The year of firsts...

One year...

365 days...

8,760 hours...

525,600 minutes...

31,536,000 seconds...

An eternity in my world.  A blip in Heaven...

A year ago today, my family started the "Year of Firsts" when the man we called Dad and Grandpa took his final earthly breath. 

The year of firsts is long and causes aches like you can't imagine.  Days when you just want to go lie on the ground near the grave and weep.  Days when you go to call and realize as you're dialing the number that no one will answer.  Days when you swear you hear a familiar whistle and you go to meet that familiar face, but it's not there and the whistling was all in your head.  Days when you think you'll go crazy trying to handle everything without showing all the emotions you're feeling because people will think it's past time you "got over it" and moved on. Days where your morning prayer is a plea for the second coming of Christ so that you don't have to be here anymore.

It's no secret that my Father-in-Law's passing affected my family deeply.  He was the "bounce-back" guy... Back surgeries, COPD, pancreatitis, cancer treatments... he was a strong, stubborn German who wouldn't be kept down.  Always a smile... always a whistle...never would he admit pain...and always, he would recover.  Until...

Until that March morning when he knew that he wasn't going to bounce back.  When he had talked to his wife and children and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths...inhaling Heaven, exhaling Earth...

Inhale... Heaven

Exhale...Earth

I'll never forget trying to stay calm for my children as we were frantically trying to get to the hospital two and a half hours away.  I won't forget when my husband called  at a little after 5pm, and I couldn't get it off the speaker in the car and my kids heard their dad's voice cracking as he told me  "He's gone.".  I can't ever forget the wailing of my children in the car as they realized their grandfather was not going to see them anymore and we missed the opportunity to say good-bye.

Yes, the year of firsts can be awful. It can be so full of pain that blindsides you on days you think it shouldn't. I understand why back in the day the mourning family wore black for up to two years...It allowed others in society to realize that this family has had a tragedy so give them a little extra latitude. The black clothing made a statement for you without you ever having to say a word... some days that would be nice.

But...

The year of firsts is also meant for healing.  As you near the end of it, you can see joys - albeit sometimes very small - but joys nonetheless.  The colors in your world start to reappear.  The birthdays, holidays, grand events missed; don't hurt as much as they did in the beginning of the year of firsts.  There is the beginning of acceptance - a "new normal" so to speak. 

Adjustments...

Deep breaths...

As we celebrate this day (yes, I said celebrate), this anniversary of the beginning of the Year of Firsts, I'm grateful.  Grateful for the friends who've helped us along the way.  Grateful for the tears because they remind me I'm human.  Grateful for the years we had with such a wonderful man.  Grateful for the memories. Grateful that this year is almost past...

We still have one more anniversary to get through, and that comes on Easter Sunday this year.  It will be the year anniversary of the funeral.  I find it very appropriate that the year anniversary, Easter, and April Fool's Day all share the same day.  I think it will help make the day a little less sad... It also proves to me that God has a sense of humor and He and the "head Wingnut" are smiling down at us as we shake our heads at it all. 

Upside down thinking...

Have you ever just wanted something so badly that you're totally disappointed when you don't get it?

I'm sure if you're like every other human being on the planet, the answer is a resounding, "YES!".   I'm also fairly confident that the things you're disappointed about NOT getting are all good, happy, positive things...right?

Here's where it goes topsy-turvy for me...

Each year, since I hit my mid-twenties, I've had a mammogram.  Most women start them in their 40's, but thanks to the same genetics that give me my amazing hair and skin, they also afford me a multi-generational, bi-lateral background of various cancers.  Oh, joy.

I've gone annually and bi-annually.  I've had regular mammograms, digital mammograms, 3-D mammograms, CESM (Contrast Enhanced Spectral Mammography) which is where I get an IV of dye shot through my body (which gives me the feeling of simultaneously wetting my pants and vomiting), and ultrasounds.  I know you're jealous right now...  :)

The result of all of this squishing?

Nothing.

I get a, "Well, you're special, that's for sure"., and "With your family history, we will keep monitoring.".

Don't get me wrong, I absolutely LOVE my doctors, the techs, and all the gals at the cancer center in Sioux Falls... but just once, I want to hear them say, "Well girlie, we've found something, and now we deal with it.".

Yep...told you...topsy-turvy.

I mean, really... how many women WANT breast cancer?

I know my grandmother didn't.
I know my aunts didn't.
I know my friends didn't.
I know my step-mother-in-law didn't

But some days the uncertainty of "when the other shoe will drop" about does me in.

Now hold on a minute.  Before you begin to think that I go through all of my days just waiting for the "Big C" to come into my life, I don't.  I've got a business to run, a family to raise, a job to work, and a life to live, so I've got more than enough to occupy my thoughts and days. But maybe that's just it... I want the diagnosis so that I can fight it while I'm in my 40's and 50's and stronger than if I get it in my 70's and 80's...

And get it I will.  It's not an if, but a when in my life.

Yesterday in the two and a half hour drive home after what should've been just one mammogram that turned into two mammograms and an ultrasound, I spent a lot of time arguing with "The Big Guy". Every possible emotion came out of me in a short period of time. Oh, I sobbed and screamed, and plead my case.  I wept and was thankful.  I shook my fist and screamed some more.

He let me.

And when my eyes stung so badly from the salty tears, and my shoulders ached from the force of the sobs, I was quiet.

I drove in the silence for a few miles.

I turned on the Christian music station I can only get on my AM/FM radio when I'm near Sioux Falls, and I began to sing.

Song after song came on to help me let go.  I stopped sobbing and yelling and arguing.

I just sang.

Thy will be done.
Daily Bread.
Trespasses.
Kingdom and Power and Glory.

Forever and ever.

Am I still disappointed in not getting the answers I wanted?

If I'm honest?  Absolutely.

But I have faith that in His time I will have the answers.  In His hands, I will be held up.  All I have to do is hold on...

And sing...

And maybe give up those topsy-turvy thoughts...




Avera Breast Center - Sioux Falls

Opportunities are all around you....

Yesterday I spent the entire day at Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota.

First of all, what a wonderful resource we have at our fingertips in the midwest!! If you've never had the opportunity to see this small city in person, it's quite a site.  It is a well-oiled machine of many different specialists in one spot, who truly have patient care as their focus.

Why was I at this amazing place?  Well, my son (who is now almost 19) has a condition called Pectus Excavatum.  What is that you ask?  Pectus Excavatum is a congenital chest wall deformity in which several ribs and the sternum grow abnormally, producing a concave, or caved-in, appearance in the anterior chest wall.  Cliff Notes version?  He has a huge hole in his chest. This condition affects his heart and lung function and will require painful surgery to repair it.  If caught early, around the age of 10 or so, it can be fixed with minimal pain....insert mom guilt here.

So yesterday while sitting in this small city of diversity I had time to ponder.  Some of the thoughts were about the mom guilt I mentioned above. Other thoughts were of the many different nationalities around us. Still, others were of WHY were the other people here....what maladies did they have?

During one of our waiting periods for some pulmonary function tests, I excused myself to use the ladies room.  When I got to the doorway, there was an older couple outside the door.  The wife was in a wheelchair and on oxygen.  The husband trying desperately to hold the chair, her oxygen tank, and help her up all at once.  I didn't even hesitate but asked if I could help them out in any way. The look of gratitude on the husband's face was very apparent.    I held the oxygen tank and gave the wife my arm.  We entered the ladies room, I helped her into the stall, and told her when she was done that I would be here, she just needed to let me know when she was finished.  At this point, she gave me that same look of appreciation I had seen from her husband.  I finished, washed my hands, and soon she was ready to use the sink and make her exit.  I held the oxygen tank again and we headed out to the wheelchair awaiting her.  Her husband and I got her settled and they both thanked me profusely.  I simply replied it was my honor and I can't imagine how hard it is when it's just a husband/wife at an appointment.  Now granted, there are family bathrooms, but how many of us really want to have our husbands go into a bathroom with us?!?!?

I headed back to the waiting area with a smile on my face and a thought circling around in my brain.

There are opportunities all around us to minister to others if we just slow down, remember our manners, and offer assistance.  The reward can be so great.  It's been said that you tend to forget your own problems when you're helping others... I absolutely agree.  The rest of my day was spent with an entirely different outlook.

Now, I didn't help this couple for the potential kudos I'd get from them or anyone else that might have seen me.

I did it because
1.) I would hope someone would offer the same help to my parents if they were ever in the same situation and

2.) Wouldn't you want someone to help you out if you were in that situation?

Mind you, in today's day and age it can be scary to trust a stranger, so maybe it was because we were in a hospital setting that it was easy for them to accept my help, or maybe it was because they were just at their wits' end and didn't care who helped them as long as they got help.

Maybe, just maybe, they saw a caring face, heard a voice full of sincerity, and decided I was a good person.  That is my hope.  That is what I want people to see...

The visit to Mayo yesterday ended with knowing my son will have surgery when he finishes college in a year and a half and reaffirming my belief that there are good people in the world and if we all take a minute to do good things, the world becomes a better place...even if it's just the small corner of the world you happen to be in.

I'm a wrestling mom....and this is my perspective....

My son is a wrestler.

He's 6'3" and wrestles 160 pounds.  He's been in this sport since middle school - he was a little league lover for many years - so this is a change of pace.  People that don't know him, look at his height and ask if he plays basketball, to which he always replies, no.  Yes, he has the height to play basketball, and yes, he might be quite good at it, but here's the thing - it doesn't have his heart.

Sitting in the bleachers a few Saturdays ago, it occurred to me that my son - a "6 minute man" to those who love the sport - is on a team that will never win a tournament.  When I say never, it's not because I don't believe in them or their abilities, but it's because the team - a team of FIVE GUYS - will NEVER gain enough points to win due to the sheer lack of their numbers.  For every empty weight class, it's six points the other team receives.... Even if our five guys all win by pin, the most they will ever score as a team is 30 points.

How do those boys, and my son in particular, go out to each meet - to each tournament knowing that they will never win?  I can't imagine a football or basketball team driving hours away knowing that no matter how hard they play, they'll always lose....I mean, it barely makes sense to me, but these five young men do this each time they step on the cold school bus in the predawn hours of a Saturday.

Perseverance....

Determination....

Heart....

I sit in the loud gymnasium - at any given meet - and hear all sorts of things; cheerleaders beating their hands on the mats in rhythm, coaches yelling pointers, dads yelling encouragement (or sometimes not so much), moms inhaling deeply watching their babies get twisted into unhuman-like positions, wrestlers grunting, bodies slamming onto the mat....

It's almost like a heart-beat.

I watch my son meet his opponent in the center, place the green or red band on his ankle, shake hands, look them in the eye, and then begin the dance.

Thump-thump....thump-thump....thump-thump....

Breathe in - breathe out

Work the moves that have been practiced.  Use the mind to maneuver to gain the advantage - and to get out of bad situations. Gain points.

Sweat, sometimes blood, and sometimes tears....and all the while I'm sitting in the crowd watching my son grow.

What my son doesn't know, and what I want to share with all of you, including my son is this:

Colton,  I don't need you to win.  I care more that YOU want to win,  I want you to win for YOU.  Every time you step onto the mat I watch you grow - whether you win or lose - you grow.  You grow in knowledge, in self-worth, in character, in courage, and in so many ways that matter more than the 6 points on the scoreboard.  You are learning life lessons.

It takes courage to step onto that mat.  It takes courage to get onto a bus to travel knowing your team will never win a meet.  It takes courage to stand next to your teammates and face an opposing team with a full roster.  To have courage you have to have heart.

You Have Heart.

Your team has heart.

As you ready yourself for the last regular meet of the season and the impending sectionals and districts, know that you are worth more than 6 points on a scoreboard - your team is worth more than 30 points totaled up.  You guys are a team of five courageous, dedicated, determined young men who give everything they have every single time you step onto that mat....and your fans love each one of you.

Wrestling isn't a sport for the faint of heart.

Wrestling is a sport of all heart, and it's where my son's heart lies...

and that's what makes this momma proud.

Where do we go from here?

Tomorrow is it.

The day I have been dreading since last year when my small congregation made the decision that 2015 would be the last year our church doors would stay open.  A firm date wasn't chosen until this spring and that date is now tomorrow.  It seemed so far away when we talked.....

It wasn't.
It isn't.....

October 25, 2015

In the Lutheran Church, this year October 25th is celebrated as Reformation Day.  For those of you (like me - a little Methodist girl) who didn't learn the significance of Reformation Day, I'll outline it quickly for you.

Martin Luther, born to a Roman Catholic family, became an Augustinian monk and was ordained to the priesthood in 1507.  While studying theology at the University of Wittenberg, he found the theology teachings began to clash with the teachings of the Catholic church.  He wrote that salvation came not by any human work, but by absolute faith in God's promise of forgiveness because of Jesus Christ. In 1517, he nailed a document - known as the 95 Theses - to the church door at Wittenburg and thus started the Protestant Reformation.

We chose to close our doors on Reformation Sunday....

I went to my church this morning, to drop off the mail in Pastor's office. I noticed the sunlight coming in from the windows, falling across the honey-colored paneling.  I opened doors to old classrooms that have been empty of children learning about the Trinity for more years than I'd like to say.  I walked the hallway back towards the sanctuary, each footfall bring me closer to the end of an era.

I stood in front of the alter.



Head bowed. Tears flowing.

Memories of my children being confirmed, my in-laws being married, the singing for funerals, the multiple times of taking communion came washing over me.

In my ear I heard, "Jesus wept."

I turned and my hands gently touched each pew as I walked toward "our pew".  I turned in the last pew (yes, it's a Lutheran thing to sit at the very back) and sat.  Not on the end - that's Robie's spot, but one space in - my spot.

I sat and took in the entire chancel.  From the cross and the candlesticks on the alter; the large Bible that sits just off center, to the two chancel chairs where past Pastors and guest Pastors have sat, to the pulpit where it seemed most Sundays that Pastor was talking directly to my heart.



The pew....

The pew where my children bickered between themselves and got "the look" from me and would quiet down.  The pew that has held my family as my son grew tall enough that his knees now touch the pew in front of us, whereas it seems just like yesterday, his feet barely touched the outdated, gold-flecked carpeting of the floor. The pew where I held my husband's hand, even though we might have argued just that morning over running late because of missing shoes or ties, because we were in God's house and we needed that reminder of love.

More tears.

I finally got up and walked down the few stairs, past the members' mail-boxes, the sign up sheets for ushering, communion, and alter flower duties with November and December crossed off, and I paused at the doors.


  I said a prayer for those of us "homeless" after Sunday.



As I locked the doors, I thought about Martin Luther and his 95 Theses.  I thought about the changes of the church and the world in the last 498 years since that fateful day in 1517.  I thought about the changes in our own church.

I prayed and wondered where we'll go from here...

"Good Grief, Charlie Brown!"

When I was younger, one of my favorite comic strips was Peanuts.  I even wrote to, and received a letter (that I'm sure is in a box somewhere because I don't throw ANYTHING away) back from Charles Schultz.

My holiday television pleasures were watching the gang deal with the Great Pumpkin, and A Charlie Brown Christmas.  The exasperation Lucy had with Charlie Brown over his handling or lack of handling situations, could always make me smile.  Sometimes I'm a lot like Lucy.

Shocking, right?!?!?  ;)

As I've aged and experienced life more, I've gone from the exclamation such as Lucy used, to the noun form of the word.

Grief.   (Greef)

NOUN

1.

keen mental suffering or distress over affliction or loss; sharp sorrow; painful regret.

2.

a cause or occasion of keen distress or sorrow.

IDIOMS

3.

come to grief to suffer disappointment, misfortune, or other trouble; fail: Their marriage came

 to grief after only two years.

4.

good grief (used as an exclamation of dismay, surprise, or relief): Good grief, it's started 

to rain again!

The church I am a member of is closing.  This is not news to any of you reading this.  Financially it's just not feasible to keep the doors open with only 12 attending members on a "good" Sunday.

Some months ago, the congregation met with our district president to find out what the process is to go about "decommissioning" a church.  After discussing the legalities, Pastor Paul wanted us to know we'd all probably go through the five stages of grief.  I was already in tears at this point, so it made sense to me that this would happen.  What I didn't realize is that I'd get stuck in one of the stages - or potentially do them out of order.

The stages of grief are: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, & Acceptance.

I blew right through denial, bargaining, and acceptance.  It's inevitable that we'll close.  Although my God can perform miracles, I don't believe keeping our doors open is one of them that warrants His time and attention.  Depression was a little more tricky for me.  I waiver between that one and anger.

But I am currently stuck in anger.  I AM VERY ANGRY....

I can list off a litany of things I'm angry about. (Funny, how the word litany came to mind - its' origin comes from the church.)   I'm not going to detail what I'm angry about because the list is between me and my Lord - and the Holy Spirit has been working diligently on my hardening heart.

The point is that this is the stage in which I am stuck.

This morning, in the quiet, pre-dawn moments of waking, when the house and my mind were both quiet, I was able to hear the Holy Spirit minister to my weary, angry self.   The words spoken on my heart were these:

Rita, Jesus's earthly father was a carpenter.  His hands were rough and calloused from years of work. Times when wood or fasteners created blisters that broke open and became wounds, only then to form harder skin over the area in which to protect it from further damage and/or create a scar in which Joseph was reminded of the fruits of his labors.  

You also form callouses in your life.  Your skin hardens a little bit after being hurt, so too, does your heart.   You can continue to let them harden or you can apply a balm to soften them.  You'll still see the fruits of your labors, but in a different Light.  The balm is His word and your faith.  Use the balm.

I didn't want to go to church today.  The anger was too great and too raw.  I feared Pastor would see it in my face and on my heart.

I went.

I listened, sat convicted, but then let the balm begin to work.

I'm still angry - I'm flawed and human.....but my heart is softening a bit more.

I have five more Sunday opportunities to sit in my church before the doors close.  I have two months in which to daily apply the balm.

I may not like this phase of grief I'm in.  It may take more time that I'd like, but I am absolutely certain this phase is the one that He will use to teach me the most.

What scares you?

I was a business woman, a mother of two young children, with a husband who was on the road as a salesman 3 days out of 4.  My closest family was a three & a half hour drive away.  I was hanging on.... keeping it all together.....

until....

That darn "C" word hit again.  Cancer.  In a matter of months I had lost four loved ones to the disease and a few more were diagnosed.  It was more than I could take.  I was cracking....

I called an old friend and asked her for a reference to a good Christian therapist in the Des Moines area.   Never did I think I would be sitting on a couch...never in a million years.  I was the one who helped...not the one who needed help.

His name was Dr. Dilly - and I met with him twice.  The first visit I sat on his couch with a box of kleenex and bawled like a baby for what seemed like an eternity.  I was embarrassed, shocked, and relieved all at the same time.  Talk about a wide range of emotions in a short period of time... Once I composed myself he asked me some tough questions.

The toughest question?

Name three things that scare you.

It turned out to be the easiest one to answer and the words came tumbling out rapidly...

1.) Confrontation
2.) Rejection
3.) Cancer

WOW!  I remember sitting there watching his reaction.  He was very calm as he looked down at my initial interview sheet I had filled out prior to our meeting.  Then he looked at me, shook his head, and with sincerity and a bit of humor in his voice said, "And you sell real estate for a living?".   I think I started laughing hysterically at this point....that laughter that leads to crying, and snorting, and more kleenex to wipe up the mess.

WOW!

I was in sales where, on any given day, I got to be a financial counselor, a marriage counselor, a babysitter, and sometimes, just a Realtor.  Talk about confrontation and rejection!

After my second meeting with Dr. D., I learned what my stressors were, how to effectively deal with them to keep my sanity, and I learned that I am not alone....ever....  and I'm human.  A sinner, an imperfect person with high aspirations of perfection that I'll never achieve.

Now don't get me wrong - I'll stand up for myself six days out of seven, but open confrontation isn't something I look for during my day.  I prefer to be the peace-maker.  There's always a way to resolve issues if you just take a breath and step back for a second.  Sometimes the only way is to agree to disagree - and that's okay.  I've evolved over the years....

I've made the choice to be a peace-maker for most of my adult life.  I've learned that throwing a fit doesn't solve anything except release anger that usually makes someone else feel like crap, and well, after that happens, I feel even worse.

Maybe it's because I'm married....

Maybe it's because I'm a mom....

Maybe it's because I'm a woman....

Maybe it's because I'm a Christian...


and just maybe it's because I am all of them.

I think Dr. Dilly would be proud of my progress.  I think he would laugh that I went from the frying pan into the fire - so to speak - being a business owner now, but I'm sure he would be proud.

Regardless, I still have those three fears...  The biggest difference now?

Those three fears don't have me anymore.

A Mississippi Man of God... and a little girl from NW Iowa...

 

I grew up in an old white church.

 

The outside was white, the inside was white, and the congregation was....well, white. 

 

My favorite minister of that Methodist Church was Reverend Nicholson.  He was originally from Mississippi (not at all, all white) and served our NW Iowa church in the late 70's and early 80's.  He had the most amazing sounding voice to this little girl who hung on his every word.... 

 

That southern drawl, mixed with a little, strike that, A LOT of southern sass, and God's love held my attention for many years. 

 

That voice cut through a fog I was in the other day while I was feeling pretty low. I heard his voice as clearly as if I was sitting in the same pew wearing my Sunday dress and Mary-Jane's in 1978.

 

I heard his voice saying the benediction he said every Sunday that I can remember - it goes a little like this (You can imagine the drawl):  And now, unto Him, who is able to keep you from falling; and to present you faultless before His throne of Glory.  To Him be dominion and power both now and forever more. Amen. 

 

Those words.... they comforted me for more years than I can tell you, but the other day?  Well, the other day they actually sunk in to me - to the very core, and tapped on that little girl's heart that still beats in a 44 year old woman's body. 

 

I know they come from the book of Jude 1:24-25 -  The King James version:  Now unto him that is able to keep you from falling, and to present you faultless before the presence of his glory with exceeding joy, to the only wise God our Saviour, be glory and majesty, dominion and power, both now and ever. Amen

 

That voice....

That voice and the twinkling eyes that went along with it and the smile. 

Able to keep you from falling...

Man, it feels like I've done a lot of falling since I first heard those words.  Stresses of family - feeling like I've failed as a wife and mother.  Stresses of work and finances, bad decisions, indecisions, you name it, I've felt it.  Felt like I couldn't stop falling, yet HE is able to keep me from falling....

Faultless.... present ME faultless? 

I'm a fan of the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser....I mean, I've raised kids, right?!?  That little tool is amazing at making marks disappear.  Color on the wall?  Poof!  Gone.  Football helmet needs to be shined up? Poof!  Good as new. 

Now I'm not saying being presented faultless before God is like a magic eraser, but maybe there IS a bit of a comparison there....   That horrible decision I made that made me lose sleep?  Give it to Jesus.  Poof!  It's gone.   Cleansed, and able to be presented faultless....

To Him be Glory....  YOU BET!  

I went to the good old web and found Rev. Nicholson's obituary.... you see, he died in 2009 - on Christmas Day.  Pretty cool for a minister.  I found out some interesting things about this man whose voice is written on my heart.... things that I wanted to share with you. Things that a young girl from conservative northwest Iowa didn't have a clue about back in the day.  Things that make my heart smile knowing that the same man that did amazing work in Mississippi, did amazing work in me.

James B, Nicholson, 86, a retired United Methodist minister and one of the original 28 United Methodist ministers in Mississippi who signed the document "Born of Conviction", taking a stand against racism, went to his Heavenly home on Christmas Day.

In January 1963, Rev. Nicholson, along with the 27 other clergy, drafted, signed and published a document titled "Born of Conviction" which helped fuel the civil rights movement that began to take place in Mississippi. At that time they faced wide criticism for their actions; "some were ousted from their congregation and faced death threats, some left freely, and some stayed and fought". The Mississippi United Methodist Annual Conference publicly welcomed twenty of the remaining members of the group in 2005 honoring them and the changes made in the United Methodist Church in the last four decades.

Rev. Nicholson or "Big Daddy" as he was fondly called, shared his love of the outdoors and was instrumental in the Iowa United Methodist camping program as he helped develop many adventure camps for the Iowa Conference during the 70s and 80s. He had a spiritual impact on hundreds of Iowa youth as they fished and canoed through the Canadian waters learning about love and faith through Jesus Christ.


I'll say he had a HUGE impact on me during the 70's and 80's - enough so, that 30 years later his words still comfort me.  

Hopefully, they can comfort you.

One last thing.... every so often he had an extra tid-bit of information that in his words, "I just threw that in for nothin'.  Won't cost you a penny."  So in that spirit, here's a picture of the man who shaped my early faith and still speaks to me when I need to be reminded that yes, HE will keep me from falling into the depths of despair and depression, and yes, HE will present me faultless before the throne of Glory.

 Until we meet again at the great banquet....

We all share the same table....

There are eight families in my church.  We each sign up for a month or two during the year for ushering, providing alter flowers, setting communion, etc.  I usually sign our family up for a couple and especially, the month of August, to do all of our "chores of church".

Why August?  That's the month I stood before God, my family, and my friends and pledged my love and my life to my husband.  There is definite meaning in the month of August for me.

In our church we celebrate communion on the first Sunday of the month, unless there are five Sundays - then we celebrate it again on the third Sunday.

There are five Sundays in August.

I set communion yesterday after finishing singing at a wedding at First United Church across the street from our Faith Lutheran Church.  I'm not certain exactly what denomination their members are - it used to be a Methodist church, but then merged with the Congregational Church somewhere down the line possibly?  The hymnals are definitely Methodist, so maybe they lean more that way....I guess it doesn't matter really.

We all share the same table.

Hmmmm.....  a wise woman told me that last night as we discussed our joys and our sorrows, our anxieties and our comforts.

We all share the same table.

We drink the same wine.

We eat the same bread.

We remember the same body and blood of the One who saved us.  

Young and old.  

Missouri Synod Lutheran, Baptist, Methodist, or Catholic. 

Red, Yellow, Black, or White....we are ALL precious in His sight.....

We share the same table.  

One that was prepared for us.  One that was commanded of us to share with others.  One table.....

I love my "church chore" of setting communion and then taking it down after church.  There is a comfort in preparing the body and blood of Christ for my church family.  There is also a comfort in washing the goblets and placing them gently in their velvet-lined box.  How many hands have washed these cups?  I remember all those who have gone before me and know that they are at THE table....

Today's scripture lesson and sermon was based on Isaiah 56:1, 6-8
This is what the Lord says:

“Maintain justice
    and do what is right,
for my salvation is close at hand
    and my righteousness will soon be revealed.

And foreigners who bind themselves to the Lord
    to minister to him,
to love the name of the Lord,
    and to be his servants,
all who keep the Sabbath without desecrating it
    and who hold fast to my covenant—
 these I will bring to my holy mountain
    and give them joy in my house of prayer.
Their burnt offerings and sacrifices
    will be accepted on my altar;
for my house will be called
    a house of prayer for all nations.”
 The Sovereign Lord declares—
    he who gathers the exiles of Israel:
“I will gather still others to them
    besides those already gathered.”

   

Do I welcome others to know what I know?

To share in the joy and peace of sitting in His house?  

To comprehend (as much as our earthly minds can) the completely unselfish sacrifice represented in the bread and wine?

I'm not a missionary.
The word evangelist brings back horrid memories of blue eye shadow and fake eye lashes and slick-talk.

I don't give my testimony....at least not like I was brought up to believe how that was done....but maybe I then again, I do.

Regardless, today, sitting in these old wooden pews, with windows open because we have no air conditioning, fan blowing my bulletin around, and turning the pages in my hymnal without my consent, I was reminded once again.

We all share the same table.

Welcome.....

Sacrifice....

sacrifice - [sak-ruh-fahys] 

verb (used with object) :  
                to surrender or give up, or permit injury or disadvantage to, for the sake of something else.


This word, this three syllable word, has been on my mind this week.  A LOT.   It has so many different definitions (12 to be exact if you look it up on dictionary.com), but this one is the definition that has weighed heavy on me this week.

Maybe it's because it's Memorial Day weekend and I think of all the lives sacrificed so that I may have freedom.

Maybe it's because I've been working really hard, so that my kids can go to college without owing their first-born child to the college when they graduate.

Maybe it's because I see how many things my own parents gave up for me so that I had their time and attention when I needed it most.

Maybe it's because I finally see that there just isn't enough time in the day to get everything done that I want done, so I have to pick and chose.

And maybe it's because this week I've submerged myself into Christian music and I'm reminded of the greatest sacrifice.

Here's a thought: 

You know how you're all excited about buying a new car and you know the kind you want and the color and you just can't wait because NO ONE has one yet?  Then one day you start driving and looking at cars on the road and just like that, you see one....no, two.....no, THREE cars exactly like you had picked out?!?!?  Where did they all come from?!?!?  They weren't there before!  Maybe you didn't notice them until you knew that's what you were going to get and then, BOOM!  they are everywhere because that's where your focus is.

That's how God works with me.   Funny, huh?!  He puts a thought in my head, and then suddenly everything in my path works around that thought.  I might be just for a day, or it might be for a week, but that's always how it goes.  This time, it was a week and it was in subtle ways. 

Like seeing a Facebook post my friend Jeni put on her page about losing her husband in the Middle East and knowing she was going to celebrate this weekend like he would want her to.

She knows sacrifice.

Or listening to my children make choices about friends and values.

They know sacrifice.

Or just today, when spending time on the lake I dropped a very important piece of our bimini top into the blue depths of Miller's Bay and without thinking, jumped in after it, losing my sunglasses, the piece itself, and my watch (which had tremendous sentimental value).

I felt sacrifice today.

Phillipians 3: 7-14

7 But whatever were gains to me I now consider loss for the sake of Christ. 8 What is more, I consider everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them garbage, that I may gain Christ 9 and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which is through faith in[a] Christ—the righteousness that comes from God on the basis of faith. 10 I want to know Christ—yes, to know the power of his resurrection and participation in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, 11 and so, somehow, attaining to the resurrection from the dead.

12 Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already arrived at my goal, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. 13 Brothers and sisters, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, 14 I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.

Paul SAW sacrifice...  and left us these words.

Yes, it's painful to lose loved ones to a greater cause....

Yes, it's hard to watch our children have to make tough choices...

Yes, it's frustrating to know our limits and decide what gets our focus....

Yes, it's heart-wrenching to realize something you treasured is now gone...

But isn't it amazing, that, in the "grand scheme of things" (as I like to say),  all those losses lead us toward the ultimate goal?

Maybe I need to focus on losing more things.....

Tattered Cardboard....

Were you there when they crucified my Lord...

Onward, Christian Soldiers...

I walked today where Jesus walked....

The old rugged cross....

Amazing grace...

How great thou art....


Hymns of my past, present and future.  Some of my favorites. My foundation of my faith....my connection to church and the Word.   I've sung them from a hymnal, from memory, and on a large screen hanging from the ceiling near the pulpit. 

I've seen their hymn numbers posted in bulletins, flashed on screens, but last Saturday, as I was preparing for Sunday's service I decided I liked them posted - the old fashioned way....

You see, these numbers....these tattered, aged, worn pieces of cardboard, remind me of ....    me.

A little rough around the edges...
Worn...
Faded...
Sturdy...

I relate to these numbers....

 

I ponder all the hands that have held them, I wonder if, when they accidentally bent a corner while trying to place it in the row, how they might have felt.  I think about all the hands - giving hands - that put them up and then took them down, Sunday after Sunday, Advent through Lent, baptism, funeral, Confirmation, Christmas, Easter, Reformation Sunday....



My Christian journey started in a small-town Methodist church - where we still had enough kids to have a children's junior high choir, even adults to have an adult choir, and rarely an empty pew.  I found the hymn numbers in the bulletin and marked them in the red hymnal that I treated with great reverence- thanks to the teaching of my parents (I would almost cry if I bent a page of the thin paper).

I've been a member of a large suburban church near Des Moines where there were more services on one Sunday than we had in a month of Sundays growing up.  I've seen the opportunities this church had simply because of the sheer numbers.  I sang hymns from the large screens that dropped from the front of the church while the organ rang loudly in my ears to accompany such a large congregation.

Currently, I'm one of approximately 12 that worship at my small Missouri Synod Lutheran Church in NW Iowa.  We have two kids in our church ages 15 and 18 - and they are mine.  We have no choir unless you count us all sitting in our individual pews.  I've blogged about my church home before - how much it means to me....but last week, as I put the hymn numbers up on the board it dawned on me...

No matter the size of the church...

No matter the delivery of the hymns....

No matter the loudness of the music...

It boils down to this for me.....

How long will our church survive?  How many more hands will touch these beautiful pieces of cardboard?  How many more Sundays will they go up and down on the board?  How many other rural churches will survive?

What does it take to get people to church?  What deep, personal connection will make them come back?  Is it the pomp and circumstance that some churches have?  Is it the time of fellowship before and after that will draw them in?  Is it the feeling of acceptance - or is it that they won't feel accepted that keeps them away?

I don't have answers....I only have my connection.....

And my connection has always been the music....

And my love of placing the worn, old, tattered cardboard numbers up near the pulpit.

Reason for it all...

Alison Krauss is a favorite artist of mine.  Her soul-filled, bluegrass music reaches deep places within me and fills me with awe.  Her ability to play multiple instruments, her band members whose voices blend so perfectly, and her voice....the sweet, raspy, gives me goose bumps every time, gift from God.

This past couple of weeks have been filled with challenges.

Another divorce announcement...

A child diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes....

Another cancer diagnosis....

A man lost too soon....

It's easy to get lost in the grief, the anger, the frustration, and the pain.

But....

There have also been joys.

A new life brought into this crazy world....

A few weddings, where new families are created...

A trip of a life-time being taken by two well-deserving people....

A new puppy, given a loving home....


We have joys to balance the sorrows.


We just have to look.
Keep the faith.
Persevere.

One of my favorites of Alison's is below.  Please take a minute to listen...

It reminds me...

Alison Krauss - Reason for it All

Unexpected Duets

Now for those of you who know me, you know I sing.  I've been singing for as long as I can remember...and I'm pretty sure before I could talk, I would hum. :)

I'll have to ask my mom if I ever sang myself to sleep....

I don't remember ever really learning how to sing.  I mean, I took voice lessons in high school and I paid VERY close attention in elementary school music class and of course every Sunday I would listen to my parents sing in the choir and hear the congregation lift their voices, but I don't remember ever really being "taught".

And then one year, I don't remember when, but I remember having (as Oprah would say) an "Aha" moment....

My voice is His gift to me. 

Given so that I may use it to praise Him and spread His message.

Now, let me also tell you, that for the most part, I've used this gift in just that manner.  But there were times that, before I had that "aha" moment, I sang just for me. 

I was prideful.....never conceited, but definitely prideful....

Years ago, I sang with a group out of the Des Moines Metro, called GodZ GuyZ.  Talk about using your gift for Him....  We would travel to churches all around Iowa and spread His word and tell our stories.  Some would call that witnessing, but to me, that sounded a bit "too Bible Belt", so I just shared my "story". 

That time in my life was amazing and I'm grateful "the boys" asked me to join them.

It allowed me to grow.

I've done stints in Nashville, auditioned for "The Voice", performed for the "Colgate Country Showdown", sang at weddings and funerals, and have performed the National Anthem for various teams.

There is nothing quite as breath-taking as being on the ice in the Mark of the Quad Cities, with your face on the jumbo-tron in front of a full arena of riled up hockey fans numbering in the tens of thousands and having all eyes on you....

Waiting for you to sing the National Anthem...

A Cappella....

and THAT is when I felt closest to God...

and no, it wasn't because I was praying to not goof up :)

It was then, when the arena was in total darkness, and I felt alone - even in the midst of thousands, that I FELT Him.

Standing beside me....
Cheering me on....
Holding me up....
Singing a duet....

And I would sing with every ounce of my being.

I actually had one of the players (who we hung out with off the ice) tell me he would get "teary-eyed" when I was singing.  It stirred something in his heart.

Wow....  Hockey players are tough guys....

But my newest favorite memory of singing our National Anthem came this past Saturday evening...

Clay County Relay for Life called me last minute to see if I was available to sing the Anthem at their opening ceremonies.  I was thrilled, and actually talked about it in my last blog.

After being introduced, and seeing many familiar faces in the crowd, my eyes found another set of eyes sitting in the front row.

He was an older gentleman, bent over from age, or genetics, dressed a little haphazardly, but with a light in his eyes that struck me deep.

The Color Guard took their place and I took the microphone and began to sing....

and my mystery man in the front row sang with me...

word for word...

breath for breath...

And I smiled inside.....

Another duet....


There were some that apologized to me afterward for his singing so loudly.

I smiled at them and told them that yes, at first, it caught me off guard, but then it stirred something within me and I had to look away for fear the lump in my throat would become to big to sing around.

I was proud to have him sing with me.

I didn't know his name..... or his story.... but I will remember his voice with mine... singing a song that means so much to so many...

God is good.