Memorials

Several years ago, we toured Washington DC and discovered the difference between a memorial and a monument. Structures such as the Washington Monument stand as beautiful reminders of American history and are named for famous people or events.

But memorials, such as the Lincoln Memorial and the Jefferson Memorial, actually house the statue of the person for whom the memorial is named. I stood in front of the granite likeness of Abraham Lincoln and marveled at the inscribed words of the Gettysburg Address that surrounded him. As I remembered all that Lincoln did to help our nation survive the Civil War, I prayed a prayer of agreement with him, that “this government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

On this Memorial Day, we honor the heroes of our nation – men and women who have left homes and families to fulfill their duty. Some of them returned to this land they fought for. Some are buried in foreign countries, remembered by their loved ones and a grateful nation.

I’m also grateful for the missionaries who leave home and family so that they can present the spiritual freedom we have in Christ to a hungry world. They live with modest incomes, rent tiny apartments and depend on the goodness of others to support them. These people are not listed on granite walls, but they are inscribed in the heart of God and someday will receive special rewards.

Missionaries are more than just monuments, human structures that designate a piece of history. They are memorials to the truth as they carry within them the image and power of Jesus. Today I honor these heroes and heroines of faith. They know what real freedom is all about.

The Personality of the House

Throughout my lifetime, I have lived in various houses and have found that each one has a personality. From the farmhouse where I grew up to my current duplex, I have experienced the unique pleasure of memories, colored by the personality of the house.

The adobe apartment in Honduras kept me warm during the rainy season yet cool during the hotter months. It brought me joy when my students camped inside for Bible study or knocked on the door, asking me if they could dissect frogs. The downside of that apartment was the giant tarantulas that crept into my bedroom until one of the men designed a special trapdoor to keep them out. Relief was the emotion that lived there.

My bachelorette house stood near the school where I taught in a small Oklahoma town. With two bedrooms and a cozy eat-in kitchen, I had everything I needed. My house had the only basement in the area, so when the wind twisted through tornado alley – the neighbors came running. We huddled together until the all-clear sounded. Safety was the watchword of that house.

The big two-story where my son was born sported four bedrooms, a gigantic dining room, a parlor off the stairway and a smaller living room. I re-decorated every room of that house, learning how to do stencils and wallpaper, plus scraping the nasty rubber stuff from under the carpet so that we could install tile. That was the house where my son learned to walk, where he said his first word (“kitty”) and where he came running into the kitchen to help me bake bread. We lived longest in that house, and I loved it. Security seemed to ooze from every corner.

The split level in Lawrence had everything I had ever wanted in a house. I didn’t need to re-decorate and loved looking out from the kitchen sink onto the expansive back yard. The wildflowers I planted waved in the Kansas wind. But that became the divorce house. I labeled it sorrow.

A beautiful townhome was next, provided by a wonderful couple who wanted to serve God by helping single moms. The townhome was where I learned more about trusting God than ever before. My son and I bonded as we worked through the pain. That was my healing house.

The current duplex where we now live started out as an idea – to move forward in life and eventually flip it as an investment. But the recession deleted that idea and my son was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor. My cat died, and then I lost my job. Our dog died. It seemed this house would become another structure where sadness reigned.

But then May 12th happened (note the previous post) and the Keller Williams team changed everything. Now I drive up to a freshly-painted exterior. My fireplace has been rebuilt. I walk around the backyard and smile at the abundant plants and flowers that raise their colorful heads to God’s sky. I plan exotic meals with flavors from my new herb garden. And I marvel that the personality of this house has changed. From the house of struggle, it now wears a new name tag – one I thought I might never again experience. Joy. This is my house of restored joy.

Before We Ask

Like ambassadors of kindness, the Keller Williams teams poured out of their cars and onto my yard. Wearing red T-shirts that sported their motto, “Give Where You Live,” they quickly transported tools and plants to the back yard, carried ladders to the front porch and popped paint rollers together. Under the leadership of construction foreman, Kenny, teams took control of cleaning out flower beds, sawing new lumber and painting faded wood.

Somehow, through the kindness of a friend and the grace of God, I had been chosen as the recipient for the annual Keller Williams “Red” Day. On May 12th, these realtors honor the birthday of one of their founders by doing a service project – a good deed that helps the entire community and also blesses some lucky people.

This year, my son and I were the lucky ones. Throughout the long and tedious day, these realtors climbed up and down ladders, perched on my roof, redesigned my fireplace, replaced rotted wood and painted my house the beautiful new colors I had chosen. They also provided lunch, refurbished the landscaping, added mulch to all the flower beds and encouraged Caleb and me with friendly conversation. Working for 10 hours, these folks gave of their time, their muscles and their energy to make our house so much safer and absolutely beautiful.

The odd thing is that I hadn’t even prayed specifically for any of this. I knew the house needed to be painted, but I wasn’t sure how or when that would happen. In the deepest recesses of my soul, I wanted my flower beds to glorify the Creator and be a place of beauty where I could pray and rest and journal my thoughts. But I hadn’t asked God to provide new plants or mulch or paint or lumber. He just knew.

Like a loving Husband and Maker, holy God put together the circumstances of this blessing. Before I could even ask Him, He made sure that one of my friends told a realtor about the need. Before I could imagine how wonderful May 12th would be, God rearranged the cloud cover so there would be no threatening storms. Before the wood rot and the hidden ants’ nest destroyed the fireplace, my Heavenly Father made sure that several men would find the problem and fix it. Before I asked, God did it.

The morning after, I woke up to so much joy and praised God over and over for all the goodness of the day before. When I drove up to my house after work, I thanked God for all the good people who truly gave where they lived, who put up with sore muscles and paint under their fingernails and cuts on their hands so that Caleb and I could enjoy this blessing.

We didn’t ask for this, but it happened. Grace upon joy upon blessing from the heart of a loving God and people who wanted to do a good thing – even before we asked.

Valiant Men

In Sunday school, we’ve been working through the books of I and II Samuel. So many of the stories are about David and Saul, Jonathan and the Israelites. Rich stories about trusting the God who looks not on the outward appearance, but on the heart.

Last Sunday, we looked at 2 Samuel 23 which lists the 30 valiant men who followed David and fought for him. These were brave men who were willing to fight against the enemy but who were also courageous enough to go against Saul, the current king. They believed in David and in the God he loved. They lived in caves and in tents, not knowing when they might have to face the king’s army, yet willing to defend the man they believed would one day be the king of Israel.

We often scan over lists of names in the Bible, because they’re difficult to pronounce and we have no idea where places such as Anathoth or Pirathon or Carmel really are. Yet these men were real, living, flesh and blood warriors. Men such as Asahel and Zalmon and Benaiah – men who left their homes and their security to wander through the pasturelands on a quest with the next king.

The Bible describes these men as valiant – an adjective we don’t often use in the 21st century. Yet because they were part of the history of Israel and the journey of King David, they are listed – all 30 of them – in a prominent book of the Old Testament. Valiant men. Courageous men. Men who dared to fight against the status quo and believe in something better.

I wonder – where are the valiant men and women today? Are we hiding, because it’s too scary to venture into the world and be warriors for King Jesus? Or are we working and praying and fighting, but no one seems to notice.

God knows, and He is making His own list of the valiant ones who serve the King.

Royalty

Like many Americans, I set my alarm for 3 am on April 29th and watched the wedding of William and Catherine. The English garden theme, the dress and the music thrilled me as I rejoiced with this young couple. It was a beautiful ceremony, laced with tradition and history that the royals do so successfully.

Everything about the day seemed perfect. Even the weather cooperated with the first sunbeams poking through cloudy London, just as Kate stepped onto the red carpet. After the ceremony, the royal family waved from gleaming carriages and greeted the crowds on their way to Buckingham Palace. The pageantry and excitement seemed palpable – even in my Kansas living room.

As thousands of people thronged forward to greet the couple on the balcony of the palace, I thought of a future day and excitement unmatched in human history. Someday, all of mankind will cheer for the King of kings and the Lord of lords. It will be an awesome display of humility as we bow at his feet and acknowledge Jesus Christ as Lord of all. Far greater than any human royalty, Jesus will receive the respect and worship of all people for his creativity, his surpassing glory and the sacrifice he made for us all.

As much as I enjoyed watching William and Catherine make their vows, I will so much more enjoy the moment that I see true royalty in the face and bearing of my Savior, Jesus.

Forsake Me Not

She devoted the major part of 15 years caring for my dad. As he slipped into the silent world of dementia and then Alzheimer’s, Mom sat on his lap and spoon fed him. She sipped from their joint coffee cup, then shared some of the brew with the love of her life. Every day, every 36-hour day, she fed him, turned him, bathed him and asked God to heal him. Then her prayer concluded with one selah, “Oh, God. Please don’t let me get Alzheimer’s, too.”

After we buried Dad, she had about five years respite before her memory started slipping. We noticed it in segments – the same questions asked over and over, the loss of time and space, the forgetting of familiar faces. Incredibly, the same diagnosis hounded us. How could it be that both parents would be afflicted with this tragic disease? Was it because of the farm chemicals we used to ensure a harvest year after year? Was it nutrition – too many carbs and not enough fresh veggies? Or was it just the roll of the die and some part of God’s plan for the genetics of our family?

I’ve wondered if King David’s parents disappeared into the shadows. Psalm 27:10 records a sad lament from the sensitive heart of the giant-killer, “Although my father and my mother have forsaken me, yet the Lord will take me up (adopt me as his child).”

Forsaken, forgotten, cached back in time to some memory before the present. That is the scrapbook my mother now lives – the same book that my father lived. We children who swelled her belly and slithered from her womb are becoming the enemy. She doesn’t understand that we want to help her by taking away the car keys and the wallet and the trusting heart that opens the door to every stranger. She forgets when I call and throws away my notes, then tells the neighbors that I no longer care. She has forsaken me, just as my father did – though neither of them wanted to.

As I watch Mom disappear into this horrendous valley, my only comfort is that Jesus understands. He was forsaken, too, one horrible moment on the cross. His father God turned away from the sin that surrounded the beloved son; my sin, your sin, the world’s sin. Christ knew what it felt like to be rejected and forgotten – if only for a period of time. He understands how I feel at the gradual loss of my mother – this wretched forsaking.

The best part of Easter week is knowing that Christ will never forget who I am.

In the Garden

‘Tis the season for getting on my knees, pulling on the garden gloves and planting this year’s crop of flowers. Like Monet, I must always have flowers. Most of my plantings are perennials which cheer me each year when they survive the winter and poke through the mulch. But sometimes, I plant a few annuals – the violas and pansies, the bright orange marigolds and the colorful zinnias.

My idea of heaven is my own little cottage, surrounded by a garden. No dandelions grow there and no chickweeds; just a plethora – carefully designed by God – of my favorite plants. A prayer bench or two and some funky yard art, maybe a plaster garden angel and lots of wildflowers.

I’ve often wondered what it must have been like for Adam and Eve to live in the Garden of Eden – before they chose to sin. To walk and to talk with God every day in the midst of the beauty He had created. I can’t imagine anything more wonderful.

In fact, when stress or trials attempt to steal my joy, I just close my eyes and imagine God and me in my garden. He puts his arm around me, and I thank Him for Jesus. Never once do I mention anything that I’m struggling with. The garden is just for being – for walking with God and conversing with the Lover of my soul. My garden is for worship and enjoyment.

As I work in my earthly plots, I imagine the beauty they will bring and the joy I will feel as the various colors and textures grow and spread. But I also think about the eternity to come, my heavenly cottage surrounded by a garden, filled with the glory of God.