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I have been fearful during some of these days of the COVID19 pandemic and isolation. But today I am not frightened.

I have had a significant amount of anxiety during this COVID19 pandemic. But today, I am not anxious.

Today, I am angry.

I am angry with the thief who is killing and stealing and destroying. I am angry with the demons who serve him and do his dirty work.

And today, I am sad.

  • I am sad that we can’t meet with our church family and celebrate the life of our friend who has passed – to hug his family and tell them how we loved him – to sing “The Days of Elijah” while we dance the aisles, as he did – to feel the tears drop down my cheeks as we all sing one final “I’ll Fly Away.”
  • I am sad that my cousins cannot sit with their dying mother at her hospital bed – sad that she cannot feel the comfort only those children can bring – feel the warmth of their cheeks on hers, their wet lashes returning the comfort hers once gave.
  • I am sad that I cannot gather with my extended family at the graveside – to honor and say farewell to a blessed cousin – to hear sweet stories about her – to tell her children and grandchildren how much she meant to me.
  • I am sad that our friends cannot comfort their dying father in the nursing home – cannot wrap his hands in theirs and pray him to glory.

None of these things can happen because of the thief. So today I am angry, and today, I am sad.

But like any other day – those of fearfulness, anxiety, anger, happiness, or – like today – sadness, I look to Jesus. And I listen.

He whispers,

“Kathi, don’t let your heart be saddened. Don’t be troubled. I’m preparing everything.  I hear you, and I will deliver you all. Now is your time to comfort from afar.  I am close to your friends and family in their suffering and loss. I am their comfort. “

So I trust Him: The God of Comfort.

(From Psalm 34, John 14, 2 Corinthians 1)

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The Cross Still Stands

Our eyes are attentive to our screens, taking in every word, every image. Our hearts are breaking as we watch: Notre Dame Cathedral is burning.

French Catholic Newspaper, La Croix, shows the spire’s collapse on its front page, with the headline: La Coeur en cendres (The Heart in Ashes):

And those words, probably inferring the heart of the church, nonetheless describe our feelings: our hearts are in ashes. We are a suffering people, anyway, our hearts shattered by evil in the world: deliberate killings, deliberate abortions, deliberate hate. Cancer, suffering, disease. We wonder how much more our already-broken hearts can take.

But we keep watching the reports of the fire; we keep listening; we keep hoping.

And we find it. Hope in the final photos – the photos taken after the fire is out – the photos showing what remains. The altar remains, and . . .

. . .the cross still stands! Not only does it stand, but it shines. It radiates. It glows. It reminds us that in this world filled with evil, we have hope – the confident expectation of God’s promises.

Click here to hear the beautiful reminder of what the cross stands for. “It stands to heal and to restore and to comfort those who mourn. . . it stands for hope; it stands for peace; it stands to set the captives free; it’s where the only Son of God reveals love for you and me; It stands to heal and to restore and to comfort those who mourn. . . “

Let the cross bring you hope today. Hope in the very purpose of this Holy Week. Hope in Jesus Christ alone, the Savior of the World.

When your world feels fallen, hopeless, remember – the Cross still stands! Jesus suffered for you and for me. The altar remains open; His arms are open, waiting for you to turn to Him.

Click here to learn how to become a believer.

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Today I Celebrate Her Birthday.

Today is her heavenly birthday.

Happy Birthday, Mama!

When she passed years ago, just one month after Daddy, I thought I might adjust to life without them. Then I saw your Facebook posts and heard your words, spoken as you hugged me at the visitations, written on your cards of sympathy:

“It’s been ten years, and I miss her every day.”

“My dad’s been gone 18 years and I still cry.”

Suddenly I knew. The pain would never go away. It was frightening, overwhelming, to think of living with this dire grief for the rest of my life. I could not go through it alone.

“Jesus wept.” I knew He was weeping for me – with me. I not only accepted the compassion of this Savior, but I pleaded with the Father for it.

Then I started digging. Old photos. Memories. Aprons. Dishes. Walking sticks. Blankets. The sight of his binoculars caused a swelling in my throat; the smell of her Ponds Cold Cream drew flooding memories down my cheeks. How can I ever get past this?

I shared my grief with others. They understood. I was not alone.
Many had grieved. Like me. Looking at them from the outside, I hadn’t realized that their insides had once been heavy and weighted. Like mine. Would I ever appear normal on the outside again, like they did?

I did not find comfort in those common feelings of grief. But I did find comfort in knowing that I grieved much because I had loved much. I had years of memories to carry with me on the lonely, painful path ahead, the path I’m still traveling today. Are the memories worth the pain? Is the pain worth the memories?

I’ve stopped trying to figure it out. I’ve stopped trying to distinguish grief and sorrow from mourning. I’ve stopped trying to figure out what stage of grief I’m passing through. And I’ve stopped feeling guilty or shameful that I’m still grieving after all these years – that others have more reason to grieve than I.

It is what it is. A broken world full of suffering and full of grieving people. Not by God’s design but because of the sin of the first created.

It is what it is. A beautiful life, speckled with pain and grief.

But He is what He is. A beautiful Savior who weeps with us and says, “It won’t be long. I’ll gather you. Let me comfort you until then.”

Until then, Mama, ride your beautiful Buckskin mare down the lanes of the farm. And have a Happy Heavenly Birthday, Mama.

Mom on Gypsy, her Buckskin

If you haven’t yet, please read my book, When Life Roars, Jesus Whispers. To order, message me through this site or on my FaceBook Writer’s page https://www.facebook.com/KathiWaligoraAuthorSpeaker/

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Even to their old age . . .

Isaiah 46 4

His Whisper to me ~~

It’s been three years since both of my parents passed. They were old; they had health problems; but those details did not lessen my loss. After their passings, I looked back upon their last minutes, their last days, and their last years. I saw the fulfillment of God’s word to both my Daddy and my Mama:

“I will be your God throughout your lifetime until your hair is white with age,” He said. “I made you, and I will care for you. I will carry you along and save you.” (ESV)

And I’m so thankful He did – care for them, carry them, and save them.

As I think about those last years of their lives, I wish I had been a bit more patient with them, a bit more loving to them, and a bit more compassionate for them. In other words, a bit more like the Father.

If you still have your parents or grandparents, how will you carry them along until their “hair is white with age”?

Pray: 

Loving Lord, thank You for Your faithfulness to me, even through my old age. Help me to be faithful to my parents and my grandparents through their old age.

Read:

Isaiah 46:4

Psalm 71:17,18

1 Timothy 5:8

 elderly hands

 

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A Mother’s prayers – still before God

Three of our grandchildren were living with us.

It was a joyful time, in the midst of a sad time.

Bedtimes were  part of the joyful time – a time of quiet talk – a time of prayer – an assurance of love. For Kaylee, the youngest, it included a time of singing. It was a song I had composed, just for her:

Sweet dreams, my Kaylee Joy;

sweet dreams to you.

Dream about rainbows,

dream about sunshine,

dream about teddy bears, too.

And as she fell asleep, my singing changed to humming, and the humming diminished as I tucked her blankie around her and tiptoed out of the room.

It was during one of those times of humming that the memory came.

Just two musical tones of my humming brought the memory – tones of a first, then down to a fifth. (You musicians know what I mean!)

With those two tones, I saw her – my mother.

She was young. Her hair dark, short, parted on the side, and wavy. I was a baby – how old I don’t know, but young enough that I was still in her arms. I looked at her through baby eyes. I saw my chubby forearm and hand. My hand was touching her soft cheek. And she was singing:

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. 
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.
 
 

I knew the entire song – one I hadn’t heard sung in years, but now I heard only the first of it because, you see, the memory was so short. Perhaps only seconds. But long enough to place me back in my mother’s arms – to remember her holding me, singing to me, loving me.

The memory suddenly poured from my eyes and flowed down my cheeks.

I was glad Kaylee had fallen asleep. I left her bedroom and cherished the ever-so-brief thoughts, thanking God for that special reflection.

And I’ve since thought more about the words to that old hymn. Mama prayed for me. My faith first lived in her (2 Timothy 1:5).  And her prayers for me are still worship before the Lord God (Revelation 5:8, 8:4).

When their mothers had gone to be with the Lord, both my friend, Becky, and my cousin, Sherri, shared their feelings of emptiness with me. Besides their normal feelings of grief and loss, they both said, “I feel like my most faithful prayer warrior is gone.”

When my time came, and my mother was gone, I understood. I felt much the same as Becky and Sherri, until I realized that my mother’s prayers were still powerful and alive before God. A golden bowl holds the incense, which are the prayers of the saints, and the smoke of that incense continues to rise before God. I was encouraged and in turn, encouraged Becky and Sherri with that insight from God’s Word.

Let it also encourage you, my friend. Gain strength in that knowledge, my friend. Your mother’s (and/or grandmother’s) prayers are still before the Lord God. The fragrance of those prayers continues to rise  up to God, as sweet worship to Him!

And to me, it’s as though she’s still singing,

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.
~~  ~~  ~~
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I miss them both so much I could cry.

I miss them both so much I could cry.

Yes, I miss them.

And yes, I cry.

March 4 and April 4 were the dates.

The first year was difficult; grief coupled itself to other pain; I grieved with an already broken heart. But new life came near the end of that first year: Luke and Jackson — and  their beautiful little lives evidenced the heritage started by the two who had gone. But the enemy, who steals, kills, and destroys, came and stole a chunk of that new life from our little Luke. Grief worsens when one is beaten down.

During the second year, the grief lifted just enough that I could breathe without pain. I found comfort in the Word I had known for years. I trusted in its promises. I saw our Lord stop by the whipping post. I saw the stripes on His body – one, for baby Luke. I believed “by His wounds, we are healed.”  I remembered His suffering and His death on the cross. I saw it as amazing grace. I remembered it with communion. I learned to trust and believe.

Now I’ve entered the third year, and I have hope. Much hope. I’ve learned that the period of mourning should be limited – for my good. Little by little, I’m letting the grief go. I’m trusting in the great Comforter – in His love, His grace, His finished work, His mercy, His promises, His healing for Luke, and His healing for my family.

This third year begins in the spring – not by coincidence, but by God’s plan and by His mercy.

Spring is here, and Spring brings new life that abounds in every direction – north, south, west, and east.

I step out of my house and look to the north. The cherry tree buds. Grass, beaten by the worst winter, shows signs of healing, signs of green, as my soul my body, beaten by grief and pain, bask in the sunshine, warmth, and renewal of spring.

I look to the south and see a yellow house where a renewed and restored family now lives in the house of the two who are gone — the house steeped in heritage and love. I see evidence of those promises I read and believed. Evidence of His mercy, His forgiveness, His restoration, His grace.

I look to the west and see a beautiful sunset, knowing that His mercies will be new in the morning, reminded of His faithfulness.

But it’s when I look to the east that I find the greatest hope. I look into the blue eastern sky and know that’s where I’ll see my Savior.

Where I’ll meet those I’ve lost.

Where the grief and pain will be gone.

Where the enemy is no more.

Where every forever day will bear new life.

Where hope will be manifested.

And where I’ll never remember the dates, the grief, the pain.

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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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Remembering Sue moving toward her Light

what do we Christians do?

It’s Memorial Day. For days, we’ve been memorializing our fallen soldiers. We’ve visited the cemeteries and placed the flags – decorated the graves – not just of the fallen soldiers, but of ALL our service men and women who’ve passed on – and have also decorated the graves of our loved ones who’ve passed on. Proud to be an American; proud to be free; thankful for our heritage. We remember.

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

But today I am also remembering an old friend. I haven’t seen her in a few years. You know how it is. Distance, the busyness of life, varied interests and responsibilities. You think about each other and want to get together, but you can’t. You plan to, but you don’t.  And then it’s too late. That’s how I’m feeling today, and that’s how I’m remembering my friend whom I probably now won’t see again for a long time, because  today, my old friend, Sue, will take her last breath. Today – Memorial Day – I’m remembering Sue.

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

In my young adult years, Sue was an inspiration and a mentor to me. We both attended East Algansee Baptist Church. She was a pianist and a vocalist; I was a pianist and a vocalist; but Sue had an undeniable natural talent. Sue was one to learn from, so I listened and I observed and I began to model my own playing and singing  after hers.

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

We had a casual joke about the piano bench. Sue warned me: it seemed that if you sat on the piano bench, you ended up pregnant! When I first started playing the piano at East Algansee Baptist Church, Sue had just given birth to twins, Aaron and Anna, completing her and Al’s family of four children! Ina, another keyboardist who “sat on the piano bench” at the church had just birthed Aric, her third child. I had just given birth to Matt, my first, and I “sat at that piano bench,” Sunday after Sunday, and later had Kristen and Amber! “There’s something about that piano bench,” people teased.

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

 

SueSue was vibrant and cheerful, even when she faced adversities. I remember when she lost her parents – her Daddy first. Sue was one of the only other adult women I knew who called her father “Daddy,” like I did, so I connected to her loss. Then she lost her mother. She was very close to both. But Sue didn’t dwell in sadness; Sue moved on. Sue always looked toward the light.

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

Mother of four, piano teacher, school teacher, servant of God. As her children grew, she faced life alone for awhile, as a single parent – a single woman. But Sue didn’t dwell in emptiness; Sue  moved on. Sue always looked toward the light.

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

Increasing her educational degrees, increasing her responsibilities, serving others. Sue moved on. Sue always looked toward the light.

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

The children grew. They flourished – each filled with bits of their mother – her strength, her talents, her joy. The grandchildren came – each filled with bits of their grandma. Today will be a difficult day for those children and grandchildren. And these next days will bring unwanted changes. But one day, they will each move on because they were raised by a strong, courageous woman. They all will look toward the light.

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

The disease didn’t stop her. Today Sue moves on. Today Sue looks toward the Light. Today Sue will meet that Light.

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

The light of the world is Jesus – Sue’s Jesus. Her Daddy and Mother’s Jesus. Her children’s Jesus. Her grandchildren’s Jesus. My Jesus.

(John 8:12)

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

Vibrant. Cheerful. Daughter. Mother. Grandma. Piano teacher. School teacher. Servant of God. Educated. Strong. Courageous. My inspiration, mentor, and friend.

This world is brighter because Sue was in it.

 

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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.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

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.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

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.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

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.”

 

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

 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.”

 

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

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

 

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

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

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

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.

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

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.

~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

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)