Funny how that happens…
This is not the post I meant to write.
The post I meant to write is one I’ve been chewing on for weeks. That one’s about patience, about the bite of patience, the burden of patience, and the blessing of patience.(Alliteration is so fun!) Very serious and contemplative and deep stuff.
Keep your eyes open for that one – it’s gonna be AWESOME.
This one, on the other hand, is one I’m just dashing off because…because of THIS:
Yes, you’re right! It’s a new journal!
Not everyone is a journaler (I don’t know if that’s a word!), but I have been since I was a freshman in college. I would journal faithfully, every day, logging events and emotions and story ideas and frustrations and spiritual insights…I LOVED my journals, and eagerly anticipated reaching the end of one so I could crack open a brand new one. My “hope” chest is crammed full of volume after volume after volume…
And then came marriage. And children. And financial worries and woes. And stress. And packing. And moving. And again. And self-care (of which journaling is most certainly a part) went out the window for years…
But just over two years ago, right when my personal story was getting super dramatic and the growing crisis was reaching a boiling-over-point, I picked up my pen and a half-used journal and started there.
In the last 2 years, as I’ve made a habit of penning my thoughts and feelings and insights and questions (no, not daily- still married, still parenting, still sorting out finances and dealing with stress…fortunately NOT moving, at least not anytime soon!), I’ve found a sense of stability and release and have re-claimed the ability to look at what I’ve written and receive insight on how to manage it. Once it’s on paper, everything is so much less threatening.
And a new journal – ohmygoodnessitsafreshstartanewchapterawholenewworld!
Congratulations if you could read that the first time.
But it’s true, isn’t it?
Something about a blank journal page is so promising and hopeful and exciting! As much as I loved writing in the last one, I couldn’t help but quiver in anticipation as I saw that last page getting closer and closer, knowing that, when I close the back cover of that volume, it’s all history! Sure, I can go back and read and ponder (and I do frequently), but that new volume gets all my creative juices flowing and reminds me that I can write my life however I want to. The last chapter has ended, the new has begun.
It’s a lot like New Year.
And it also reminds me of our Heavenly Father – the grandest Writer and Architect and Composer ever. I am a master of mucking things up (explaining the crisis I found myself in 2 years ago), but He? He is the Author of fresh starts, new chapters, blank pages. That He can walk into a life and re-boot it, wipe away all the mistakes and the wrong turns and the poor decisions and say, “Here’s a new book – try again!” is, by far, a tender mercy beyond compare.
In 1993, I wrote a sonnet. Yes, a sonnet. One of those Shakespearean language nightmares. It was never accepted for publication, but perhaps that was meant to be because now I get to share it. Looking at that new journal, that fresh start, that steppingstone towards greater things, brought it to my memory, and it’s so perfect for this moment:
With pen in hand, I’m poised to make a mark
Upon a brand new page, so clean and white.
The words reflect my thoughts: confused and dark
And jumbled; nothing that I scrawl sounds right.
I dash and scribble, frantically erase
Mistakes that mar the beauty of my piece;
I sweat and toil and gasp for words of grace
And elegance – the struggle does not cease!
The piles of crumpled paper on the floor
Are proof that untried words may have no part;
But patience soon prevails…my eyes, strained sore,
Behold the finished work of priceless art.
The Writer of my life, with no less care
Inscribes in me a text of radiance rare.
God can, and will, rewrite your life. It is His joy to “give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the LORD, that he might be glorified” (Isaiah 61:3).
My favorite statement from Kayla’s beautiful blog – and she’s SPOT ON: “Sometimes, I realized, as I stopped dead in my tracks to catch my breath, realizing there was yet another switchback that hinted at us being nowhere near the trailhead–the journey is ugly. “
This blog post came to me precisely around the time the snow pack shifted under my hiking boot and I felt my ankle “crack”.
It wasn’t a break–I knew that right away. But it was uncomfortable enough that the 8 or so miles to go didn’t sound too exciting at that moment.
It was around that time when my cute partner turned around with his hiking poles in hand, his eyes covered by dark glasses to keep away the glare from the white–and he said genuinely, “Babe, do we need to turn back?”
No, was my response of course–as I winced, adjusted my hiking boot, and continued onward. I’m stubborn like that–and he knows it.
It was the very last hike of our weekend and I wasn’t about to let it slow me down. He had planned the perfect anniversary weekend. We stayed in a train car that was…
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This is not a whine, or complaint.
It is, however, a statement of what is.
25 years ago, this weekend, I was commissioned (ordained) as a Salvation Army officer (minister), alongside 51 other people with whom I ate, studied, played, prayed, preached, and traveled in ministry. We were – are – the “Followers of Jesus”.
I did so not out of a strong sense of divine calling (in fact, the night we signed our covenants to serve as Blood and Fire officers in The Salvation Army for the rest of our lives, I felt a nearly overpowering urge within me to not sign, a voice, almost, saying this is not for you…), but out of not knowing what else to do.
I was born and bred to serve.
I knew no other expression of Christianity than that which wore navy blue uniforms, called each other by rank, and populated those ranks with souls rescued from abuse, addiction, and overall life trauma.
I was young – 22 – and I wanted to make my parents proud. This was the natural progression for a young lady who rose through the ranks as a Junior Soldier, Sunbeam, Girl Guard, Senior Soldier, and Graduate Corps Cadet. “Officer” was next.
After being commissioned, I lasted two-and-a-half years, miserable every day, knowing that my path had to be different, because the path within The Army could not possibly reflect the joy and peace of God promised me.
Not one day of joy, not one day of peace…just longing for something else.
I was 25 when I walked away. After much prayer, and fasting, and more prayer and fasting, I resigned my commission and followed Jesus on faith alone.
Against the counsel of leaders, I walked away and followed Jesus.
Even though it broke my mother’s heart, I walked away and followed Jesus.
Not looking back to answer the questions of others and address many raised eyebrows, I walked away and followed Jesus.
The road hasn’t been easy, but along that road I have discovered the love of God in so many different ways, in so many different places, and with so many different people.
I’ve made plenty of mistakes – or what I thought were mistakes. There have been dark spots…places where this sheep was truly lost and could no longer hear or see the Shepherd…
…but it was in those times that I discovered just how creative and out-of-the box He is when He comes to the rescue.
Mistakes? Maybe. Wasted time and life? Not at all.
I do not regret my choice.
I have returned twice to lay service in The Army, and every time, it brought out the worst in me and ended badly – very badly. No one can say I didn’t try to find a place within their ranks – I most certainly did.
That this worldwide, beloved-by-many Christian church, known for its selfless service to the indigent, the poor, the ignored and oppressed, is not my place is no longer in question.
I have found my place. After a long journey through many denominations and experience gathered from countless forms of vocational and avocational ministry, I have found my place. A quieter, more isolated and solitary place, one that relies on secret prayer, unspoken devotion, and receives no great attention. No banners, no bands, no flags and drums. And I continue to follow Jesus Christ with joy, just as do those of my dear friends whose place remains in that band of spiritual soldiers. Perhaps because it was woven into my very DNA, I continue to love the unloved, never reckoning the cost…and I am happy. I am at peace.
On the 25th anniversary of that momentous event, I can’t help but miss the relationships, the camaraderie, the sense of unity and purpose and direction – almost a “lockstep” with companions that a more solitary walk with Christ just doesn’t have. I miss the late night, post-service “afterglows”, the common stories, and the wordless glances where volumes are communicated in an instant. I miss a common paradigm for life and service. I miss the music…how I miss the music…
It is a family – a family within the family of God.
As I look at pictures posted on Facebook of my sessionmates celebrating the 25th anniversary of our commissioning, watching many of their children celebrate that same, powerful event, a solitary tear is trickling down my cheek. Not one of regret, or even sadness. It is a tear of nostalgia, a tear of contemplation as I reflect on just how unique the journey for each individual follower of Jesus is. Unique and tailored to most fully develop the image of our Savior in each one of us.
The day I walked across the stage at the Scottish Rite Auditorium in Long Beach, California, to receive my commission and my first appointment, General Paul A. Rader spoke this Scripture to me, and it has echoed in my soul for the last quarter century:
For the eyes of the LORD run to and fro throughout the whole earth, to shew himself strong in the behalf of them whose heart is perfect toward him. (2 Chronicles 16:9)
Even though my path has been different, and life has taken turns and detours I never even imagined, the Lord has shown Himself strong on my behalf – so many times, and in so many ways.
His tender mercies have flanked me behind and before, and He is acquainted with all my ways (go read Psalm 139!).
I am still, in every way and now more than ever, a Follower of Jesus.
“Oh, that I might have my request, and that God would grant me the thing that I long for.” –Job 6:8
I used to write a lot of poetry. Back when I was young, and single, and unfettered by daily cares, my prayers often took the form of verse. Some were even fitted to music.
I don’t often feel the poetic muse anymore.
But today, as I read Job, and considered how God has worked in my life over the last few years, the muse struck. It struck rather hard. Portland has some lovely, secluded spots just asking for deep contemplation and prayer…
I wait for You, so quietly,
Amid the babbling brooks and rustling trees.
The air is still, the sun is calm,
And in this place I know You’ll come
And offer balm that heals my weary soul
And speak the words that mend and make my spirit whole…
I wait for You and know that soon
My wait will end and You will meet with me again.
I wait for You, and in my heart
Your precious words of love, they do their part
To calm the storms of life outside,
To reassure that I will ever be Thy bride;
And even though I know not when You’ll come
And greet me as Your friend…
I wait for You and know that soon
My wait will end and You will meet with me again.
Oh, there are times the wait is hard,
And I feel ready just to leave it be,
But then Your Voice, so calm and clear calls
“My Beloved, come and sit and sup with Me.”
I wait for You, and as I wait,
I sing the song that Love has given me,
Redeeming Love has changed my heart,
And placed Thy holy image within me.
So if the wait should seem too long,
I will go back and sing that lovely song…
I wait for You and know that soon
My wait will end and You will meet with me again.
In my few moments of free time, I’ve invested quite a bit of money and effort in researching my family tree (you can read more about that in my last blog post).
I got my saliva analyzed…
…and spent hours reconstructing what is now several hundred years of ancestors, thanks to the good folks at Ancestry.com.
I have so enjoyed reading different stories that different distant relatives have put in the files of shared ancestors, watching how the different branches of this tree migrated from various countries to the United States and then across this country, and really just discovering how I came to be.
But my favorite part?
Pictures. Pictures that show the miracle that we call genetics.
This is my paternal grandmother, Bubby Hannah…
…and this is her mother, Bubby Pauline (yes, I’m Jewish).
And here’s me:
Perky nose, high cheekbones, Cupid’s Bow lips, widow’s peak and pointed jawline…it’s all there. I am their spit and image. But it’s not just physical; my Aunt Diane, Dad’s younger sister, frequently tells me that I remind her of her mother not just in appearance, but in personality and life. She was a violinist who worked with at-risk youth at the Jewish youth center in the Bronx. I’m a pianist and choir teacher who has been a social worker and teacher most of her life, working with at-risk youth in multiple communities.
Not only am I the offspring and image of my forbears, but my very life creates an image of them and recalls their memory for others. It really is quite fascinating. This apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree…
…and this apple easily identifies the tree from which it fell.
When I was put on the calendar to preach today, I turned to the assigned Scripture lessons and read the following:
Then Paul stood in front of the Areopagus and said, “Athenians, I see how extremely religious you are in every way. For as I went through the city and looked carefully at the objects of your worship, I found among them an altar with the inscription, ‘To an unknown god.’ What therefore you worship as unknown, this I proclaim to you. The God who made the world and everything in it, he who is Lord of heaven and earth, does not live in shrines made by human hands, nor is he served by human hands, as though he needed anything, since he himself gives to all mortals life and breath and all things. From one ancestor[a] he made all nations to inhabit the whole earth, and he allotted the times of their existence and the boundaries of the places where they would live, so that they would search for God and perhaps grope for him and find him—though indeed he is not far from each one of us. For ‘In him we live and move and have our being’; as even some of your own poets have said,
‘For we too are his offspring.’
Since we are God’s offspring, we ought not to think that the deity is like gold, or silver, or stone, an image formed by the art and imagination of mortals. While God has overlooked the times of human ignorance, now he commands all people everywhere to repent, because he has fixed a day on which he will have the world judged in righteousness by a man whom he has appointed, and of this he has given assurance to all by raising him from the dead.” (Acts 17:22-31, NRSV)
And what caught my eye? We too are his offspring.
What does that mean, to be God’s offspring? To understand that, we have to go to ancient Athens, where Paul spoke these amazing words.
Ancient Athens was, much like our own society today, a polyglot of religious and cultural diversity. Ancient Greeks were generally polytheistic, believing in a variety of gods and goddesses. Their observances were similar to ours:
- They met for corporate worship on designated days;
- They expressed gratitude for blessings;
- They asked for blessings;
- They gave gifts to their sanctuary.
But there was one great difference. Christians understand God to be the ultimate source of love. We rely on His love to drive the relationship we have with Him.
The ancient Greeks, however, understood the deities differently.
In Greek mythology, the gods didn’t love humans. They were fickle, subject to the same emotions and responses and poor judgment that we, as mortals, experience every day. So, rather than worship being a loving response to a loving Heavenly Father, worship for them was a way to curry favor and avoid offense. And Paul acknowledges that. In the King James Version, he calls them “too superstitious”:
Then Paul stood in the midst of Mars’ hill, and said, Ye men of Athens, I perceive that in all things ye are too superstitious. For as I passed by, and beheld your devotions, I found an altar with this inscription, To The Unknown God.
In the Greek mind, that altar was necessary to avoid angering a god they may have missed. And Paul uses that paradigm, that superstition, to introduce them to the truth. He even goes so far to use their own poet/philosopher, Aratus, to address their practice of idolatry:
Let us begin with Zeus, whom we mortals never leave unspoken.
For every street, every market-place is full of Zeus.
Even the sea and the harbour are full of this deity.
Everywhere everyone is indebted to Zeus.
For we are indeed his offspring.
Amazing…if we substitute “Jehovah” or “Yahweh” or “the LORD” for “Zeus”? It might sound a lot like something King David might have written…
So, if we come from God – if indeed we are His offspring – then how can anything we make ourselves be God? Their idols of gold and silver and stone were just that – idols – with no life or power or love.
We know, from our reading of Genesis, that we indeed are formed in the very shape and likeness and image of God, and as such, we are capable, even now, of very God-like things. We have the capacity for doing great good in the world, for being creative and innovative and loving and merciful. We look so much like our Father, we are destined to be like Him. Jesus Christ, who was the spit and image of the Father, even said,
Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because I am going to the Father. (John 14:12, NRSV)
We are God’s offspring, meant to look and act and love and give and be like Him.
But unfortunately, it’s far too rare.
In the culture of religious and philosophical diversity that we call home, how often do onlookers watch us and have created for them an image of that “unknown God” that is absolutely counter to the truth of who God is? How many people look at those who have been baptized into Christ’s body and see:
- Double standards
- Add your own here…
Because, although we can’t create God, just as we are created in His image, we create an image of Him for others. What they see in us, they believe God to be – and that belief could be the fulcrum, the essential factor, in their choice to follow, or not to follow, to reject or to accept, the Gospel.
Our great example is the Savior, Jesus Christ. He was the image of God for us. And as we emulate His life, we can be the true image of God for others.
So, are we, as baptized followers of Jesus Christ, as those who have dared to take on His name, His identity, and His mission, living lives that show the true identity of the “Unknown God”? Or are we confusing the issue?
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
My prayer is that this apple will lead people to the Tree of Life.
It’s that time of year again…that time when mothers are celebrated and gushed over and sent flowers and chocolates and cards and Facebook GIFs and, if they’re lucky, get breakfast in bed and have the house cleaned for them by someone else.
I generally don’t get any of those; I am one of the non-traditional, alternative-type mothers: step- of three…
…adoptive- of one (who was a senior in high school when he joined our family)…
…and foster, for a brief time, to my nephew.
I haven’t birthed any babies; in fact, if I had to accurately describe myself, it would be like, “I’m not really the ‘mom’ type”. Not that I don’t nurture and love and get all gooey over babies and children…I just prefer that said babies and children belong to someone else. I actually love kids! It possibly explains my draw to helping children in other ways; I’ve been a youth pastor and a social worker, and am still in contact with many of my former church and foster youth. Now I’m a teacher. No one can tell me that teaching isn’t a maternal sort of vocation…
And I’m a granny now, too…I see my my grandkids, who live about 2 hours away, a few times a year, and that’s pretty sufficient to get my quota of hugs and kisses and then they go home and I have my house back. It works.
Now, with that lengthy introduction, I have to say that this post is NOT about why I’m as much of a mother as any other mother; I resolved that issue years ago and am quite comfortable with how my journey has turned out. I don’t get weepy on Mother’s Day and wish for cards and chocolates and breakfast in bed.
This post is about this daughter and her mother.
My mom and I have struggled over the years. Really struggled. I come from a long line of abuse; not intentional abuse, but abuse that happens when people get damaged, and thus marry damaged people, and thus create damaged people. I was very damaged growing up, and we didn’t talk about it. Talking about it might incur blame on someone, and there’s no way anyone was healthy enough to accept responsibility for the dysfunction enough to make conscious changes.
That damage leaked into my own marriage and my own attempts at parenting (already challenged by the step- issue).
That damage has impacted and shaped every decision and every turn I have made in my life.
That damage has caused, among other things, a long personal history of never really feeling connected to anyone or anything, a feeling of being rather “tribeless”. As a kid, I never felt like I belonged in my family. Holiday meals where my mom and her sisters and my grandparents and all the cousins gathered? I dreaded them, and tried really hard to hide in a corner with a book.
I left my hometown when I was 20 and didn’t look back. I’ve been back to Yakima, Washington, enough times to count on one hand since then.
I don’t have close sibling relationships. I haven’t seen my brother in 11 years. I hadn’t seen my sister in 8 years; we did, finally, meet for lunch last year. And contact with my mother has been rare and occasional since 2006.
I chat with one cousin, occasionally, on Facebook.
I’ve struggled with that lack of connection with my husband and his family; the fact that I’ve remained married for nearly 20 years is absolutely miraculous; it must be a God thing.
About a year-and-a-half ago, as I was undergoing intense spiritual work, I felt a deep urging, though, to make peace with my mother. To my clinically trained mind, that meant arranging long, therapeutic conversations about wrongs experienced, boundaries being laid out, and forcing the revisiting of things long past. It made sense to me; one can’t forgive unless the offending party admits guilt, right? And I felt there were so many things that needed to be redressed.
I had the opportunity to go to Portland for a conference last summer. My mom drove 5 hours just to have lunch with me. As I was driving to the restaurant, I started rehearsing everything I was going to say, and my anxiety grew and grew and grew. Then, right before I got out of the car, the Holy Spirit spoke, loud and clear:
“Just LOVE her.”
That was the first time I’d seen my mom in several years, and I nearly cried when we met. I was nervous, and felt awkward, but I started seeing her through new eyes that day.
This was a woman who had survived – a lot. My dad was mentally ill and terribly unstable; she kept their marriage together until he died and functioned very much like a single parent, before and after his death.
This was a woman who had sacrificed – a lot. One example: for five years she squirreled away grocery money so that she could finally buy me a piano when I was 14. That gift changed my life and really set me on my path towards discovering my purpose.
This was the woman who had successfully brought me, and two others, into this world, and had done her very best to guide us into adulthood.
This was the woman who introduced me to my Heavenly Father, and who taught me from before birth to love His Son, my Savior, Jesus Christ, and to follow Him no matter what. When I was away at summer camp, and after I left home, her letters to me always ended with, “Remember who you are, and whose you are.”
As I looked through that new lens, all the wrongs – wrongs not imagined, wrongs very much real and visited multiple times in multiple therapy sessions – suddenly became not so important. And that burden, the burden of finding my own sense of justice – fell off my shoulders. Forgiveness happened. I haven’t picked up that burden again, but keep working towards increased peacemaking and relationship-building; not just with Mom, but with my brother and sister.
But even so, connection with my family has been difficult. The feeling of being on the outside, looking in, has remained so very strong.
Over the last year, I’ve spent many hours on Ancestry.com, researching my lineage. Sent my DNA off to be analyzed and everything.
I started with my father’s side; I always felt more like a “Berko” than an “Ozanne”, so it was a natural place to start. I had a great time seeing pictures of relatives of whom I’d heard brief mentions growing up, and seeing pictures of the grandmothers whose resemblance I bear. Lithuanian (not Hungarian, like I’d thought) women are beautiful.
I went as back as far as I could. The records stopped in the late 19th century, probably due to the Jewish pogroms in Eastern Europe. I’d figured as much.
Then it was time to do my mom’s side.
Then I dove in…
…so far, I’ve made it clear back to 1801, to the Channel Islands between England and France. I don’t know any of the people that I’m finding…but they’re my people. One entry discussed my mother’s maiden name; the very surname Ozanne, given in the 15th century, from the Hebrew word, “Hosanna”, denotes a family history of being Christ-followers.
More recently? Quakers. I come from a lineage of people who took a personal, intimate relationship with Jesus Christ very seriously.
The more I discovered, the more names that kept popping up, names and dates and births and marriages and migrations…the more I felt that sense of connection, of history, of belonging. These are my people, and I love them. I can’t wait to keep searching.
And as that sense of connection grew, my heart – so separated from and often cold towards my mother’s family – has started to warm, and I have realized that my mom, her mom, her grandmother and great-grandmother (and the paternal side, too, but this is about Mother’s Day), are part of a story that is so much greater than any one of us. A story so great that it makes miniscule the imperfections and slights that have plagued my own life.
For the first time in my life, not even knowing the particulars of that story, I feel proud to be part of it.
This is a work of God.
Malachi 4:6 says:
“…and he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers…”
The heart of this daughter has been turned back to her mother.
It is prelude of greater things to come, a magnificent healing in our family. I know it.
Thanks be to God.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.