Christian Author and Speaker
The Porcupine Mountains in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, are unbelievably remote. Our campsite is at the Northeast tip of this huge state park;
The day was the worst ever. It was neither “Good” nor “Holy,” as we now refer to the Friday of Holy Week. In the midst of the curious, the angry, the Jewish officials, and the Roman soldiers, this handful of Christ followers – the women – stood near the cross, numbed in their sorrow and despair. Their Messiah, their Lord, their Savior, had been brutally beaten – beyond recognition. Earlier, they had followed Him and the procession of onlookers as He carried His cross, sometimes falling to the ground, up the hill.
How can He possibly continue. Please God.
But He did continue.
Are you trying to spend more time alone with God? I am. As I’ve shared before, I don’t find it easy to do so. My excuse is probably a lifetime of multitasking.
Reading and watching TV at the same time.
Talking on the phone with a Bluetooth while doing dishes or completing household tasks.
Writing while watching the children play.
Always something – rather two or three somethings going on. Not sure how or why it came about – how I got this way. I observe others quietly reading for hours at a time, napping on the back porch in the summertime, leisurely humming while fixing dinner. I covet that contentedness.
This isn’t a new problem for me. I wrote about it a few years ago, and I’m opening up about it again today.
Ron and I are blessed to have a little ranch home in Florida – I’ll write more about it in tomorrow’s post. Anyway, we most often arrive in this little house mid-late December. Was true this year, as well. It’s stressful – preparing for the drive down from Michigan – making the lists, closing up the house, and packing until the back of the Buick Enclave is ready to burst! By the time we leave, we’ve had our family Christmas, which in itself, is awesome! But it’s the other things that create stress. Our jobs, for example. Although retired, we are often still working, as was the case this year. I took an interim full-time high school English teaching position. It was delightful! (You can read about it here.) I loved every day with those kids; nonetheless, it requires MUCH time of study and prep and long days of making every moment count in each class. If only it was just the physical work, but it’s not. I invest in each student. I care. Their problems keep me awake at night. I want to make a difference in their lives. I know they see me as a caring teacher; I suspect they see me as a Nana; but I hope they see yet more. I hope they see Jesus in me. I might be the only Jesus they see that day. And oh, how they need Him. Even in our sweet little community, these kids are hurting. Many are depressed, many are hopeless, and most are already more broken in their brief 17 years than their parents are in 40. Only Jesus can reach into the depth of that brokenness. I care. I pray. And I lay awake at night. So when that semester is over and we head south to Florida, my heart is still full of love and hurt for them. This Nana carries it and it doesn’t end when I leave Michigan or even when I cross the Florida line. It goes all the way to the little house in Venice. And stays awhile.
I actually came to Florida to heal, but it was not from the normal stressors of a recent semester teaching.
I’ve shared the marvelous story of healing in When Life Roars, Jesus Whispers, but I’ve been unable, for various reasons, to share the depth of the ten-year struggle for healing for one I love, and more recently, the agonizing, lengthy struggle for healing for another. I love both more than life itself. They are my own blood. While one is now healed, I await the healing of the other with confident expectation. I thank God. I praise Him. I rejoice. Yet the memories of their past and present sufferings are embedded in my heart and soul, often triggered by the simplest life observations and sounds. And small, trivial, daily stressors are sometimes aggravated by the ongoing pain within me.
Now I also need the healing.
So it is not hidden in the darkness of the enemy, I bring this situation into the light; I present it to Jesus, the Light of the World. I share these things because I know some of you have the same ongoing pain. You, like I, need to heal. We will! God promises it in His Word! Isn’t He wonderful!
I seek – actually “need” solitude with Him. I must make an effort to be alone with my Father, to read His Word, and to listen as He speaks to me. In His Word, He whispers to me threefold:
a bit about family love,
a lot about compassion,
and a reminder about the importance of occasional solitude.
Here’s what The Holy Spirit teaches me today:
I call him John the Baptist. I’m sure Jesus just called him John – His cousin, John. A cousin like no other, I assume, for while both babies were yet in their mother’s wombs, cousin John leaped noticeably when he heard the voice of Mary, his mother’s cousin, whom John’s mother Elizabeth referred to as “the mother of my Lord.” Mary responded to this honor by singing and glorifying the Lord God. Both baby boys heard their mothers’ voices magnifying God. Both baby boys were sent from God for specific purposes. John’s father was Zechariah. But Jesus’ father was Almighty God. A beautiful familial bond was set. The baby boys were born just months apart.
John the Baptist “prepared the way for the Lord,” baptizing people in the name of the Lord, whose “sandals I am not worthy to untie,” he said. Unlike those people John called to baptism, Jesus went to John for baptism.
Shortly after Jesus was baptized, John was imprisoned for his message. Scholars believe it was about 15 months later that John was then beheaded. When the Lord Jesus heard this news, He was undoubtedly grief-stricken: “When Jesus heard what had happened, he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place.”
Have you ever done this? In grief or in sorrow or in exhaustion, you’ve withdrawn to a place of solitude. Jesus did. But the Bible tells us that when he had arrived at the place of solitude, he discovered that He wasn’t really alone at all. A large crowd of people had followed him, along the shore. They were desperate for Him. I understand. Do you? I’ve been desperate for Him in the past. And I am desperate for Him now, as I write. It’s really a desperation I’ve had for years now. I do understand. And so does Jesus. I know this because of His response to the people who interrupted His desired solitude.
The Bible tells us that when Jesus saw this large crowd, he had compassion on them and healed their sick. Then he fed them by multiplying five loaves of bread and two fish. That’s my Jesus! That’s your Jesus, beloved! Compassionate. Loving. Healer. Bread of Life.
After He met the needs of the people, He again sought solitude, this time succeeding. He went up on a mountainside. To pray, the Bible says.
To pray. I must let that “sink in” to my desperate, multitasking mind today.
I don’t know how long He was alone in prayer, but I assume it was through the evening and most of the night. We read that along toward morning, He went out, on the lake, walking on the water during a storm, to meet, comfort, rescue, and teach His disciples who were in a water-drenched boat, tossing to and fro, thinking they were going to die. That’s my Jesus! That’s your Jesus. Teacher. Comforter. Savior. Deliverer. The Great I Am! The Son of God!
And it didn’t end. His ministry didn’t end when He was crucified – because of the Resurrection! He’s still compassionate. He still comforts me. He’s still loving and healing. My teacher. My Savior. The Great I Am! The Son of God. The Bread of Life. The Light of the World. That’s my Jesus. And if He is your Savior, that’s your Jesus too.
He’s the one who becomes family.
He’s the one who is compassionate.
And He’s the one who teaches me that occasionally I need to get to a place of solitude ~ to pray.
Click here to read more posts in the series: Lent: This Time of Reflection.
Do you know Jesus as your Savior? Click here to learn more .
I was pleased that little granddaughter Kaylee was sound asleep. She had seen me cry enough throughout this last year, each time, hugging me, “Are you missing Grandpa and Grandma ?” she would ask.
“Yes, honey,” I’d answer, thankful to receive and return the hug, but forcing the smile. Her tenderness brought me back. Her smile gave me focus. And with it came new strength.
But this night, as I left her sleeping, I could feel the tears welling up. These tears – tears from missing someone so desperately, knowing you’ll never see her again in your life time – don’t well up in the eyes. They build in a pressure beginning at both sides of the top of your neck, spreading behind your ears, instantly to the sides of the bridge of your nose, then flooding your eyes and overflowing down your face.
“Nana, will you sing to me?” Kaylee had asked, just a few minutes earlier.
It had become our nightly ritual. Kneeling beside her bed, rubbing her back or stroking her cheek as her mommy had, singing her to sleep. My repertoire usually consisted of “Go Tell Aunt Tabby,” “Bye-Baby Bunting,” and my made up song for Kaylee:
Sweet dreams, my Kaylee Joy;
Sweet dreams to you.
Dream about butterflies,
Dream about baby dolls,
Dream about teddy bears too.
And each night, after several made up verses, my soft singing turned to quiet humming; and eventually diminished, as I left the room and walked down the hall. She was contented and asleep.
But this night, as I knelt by her bed and had sung several verses of Kaylee’s made up song, I quietly hummed two notes – the fifth and the third notes of a chord – and those two tones immediately took me back in time. . .
. . . to my mother’s arms.
She was holding me. I felt the warmth of her arms. I looked into her face. I could see my chubby little arm reaching up to her soft cheek. She was humming the song to me – the same two tones. I was tiny – perhaps a few months – perhaps a year. In all my memories, I’ve never had one of such a young age. I felt so small. I remembered being a baby! It was so peaceful but oh so brief! Nearly as soon as the memory had come, it was gone! I was back in the present! Back in reality!
As I left Kaylee’s room that night, the other tones, the melody of the song, came to mind, and the words came a bit later. This time, I wasn’t taken back in time but I sat in the dimly-lit living room, closed my eyes, and allowed myself to picture and hear my mother singing – the little chorus I hadn’t heard in years:
When you pray, will you pray for me
For I need His love and His care
When you pray, will you pray for me
Will you whisper my name in your prayer.
At the close of the day, when I kneel to pray
I will remember you
You need help every day, this is why I pray
And I will remember you.
When I pray, I will pray for you
For you need His love and His care
When I pray, I will pray for you
I will whisper your name in my prayer.
Tonight, Mama, when I pray, I will whisper your name in my prayer:
Thank you, Jesus, for my Mama, who held me and sang to me and prayed for me. And thank you, Jesus, for the wonderful memory .
Click here to listen to the Gaithers sing “When You Pray.” It’s not as sweet as my Mama’s voice, but you’ll get the idea! 🙂
innocently believing in a Santa Claus. Believing that someone cares SO much that he wants to bring you a gift.
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.
In 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.
Wayne’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 ↔
~~ ~~ ~~ ~~
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.
~~ ~~ ~~ ~~
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.
~~ ~~ ~~ ~~
The tree was still growing, and as it grew, the imbedded letters widened – the arrow tightened the connection between the pair of initials.
~~ ~~ ~~ ~~
The years dragged. The young couple corresponded, and their letters spoke of love and of marriage.
In 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.
Soon, 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.
~~ ~~ ~~ ~~
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.
Their 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!
If 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.
Daddy passed away first and Mama followed him just one month later. I’ve written about it before, and I’m sure I’ll write about it again. But today, I write about something they left behind
Walking through the house this morning, I heard a car “honk.” I didn’t know if it was on the TV or from a car going by. But it brought back some memories. Perhaps you can relate.
I almost tossed it away – it looked so insignificant, written with a purple crayon, personalized with my favorite drawings: a tree on the front and a swing set on the back. But evidently it was not insignificant to her,