smile would've lit up a Christmas tree! I will admit there were some tears behind my sunglasses.
I realized something as I stood there cheering for my boy. God is alot like that, isn't He? God is like that parent in the bleachers. The parent that doesn't care what anyone else thinks. All He cares about is loving us and cheering us on. He helps us practice, encourages us to keep on going and yells the loudest when we cross home plate.
Maybe it's because He knows just how hard we work to get our first good hit. He's right there when it seems like everyone else has a good game but not us. Today, if you're discouraged and you feel like no one cares, look up in the bleachers. God's right there cheering you on.
Phillippians 3:14 "I press toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus."
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Finding Jorden
There are moments in time marked by special memories, lifetime achievements, the miracle of birth, love .... and death. In those moments, we are found in a heightened state of awareness. It's as if every inch of our being is in a state of feeling. I can remember the first time I saw my husband. I remember the dress I was wearing that day and the look in his eyes. The moment each of my boys took their first breath and I heard their first cry. I will always know the way my heart felt in those moments.
Today will mark one such memory. However, this memory is laced with pain rather than happiness. My heart is not fluttering with joy, it is burdened with sadness.
May 23, 2006, Jorden Sopher walked out of our lives and today we grieve the reason she never returned. For three years, we have hoped for her safe return. Each of our family have looked for her, asked questions about her and tried to find her. It was our hope, our prayer, that she simply chose to leave on her own. That she wanted a life of her own design and making.
Jorden was 18 on the day she disappeared. She left her adoptive father's garage, walked down an alley and was gone. Her purse, cell phone and savings account were left untouched. These facts lead us to believe what we longed to deny. Something wasn't right. I know exactly where I was when my husband and I received the call that Jorden could not be found. I remembering feeling that things were all wrong. Somewhere, somehow she was safe and the missing days could easily be explained away. Those days turned to months and then years. There have been days when I see a young woman resembling Jorden. My husband and I have stopped and watched to see if it's her. We won't do that anymore. In some ways, this day brings closure and peace. In other ways, we are left with more questions than answers. Today, we still do not know how she passed away, who was with her when it happened or why they would hide her body.
For those living near our area, you have most likely heard of her disappearance and of the remains found between Wabash and Miami county. The day we heard of the discovery, we felt in our hearts that it was Jorden. How is it that your heart knows these things?
Our hearts are broken and we ache for the life she could have, should have lived. The news and media are covering her disappearance and the discovery of her body. They claim the body to be "what remains of Jorden Sopher." For me, Jorden Aryne Sopher remains.
Jorden's love remains. Her spunk, zest for life ... her beauty remains. These are the things my heart longs to remain. Jorden loved children and children loved her. She had a perpetual smile on her face and sparkle in her eyes. These things remain in our hearts.
If I have learned something from this experience, it is to love with all your being. If a thought crosses your mind ... like sending someone a card just to say "I love you", stopping by to say they crossed your mind, calling to hear their voice or so they can hear the love in your voice ... Do it. Call them, write that card, stop by and say "I love you." These are things I thought to do but never did. Today, I wish I could go back and tell Jorden that she was special and loved.
We have had three years to prepare for this day. I've thought many times how I would feel if the unthinkable became reality. Today, reality came and we were all unprepared. To those that took her from us, put her body in a hidden place ... no anger, bitterness or hatred could bring her back. There is only forgiveness. Because I fully believe that is what Jorden would want.
I pray that in some moment, those responsible for her death and for the way her body was placed, will feel a burden to come forward. That they will long for the release of admission and forgiveness.
For me, I look on each situation through the faith that has grounded me since my youth. In Ecclesiastes, we are told that there is a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die. There is a time to mourn and a time to dance.
On the day my husband and I were married, Jorden wore a sweet white dress all covered in silk and lace. Her hair was sprinkled with baby's breath and she wore a smile that would've melted a heart of stone.
Jorden, I hope that in some far away place ... a place more beautiful and splendid than anything you witnessed on earth ... you are dancing.
Today will mark one such memory. However, this memory is laced with pain rather than happiness. My heart is not fluttering with joy, it is burdened with sadness.
May 23, 2006, Jorden Sopher walked out of our lives and today we grieve the reason she never returned. For three years, we have hoped for her safe return. Each of our family have looked for her, asked questions about her and tried to find her. It was our hope, our prayer, that she simply chose to leave on her own. That she wanted a life of her own design and making.
Jorden was 18 on the day she disappeared. She left her adoptive father's garage, walked down an alley and was gone. Her purse, cell phone and savings account were left untouched. These facts lead us to believe what we longed to deny. Something wasn't right. I know exactly where I was when my husband and I received the call that Jorden could not be found. I remembering feeling that things were all wrong. Somewhere, somehow she was safe and the missing days could easily be explained away. Those days turned to months and then years. There have been days when I see a young woman resembling Jorden. My husband and I have stopped and watched to see if it's her. We won't do that anymore. In some ways, this day brings closure and peace. In other ways, we are left with more questions than answers. Today, we still do not know how she passed away, who was with her when it happened or why they would hide her body.
For those living near our area, you have most likely heard of her disappearance and of the remains found between Wabash and Miami county. The day we heard of the discovery, we felt in our hearts that it was Jorden. How is it that your heart knows these things?
Our hearts are broken and we ache for the life she could have, should have lived. The news and media are covering her disappearance and the discovery of her body. They claim the body to be "what remains of Jorden Sopher." For me, Jorden Aryne Sopher remains.
Jorden's love remains. Her spunk, zest for life ... her beauty remains. These are the things my heart longs to remain. Jorden loved children and children loved her. She had a perpetual smile on her face and sparkle in her eyes. These things remain in our hearts.
If I have learned something from this experience, it is to love with all your being. If a thought crosses your mind ... like sending someone a card just to say "I love you", stopping by to say they crossed your mind, calling to hear their voice or so they can hear the love in your voice ... Do it. Call them, write that card, stop by and say "I love you." These are things I thought to do but never did. Today, I wish I could go back and tell Jorden that she was special and loved.
We have had three years to prepare for this day. I've thought many times how I would feel if the unthinkable became reality. Today, reality came and we were all unprepared. To those that took her from us, put her body in a hidden place ... no anger, bitterness or hatred could bring her back. There is only forgiveness. Because I fully believe that is what Jorden would want.
I pray that in some moment, those responsible for her death and for the way her body was placed, will feel a burden to come forward. That they will long for the release of admission and forgiveness.
For me, I look on each situation through the faith that has grounded me since my youth. In Ecclesiastes, we are told that there is a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die. There is a time to mourn and a time to dance.
On the day my husband and I were married, Jorden wore a sweet white dress all covered in silk and lace. Her hair was sprinkled with baby's breath and she wore a smile that would've melted a heart of stone.
Jorden, I hope that in some far away place ... a place more beautiful and splendid than anything you witnessed on earth ... you are dancing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
