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ABC’s Resurrection and 40 days of Lent

Part 2 of Thoughts on Lent

 

Yes, I’ve been contemplating these 40 days of Lent. I’ve been listening to and observing others. Some people share what they are “giving up” for Lent: chocolate; complaining; social media, etc. Some people don’t share – it’s personal – or perhaps it’s sacred. Some people, on the other hand, are not observing Lent, for whatever reason.

And yes, as I ponder, I’m still  looking toward Good Friday and Easter Sunday.

But today, I’m “mulling over” my response to a different Resurrection – the television drama recently aired by ABC.

IMG_2783Watching it was tough for many; some “opted”out:

My friend asked, “Did anyone watch that new show, Resurrection last night?  I don’t think I’ll watch it again. The thought of opening my front door and seeing my son standing there is almost more than my heart can take . . . it was difficult to watch but I couldn’t seem to turn it off.”

People responded,

“I didn’t watch it.  The premise seemed a bit creepy. And having lost a son who is buried in a rural Missouri cemetery, I don’t think I could handle it.”

“I didn’t watch it . . .  I just thought that it would be too hard!”

She replied, “You were wiser than I was . . . I went to bed with an aching heart.”

An aching heart. Aching over the loss of her son, and, similar to the drama, about 30 years ago.

IMG_2784

 

In the first episode of  Resurrection, the little guy, Jacob, “comes to” in the middle of a beautiful green rice paddy in China. We know he’s been dead because we’ve seen the previews and we’ve read just enough about the plot to know what’s going on. When we see him reunited with his parents, we are touched in various ways. We are perplexed We are elated. We believe. We do not believe.

Jacob and mother

And so the drama continues and closes with yet another “resurrection,” leading the viewer to the next episode.

But the most surprising thing about this drama, which, I suppose, separates it from others, such as The Returned or Believe, is the pastor, asking a question of his congregation, and of himself about faith. The scene is set in the snow-white church, outside and in. The choir wears white robes. The pastor and parishioners are all dressed in dull greys or black, but Jacob and his mother, Lucille, in stark contrast, wear orange and red, separating them from the others, evidently revealing their faith, thus setting the tone for the pastor’s question: “Isn’t that what it means to have faith?”

I place no faith in the script of a television drama.

But the whole scenario, the entire premise,  causes me to think about people, reaching and yearning for the resurrection of the body and for eternity. It makes me thankful for the faith I have found in Jesus Christ – his death, burial, and his resurrection. And thankful for the Word of God that gives me the expectation kind of hope I have as His child. That faith brings the grace that heals my friend’s aching heart and my own aching heart – aching for my loved ones who have passed – and aching for eternity.

My parents both died at the age of 87 – just one month apart. My heart was aching. People tried to console me: He had a good life. She lived a long life. It was true. Each did have a good and long life. Typical comments, meant to console. But they didn’t. 87 years isn’t enough. Life is too short.

My heart yearns for eternity. That’s my consolation. Eternity. The resurrection – not the television drama but the resurrection of Mama and Daddy and my friend’s little boy, and all those we have loved who put their faith in the resurrection of the Savior, Jesus Christ.

God put it there. The longing for eternity. He put it in my heart, and He put it in all hearts. That’s why we can’t seem to turn it off. It’s no wonder we’re writing and watching and reading about returning and resurrecting! We look forward to that day – seeing our loved ones again – the resurrection of the old bodies and the receiving of the new. And it’s all because of Christ’s resurrection! Looking toward Easter Sunday with great joy! The 40 days continue!

. . . the few days of their lives . . . He has also set eternity in the hearts of men . . . (Ecclesiastes 2: 3; 3:11)

 

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Time is not the healer.

I’m in my kitchen – cooking. My television is set on TCM (Turner Classic Movies), as usual. Spencer’s Mountain is coming on. I haven’t seen it in years, and I love old movies, yet I hesitate to watch it again today. Suddenly I realize why. I know what’s going to happen. The old Papa is going to die, and I don’t want to relive my own sad memories – memories of my own Daddy and Mama’s deaths.

A year and a half have passed. I thought time was to be the healer of this grief. Now I know.Time has been undeservedly credited. Time has not been the healer of this grief.

But I DO watch the movie. I’m watching the old, worn Papa, meandering up on the mountain, tending the family graveyard. I’m remembering my own old, worn Daddy, strolling the family graveyard.

Then the old, worn Papa in the movie dies, and I’m watching the family carry him back to the family graveyard on the mountain side. The Spencer family sings “In the Garden.” Papa had requested it.

Any music stirs my heart, but the tune and the words of that hymn bring years of memories. I hear my Daddy and Mama singing it. I see them them singing it. I see the title, “In the Garden” written in my mother’s scribbled penmanship on an odd little piece of paper and placed in the white envelope marked “my funeral.” I want this sung at my funeral, she had written beside the title. My memories of that hymn culminate in hearing it sung at my mother’s funeral.

And he walks with me, and He talks with me.

And He tells me I am His own.

and the joy we share, as we tarry there,

none other has ever known.

Watching the Spencer family grieve, I briefly relive the funerals of my grief. I revisit the funeral homes. I walk to the graves, following Daddy’s casket covered with the flag, following Mama’s casket, covered with roses and carnations and ferns. As the Spencers say goodbye, I again say goodbye. Pain penetrates me.

With each memory, good or bad, the pain has come – a pain pitted between my heart and my throat. But with each memory, throughout this year and a half, the pain lessens, and in pain’s place, healing comes.

Yes, time is not the healer of my grief.

Memories are the healer of my grief.

 

 

 

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Together Forever

Margie lived in a small, white farmhouse,  two miles from the little country church in Butler Township. On Sundays, she, along with her brothers and sisters, sauntered the dry gravel roads to church. The parade of children was led by their stern and proper matriarch, Grandma Locke, who lived with the family, as was the custom with many in the first half of the 20th century.

Wayne, on the other hand, was one of an even larger batch of children. He lived twenty miles away in Ovid Township, in a yet smaller white farmhouse. And on Sunday mornings, in contrast to Margie,  Wayne, alone, walked the dry gravel roads (or wet in the rains, or icy in the winter)  to meet up with a traveling pastor, who faithfully drove from Ovid township on Sunday mornings and evenings to preach at Dayburg Baptist Church in Butler township.

IMG_0189 1In and around that quaint little building and its grassy churchyard, Margie and her brothers and sisters met young Wayne. The Locke family took to Wayne, which led to him spending long Sunday afternoons with them at their country home. Later in the day, after the Sunday evening service, Wayne would ride with the pastor back to Ovid Township and walk the short mile home.

IMG_2293Wayne’s friendship developed with the Locke family, and later,  with Margie. One summer afternoon, the young couple crossed the creek, and ambled through the woods between the church and the cemetery on the hill. In this woods, Wayne carved their initials, connected by an arrow, into the trunk of a young tree:

W N + M L ↔

 

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Days passed. Months passed. The young tree reached for the sun above. Occasionally the skies were gray, but the sun always shone again. The tree kept reaching.

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By the time Wayne graduated from Coldwater High School, the United States had entered World War II. He signed up and served overseas for three years. Oh how he missed the little country church and his sweet Margie! Meanwhile, Margie worked in a factory, keeping busy to help the war effort and her family.

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The tree was still growing, and as it grew, the imbedded letters widened – the arrow tightened the connection between the pair of initials.

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The years dragged. The young couple corresponded, and their letters spoke of love and of marriage.

1946 AZ June 23In 1946, Wayne came home, and he and Margie were married at the little country church – just a few hundred yards from that carved tree in the woods.

Yellow House in the FallSoon, they bought a farm near that woods behind the church where they had one day wandered. The creek bordered the farm on the south. The beautiful yellow farmhouse sat on the hill, midway to the northern property line. It was a house Margie had admired since she walked the dusty roads as a child, many years before, and now her dream had come true.

They served the Lord together in the little country church and raised their family in the yellow farmhouse –  both just a few hundred yards from that carved tree in the woods.

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The sun often shone in the woods between the church and the cemetery on the hill, but occasionally skies became overcast and gloomy. Oppressive rains darkened the carved letters in the tree. The storms raged. But the sun always came out again and dried the bark of the tree. Then the carved letters laughed and sang in the light of the Son. The tree flourished and praised its Maker. The tree aged but stood strong and solid. The years passed . . .

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

. . . nearly sixty-six years! Then the eyes of Wayne’s old body closed for the last time – never to open again. His soul went up, high above the tree, through the sunlight of the early March morning and into the presence of his Maker; and a month later, on an April day, Margie lay, yearning to follow her beloved Wayne. She raised her aged,  purpled forearms toward the heavens, reaching toward the Son – and then she followed him.

The grave - May 2013Their old bodies are buried together in the cemetery on the hill – just a few hundred yards from that carved tree in the woods!

A tombstone bears their names and the dates of their births and deaths. Between their names, two words are carved in the gray granite: Together Forever. 

When a stranger meanders throughout the cemetery and pauses to read those words, he probably smiles and thinks, “How sweet! The old couple is forever buried together here in this little country cemetery.” But when those of us who knew Wayne and Margie read those words, we laugh and sing in light of the Son, knowing that the young couple is Together Forever in heaven!

IMG_2292If you stand high on the cemetery hill and look over the dark green tops of the trees in  the woods below, you’ll see an empty space where the carved tree once stood – empty because the tree died, too. But if you look deeper, down through the green, onto the floor of the woods, you’ll find saplings and seedlings, sown from the seeds of the old tree. They’re growing and reaching up toward the sky and the sun. They welcome the spring rains but are frightened of the fierce storms of late summer and winter. They grow taller and stronger in each season, and they praise their Maker as they see the Son after each storm.

And when you stand on that hill, if you are very still, and if a soft breeze is coming from the church yard below, ruffling the tops of the trees throughout the woods, you’re apt to hear a duo of voices whispering, Together Forever. And when you do, you’ll find yourself laughing and singing in the light of the Son.

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I Rise Up and Call You Blessed (Part 3 of “My Mother, The Proverbs 31 Noble Woman”

Her husband has full confidence in her and lacks nothing of value. She brings him good, not harm, all the days of her life . . . Her husband is respected at the city gate, where he takes his seat among the elders of the land. . . her husband . . . praises her.

Oh, yes! It’s difficult to believe today – that a woman would take such good care of her husband! But she did! And yes, he had full confidence in her; and yes, she brought him good all the days of her life; and yes, he was respected and an elder; and yes, he praised her! When I was young, I never heard my mother argue with my dad. She didn’t slam the door in his face or yell at him. She never spoke about separation or divorce. Faithfulness.

As a result, he cherished her. He respected her. He opened doors for her and was openly affectionate with her. He gave her gifts. I observed. It taught me much. And all by example.

He praised her for 65 years – even into the last stages of his dementia!

She loved, honored, and served him for 65 years – even unto his last breath!

2008

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She watches over the affairs of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness.

She knew everything that was going on in the house and was always busy, whether working at the school, at the factory, or at home.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue.

As an adolescent, I argued with her – repeatedly! I had little confidence in her wisdom or instruction. But amazingly, years later, I looked at her and saw a woman who spoke with wisdom and faithful instruction! My, how she had changed during those years I grew up!

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Her children arise and call her blessed.

Oh, yes. I began singing her praises, especially after I became a mother! 2006 Nutt Family

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

. . . but a  woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.

So now, when I praise my Mama, I also pray the very last verse of Proverbs 31:

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Give her the reward she has earned, [O Lord], and let her works bring her praise at [heaven’s] gate.

Amen. Happy Mother’s Day, Mama!

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She Extends Her Hands to the Needy : Part 2 of “My Mother, the Proverbs 31 Noble Woman”

I last wrote about Mom’s potholders – basically the only thing she ever sewed on her Singer! I wrote about those potholders becoming burnt at the edges and dabbled with smidgeons of escalloped potatoes or the broth of pot roast, or an occasional pot of chili. That pot of chili – brings me to several other traits of a noble woman – some my mother truly embodied.

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“She gets up while it is still dark; she provides food for her family and portions for her servant girls . . . She considers a field and buys it; out of her earnings she plants a vineyard. She sets about her work vigorously; her arms are strong for her tasks . . . She opens her arms to the poor and extends her hands to the needy . . . ” (From Proverbs 31)

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Mom worked from before daylight until after dark. She planted a garden – then she canned and froze every vegetable and fruit she could get her hands on. (Except beets. She didn’t like beets, so we never had them in the house!) Then, she took the bounty of her garden and she cooked and baked. I never had to ask IF we would have supper. We ALWAYS had supper. But I often came home from school and smelled something delicious baking and found out it wasn’t for us! It was going to someone else in the neighborhood! A meal for the Moores after Edna died. Basketfuls of hot and cold foods for the church supper on the first Wednesday night of the month. A meal for the Reverend Lindsey. Brownies for the church boys’ campout.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

One day I remember a big pot of chili on the stove. “Who’s this for?” I asked, feeling neglected.

“It’s for the Andrews family,” Mom replied.

“Well, they’re not from our church,” I complained. “Why are you taking it to them?”

She answered, “They’re hungry and they need to eat, don’t they?”

1959 HC Christmas MomI don’t know if Mrs. Andrews was sick, or if Mr. Andrews was out of work, but something was going on at the Andrews’ house, and Mom had a heart for this family with six children, and yes, they would eat supper that night because of Mom, who “. . . provides food for her family and portions for her servant girls (or in this case, the Andrews family!)

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

I’m sending a message up to my mother. I don’t know if it will be delivered by the angels or by the Lord himself, but I’m trusting it’ll get to Mama for this Mother’s Day:

“Many women do noble things [Mama], but you surpass them all.” Proverbs 31:29

Be sure to catch tomorrow’s posting (Part 3) about “My Mother, the Proverbs 31 Noble Woman.”

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Her Potholders (Part 1 of “My Mother” the Proverbs 31 Noble Woman)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mother’s Day causes me to remember my Proverbs 31 mother.

 

Today, I’m remembering her “gifts” (or lack thereof) of weaving and sewing fabric!

 

“she selects wool and flax . . . In her hand she holds the distaff and grasps the spindle with her fingers . . . She makes coverings for her bed . . . she makes linen garments . . . ” (from Proverbs 31)

 

 

1956 PB

 

Mom had a sewing machine —  a Singer, set in a darling little blonde cabinet. 

 

1957 BH

 

The Singer was an integral part of our home, holding various places through the years. It sat in the front parlor, in the living room, or in the landing at the top of the stairway.

 

Whichever location, there it sat!

 

Mom seldom opened the Singer!

 

She rarely sewed!

 

All in all, the Singer generated one resulting product: potholders!

 

The fabrics varied. Potholders made out of worn chenille bedspreads, old curtains, or tattered towels. The stitched designs were more limited: X’s, O’s, or a combination of both.

 

Mom’s limited sewing talents were the brunt of teasing throughout the years! She smiled and received the ribbings with a chuckle. And in the end, my sister, Becky, and I both inherited her sewing talents and a few tattered potholders! 

Meanwhile, her homemade potholders filled the drawers closest to her stove. They became burnt at the edges and dabbled with smidgeons of escalloped potatoes or the broth of pot roast, or an occasional pot of chili – which brings me to my next point:

 

Although Mom did not share the sewing talents of the Proverbs 31 wife, she embodied the traits of the noble woman. (Read more in tomorrow’s posting.)

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Mother’s Day

I remember when her mother died. Mom’s heart was broken, and I thought I understood. Soon after, Mom and I and my daughters went to a Mother/Daughter Banquet to celebrate Mother’s Day. I was celebrating her – my mother, and I told her so. But Mom was not celebrating. Her heart was broken from the loss of her own mother, my Grandma Locke. And again, I thought I understood.

Nonetheless, I celebrated her — with my unfailing love and my joy in hers. I shared with her my thankful heart — for her tender care, for her prayers, for the heritage she was giving — and for all she would continue to give — to me and to my daughters.

When honoring a mother, a daughter’s joy cannot be contained. It is contagious to the mother. And it is healing.

Mom

And it brought some healing to my mother. On that day — that Mother’s Day — Mom knew that her own mother’s legacy had not died with her mother. She knew that it continued in herself and in turn, in me, and then, in my daughters.

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So today, Mom, I celebrate your memory, and I continue to honor you and the legacy you have passed on.

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GrandmaToday, I celebrate my Grandma Locke who made sure I had eaten a good dinner and then let me delve into her massive sugar cookies dolloped with jam.

Grandma NuttI celebrate my Grandma Nutt who had birthed twelve children and had dozens of grandchildren yet still had time to hold me in her cushy lap and sing to me.

Today, I also celebrate myself. I celebrate my daughters and daughter-in-law, and I celebrate my granddaughters. And I know the legacy continues. And it is quite healing.

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“No,” she says. “Send someone else.”

The young wife feels unloved by her new father-in-law.

She is of a different Christian denomination. Of a different family background.

She tries to please.

But she’s rejected.

She’s not good enough.

She is shunned. Her children are shunned. Her heart is broken.

The pain presses in to the depths of her soul.

~~   ~~  ~~  ~~

It’s years before the healing comes.

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The healing comes through faith – a faith only the size of a mustard seed – so small she didn’t know it was there.

Faith comes from hearing . . . and the message is heard through the word of Christ . . .

 

She reads. She listens. To the word of Christ. It speaks.

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The Word  “penetrates . . . and judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.”

 

The healing comes through that Word of God – penetrating and judging her thoughts and her attitudes.

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The Word says, “You were taught, with regard to your former way of life, to put off your old self . . . to be made new in the attitude of your mind and to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness.”

 

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 The Word says, “Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love. Make very effort to keep the unity of the spirit through the bond of peace.”

 

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 The Word says, “Be imitators of God; be filled with the Spirit.”

 

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The Word brings healing and the healing brings love – love between a daughter-in-law and a father.

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The Word says, “Now you are light in the Lord. Live as a child of light . . . goodness, righteousness, and truth.”

 

No longer does it matter who was right or who was wrong – what had been said or what had been done.

Her soul is free from the pain. In pain’s place is love with its goodness, righteousness, and its truth.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

More years go by. Years of love.

The Word says, “Make the most of every opportunity.”

 

And at the end, she is chosen for the opportunity.

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It is a cold February day. The father is old. His health is worsening; he is giving up.

Don't let fears . . .God speaks to her. Go, He says. Talk to him about Jesus.

“No,” she says. “Send someone else.”

But again, God says, Go. Talk to him about Jesus.

 

 

And so she goes and speaks to the father. And on that cold February day, the Son shines through the window of the father’s hospital room, as he confesses his faith in the Lord Jesus.

Where two or more are gathered . . .

 

 

And the next day, the family gathers around the father and says, Goodbye,

while Jesus says, Welcome.

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Scripture from NIV:

Romans 10:17

Hebrews 4:12

Ephesians 4:23, 24

Ephesians 4:2, 3

Ephesians 5:1, 8, 9, 16, 18

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And now it is a Wednesday . . .

It was a Wednesday. The first Wednesday in April. The sun was shining. Evidence of spring saturated the outdoors and permeated the halls of Maple Lawn. As I neared her room, I saw the hospitality “cart” outside her door – a lovely collection of cookies and orange juice, coffee and fruit – a “notice” that the family would need sustenance – as we would watch and wait.

Several of us were there – my sister and brother, some cousins, my aunts  and uncle. We went in and we went out. Heads slowly shook in sadness and in heartbreak. Aides and nurses came in and stood by her bed. They cried. We could do no more to keep her here with us. My mother was dying.

She’d put up a good fight. She wasn’t created to die, most obviously detected in her steadfast resolve and perseverance. God had originally made her for eternity. It’s the story of the Garden of Eden and of love and of perfection – of sin and of death. It’s the story of a body that should have been perfect and could have been perfect, but of course, wasn’t. It’s the story of a downward spiral of health problems and a broken spirit that just gave up, especially in the last month.

For years, she had plodded forward – literally plodded forward. Her crippled feet and shrunken stature, stenotic spine and withered muscles, cancered blood and arthritic bones impeded her once vibrant step, year by year, month by month, and day by day. Only one purpose kept her going – Wayne. She couldn’t leave him. He needed her. Til death do us part, they had said, and a promise is a promise. And the love grew stronger than the promise. So she loved him and served him until the day he didn’t need her any longer. And that day was one month before.

Christmas 2011 Mom and Dad

So it was a Wednesday. The first Wednesday in April, one year ago now.  And I needed that lovely offering of sustenance on the hospitality cart, as I watched and waited and sang to her and whispered sweet memories in her ear, and finally observed her right hand lift to meet His as the Lord took her home. And in the middle of that Wednesday, the promise of spring and new life was stronger than the heartbreak of holding my Mama’s broken, still body, and my sustenance was found in more than cookies and orange juice, coffee and fruit.

And now it is a Wednesday. The first Wednesday in April, one year later. Today, I again need that lovely offering of sustenance – and I find it in God’s Word.

I remember my mother – and I think of faithfulness, of a promise, of unending love, and of perseverance.  I cherish the memory of the one who gave me life – of the one who showed me, through example, her faith in God. I hear her whispering, “You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will take me into glory. . . earth has nothing I desire besides you. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” (Psalm 73:23-26)

 

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This Nana has no regrets. Only precious memories.

I awoke this morning to an empty house – very empty! And very quiet!

No little girl stood beside my bed, looking at me and asking the usual Saturday questions: “Where’s Papa? At work? Can we get up, Nana? I’m not sleepy any more.”

I made only one bed this morning – my own. Jacob’s, Ben’s, and Kaylee’s had not been slept in.

I stepped into a clean kitchen and watched the CBS Morning Show instead of Saturday morning cartoons.

I leisurely drank coffee  and fixed my own breakfast instead of Kaylee’s.

I rushed to the laundry room to start the first of many loads today, but I found only a few odd socks. I won’t be washing any laundry today.

Then I wrote my grocery list and found it to be very short.

I feel very strange and terribly lonely. The house is not the same.

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

I’m remembering the last 13 months when the house was filled with dolls and Legos, backpacks and half-eaten granola bars. I rescued socks from between the sheets and I sorted outfits for each day of the week. The fridge held large jugs of Powerade and organic 2% milk; the pantry was packed with Honey Nut Cheerios and Salt and Vinegar Potato Chips; and the freezer was stocked with Cookie Dough Ice Cream.

IMG_1943~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Laundry room hooks held fleece jackets and hoodies;  its shelves were stacked with boots, shoes, and baseball cleats; and its hampers overflowed with dirty jeans and white t-shirts. Crumbs covered the floors under the kitchen stools; Happy Meal trinkets bounced from one room to another; and blobs of blue toothpaste splattered the bathroom counter.

 

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Nana and KayleeThis Nana took on the traits of Mommy. (It’s an awesome combination!) And Papa added the role of Daddy to his character. (It’s a huge responsibility!)Papa, Benny, Jacob

DSCF6835The savings account dwindled.

The vehicles’ odometers soared as “The Road Less Traveled” became “The Road More Traveled” – back and forth between home and schools 24 miles away – three or four times a day.

Evenings were filled with baseball games, homework and baths, snuggling and lullabies. Weekends meant wrestling meets, visiting Mommy and Daddy,  and going to church.IMG_1960

Nana and Papa forgot that they once went out to dinner, sat quietly and talked, and watched old movies on television. (They were too tired to remember such times.)

And yesterday, I sorted some last-minute thoughts and turned them into reminders:

“Kaylee, here are your little pink wash cloths. I’m packing them for you to take.”

 

“Benny, don’t forget to brush your teeth – morning and night.”

“Jacob, your baseball uniform is washed and ready for your first game next week.”

And last night, they took that long-awaited step from our house to their own house with mommy.

So today, as I sit alone, I’m remembering the last 13 months, when this house has been a refuge and a haven of unconditional love to three adorable grandchildren, and I’m feeling strange and lonely in this empty, quiet house – a house that is not the same.

But this Nana has no regrets. Only precious memories.