Published December 11, 2011.
http://www.myshoesmystory.com/2011/12/a-mothers-love-breathing-through-the-night-.html
“We have much to be judged on when he comes, slums and battlefields and insane asylums, but these are the symptoms of our illness and the result of our failures in love.” — Madeleine L’Engle
When my brother traveled to the Sudan he had an encounter that changed his life—and as it ends up, mine too.
He stood in Darfur at an orphanage filled with children leftover from the genocide. There were over 800 children, and during the night wild dogs were dragging them off and killing them.
My brother already felt shell-shocked from the travesties he’d witnessed in Uganda.
The day was hot. The sun beat down upon him. His camera had nearly been ruined from all the dust. He’d barely slept. His gear was heavy. Yet his conscience was seared by the numbness he felt, so he turned and confessed to a Sudanese pastor.
“We shall pray right now that your heart will be opened,” he was told.
Not long after that prayer three young children approached Joshua and started to follow him. After a bit, his father nature kicked in and he stopped and sang Father Abraham. It didn’t take long before the four of them were dancing and going through the motions.
When they finished, he asked the children to tell him how they came to be there.
The oldest, a girl, answered. “The soldiers came and shot my mother and father, so I came here.”
The two other children nodded in agreement. “Me, too.”
He was grief struck, but it was what transpired next that tore my heart. “Do you have a Mommy?” The little girl asked my brother.
“Yes,” he answered.
“And a Daddy?”
Again, his answer was yes.
“Oh,” she said, her voice hinting at a strange intermingling of numbness and grief.
Her question stirs me still. For I believe it came from her soul and revealed the thoughts of her heart. She didn’t want to know what his country was like, what kind of food he ate, or what he did for a living. She had her own bullet holes leftover from the genocide. Her world consisted of this single question: Who still had parents and who didn’t?
In her questions I heard her worry and fear. Imagine being trapped in a war-torn country, a land of famine, drought and disease. Imagine trying to survive it as an orphan with death threatening you every hour. No matter how much she’s endured, at the end of the day, she’s still just a little girl. And all she really wants is her Mom and Dad.
I imagined my daughter living as an orphan in the Sudan. If I were shot and dying, it would be my hope that my brothers and sisters would care for her. But what if her aunts and uncles were killed too? What was it then, that her parents hoped?
As members of the body of Christ these children are not alone. They have aunts and uncles. Multitudes and multitudes and multitudes of them. Talk about staggering! These kids are our nieces and nephews! Mine. Yours.
So who, I wondered, within the church has the responsibility to step in?
I didn’t like the answer that came. Earlier that week I was shocked to learn that globally I was one of the richest people in the world—even though as an American, I’m pretty poor.
Like it or not I was the rich aunt. I had knowledge of the situation. That made me accountable.
I wasn’t comfortable with the knowledge then, and I’m not comfortable with the knowledge now. But I am determined to do something. Anything.
That day Joshua had in his possession a picture book that someone had asked him to give to someone in the Sudan. It was a children’s book with a story about how we have a Heavenly Father who always loves and cares for us. Joshua read the book and gave it to them.
An American woman took it upon herself to raise the money to build shelter. Every person who donated, even a dollar, helped to create a place where the little girl now sleeps safe from wild dogs.
When Joshua told me he’s going to start a branch of Watermelon Ministries called Media Change, a non-profit encouraging Americans to give up a portion of the money spent on entertainment to serve those fighting world hunger and thirst, I wanted to support it.
For seven years he’s helped non-profits raise money that serves the “least of these.” He’s seen the impact a small investment can have. This is a brand new initiative. He’s not quite ready to launch, but you can sign up and be kept updated at www.mediachange.org. His first goal is garner the support of 10,000 people who are willing to give $10 a month. I’m number #3.
This is only a blog post, but who knows what one blog post can do.
What if the task of helping others isn’t as overwhelming as we make it?
Portion Control
Nov 30
The Gateway to Forever.
Nov 9
I try not to carry this around with me on a day-to-day basis, but there are two to three times of the year that I must allow myself to go to the depths of this place. Like traveling to the foot of a waterfall and letting it rain over me, I have to fully experience it. You may not understand it, but this is my waterfall of grief. It’s intensely personal, and how my journey began. And by choosing to go to this place, and climbing my way back up, I keep life in perspective. I remember what matters, and more importantly, why.
Many say I should be over it by now. After all, it’s been 44 years. Why go there, and when I do, why share those feelings with the world? I guess I do it because my story may be similar to yours, and grief requires us to hold tightly to others. Maybe my words are your words, but you aren’t sure how to say them. Maybe you have never allowed yourself to stand underneath your own waterfall, but it is a huge part of the healing process. Everyone grieves in their own way, alone, but we can still be united, hand-in-hand, as we tread carefully through the valleys of death.
My story is not something you would ever know if you passed me on the streets, but it makes me who I am today. To ignore it would be like keeping part of myself hostage. By letting it out, I get to share my father’s story as well. That may be the most important reason of all to go to this waterfall. Because to me, he still matters.
Dear Daddy,
As a child, I hated that grave stone.
Cold. Silent. Unmoving. Emotionless. It did little to tell your story. Like a cement gate that kept you locked inside; as far away from me as possible.
But it was all that I had.
In some ways, I wanted to take it everywhere I went, just so people would know you were real. I needed for them to remember, to tell me what you were like, to prove that you mattered, long after those stupid dates on that tombstone said that you did.
To me, the dates were all wrong. Somewhere on there, it should have said ‘forever,’ because that’s how long we have to live without you. It really never ends.
To me, this grim slab of concrete represented the life I was supposed to have.
I was supposed to grow up as David Morris’s daughter. Jeanna and I both were. We were supposed to be sitting on the front pew, listening to you preach in church, and getting in trouble for whispering and writing each other notes. We were supposed to roll our eyes at your strict rules, wondering why we couldn’t wear what all the other girls were wearing. You were supposed to give us piggyback rides, have pillow fights, and tell us ghost stories. You were supposed to hold us when we were broken, protect us, baptize us, and one day, walk us down the aisle, and then step forward to perform the wedding ceremony.
That slab of cement, with your name so carefully carved into it, represented the gate that closed between our ‘before’ and our ‘after.’For us, there was no ‘before.’ There was only ‘after.’
How I longed to change those dates; to extend them a few years, just to give us the chance to experience a few of my fairy-tale Daddy moments, face to face. I wanted forever to start later, if that makes any sense.
I guess I came to terms with it, as I grew older. I even learned to embrace it.
It was overlooking this grave stone that I collided with God. I had a million questions for Him, and He allowed me to ask each of them. It was here that you pointed me toward Him, and Heaven. You proved to me that what matters is eternity; that life is a wonderful gift, to be savored one day at a time.
Your tombstone taught me how to stand beneath the waterfall of grief, and allow God to meet me there, even as I wondered what might have been. For every tear that I cried, He was there to wipe them away.
Your tombstone taught me that this can’t be all there is. As a matter of fact, I probably understood that before I learned to tie my own shoes.
You taught me that I belong in Heaven. I get that now, and to be honest, I’m not sure I would have gotten the message as clearly if you were standing here beside me, all preachy, with your big words and everything.
Ironically, your tombstone is what taught me how to live, and to live in such a way that I had no regrets.
Now, I treasure each moment, for I know that they are fleeting.
Somewhere along the way, I realized that I am still David Morris’s daughter. That part never changed.
And maybe others can find out who you were by the way I choose to live.
Maybe I can still make you proud of me, in a way that matters, forever.
I’ve come to treasure that tombstone, because it proves you were here. The beginning, and the end, all a part of your story.
And even though I still believe that this tombstone does little to tell the true story of who you were, it’s finally okay.
Because that’s what I’m here for.
I love you, Daddy.
Save a place for me.
I will see you soon.
Abbandoned Blog
Oct 31
I post here weekly, but wanted to share the link on this site, as well.
http://www.abbandoned.com/1/post/2011/10/walk-on.html
Four out of Five stars.
One book. Two stories.
One book. Two stories. With Christmas Gifts, Harlequin’s Love Inspired Series offers a sweet peek into the holiday season.
Small Town Christmas, by Gail Gaymer Martin, is set in a tiny northern town I have come to know and love in Michigan, with its winter celebrations, main-street charm, and all-in participation into whatever the town has to offer.
I found it easy to quickly relate to the main characters of Mike Russet and Amy Carroll as they struggle through situations that are beyond their control. With a united goal of helping Mike’s twin girls to heal from the death of their mother and learn to express their feelings, rather than dealing with them inappropriately. In the process of learning to discipline his daughters, Mike must learn to allow himself to heal, and feel, as well. Amy, due to common budget shortfalls, was forced to accept a teaching job far from her Chicago home and the thrill of living in the city. She soon discovered that her imprisonment came from within, the ricocheting effects of a lonely childhood which stood between her ability to trust others.
Small Town Christmas truly warms the heart while welcoming a new traditions and hope into the lives of it’s characters. This novella provides a quick read that will fill a chilly afternoon with love, hope, and the ultimate healing.
Her Christmas Cowboy, by Brenda Minton, picks up in the middle of heartbreak and rejection for Elizabeth Harden after her Christmas wedding was canceled, her fiance choosing instead to elope with his new girlfriend. Elizabeth quickly returned to what she knows best, working hard and staying busy. She sends her parents on to enjoy what would have been her honeymoon, and throws herself into temporarily filling her father’s shoes in the corporate world; a welcome relief from the loneliness she had yet to address.
Her path soon crossed with Travis Cooper, an enigma of a man she cannot ignore. A rodeo cowboy, and a known chick magnet, he quickly reveals his hero side, while struggling to figure out why he cannot simply move past the lures of Elizabeth, just as he does with everyone else. Perhaps because she is not immediately enthralled with him, or because he sees the hurt within, he steps into the role of first becoming her friend, a role that did not come easily to him.
Soon, Elizabeth finds herself longing for the close family and support that Travis has, but in order to accept such love, she must open chambers of her heart that she did not know existed.
What I appreciate about the Love Inspired Series is that the characters are damaged, but searching. Broken, but open to hope. Those who love God, but aren’t preachy. It reveals how faith ultimately must cross paths with love, and that relationships and growth are what life is all about. Christmas Gifts is available at Wal-mart this Christmas season, as well as through Amazon. I strongly recommend this book.
Disclaimer: This book was provided for review purposes by the publisher. I was not required to provide a positive review in return.
The Mythical, Magical Moon
Oct 14
My monthly devo for The Christian Pulse, published October 14, 2011.
http://thechristianpulse.com/2011/10/14/the-mystical-mythical-moon/
Four out of five stars.
Book Description:
The Waiting Place by Eileen Button
A collection of essays describing the beauty and humor that can be found in what often feels like a most useless state—The Waiting Place.
We all spend precious time just waiting. We wait in traffic, grocery store lines, and carpool circles. We wait to grow up, for true love, and for our children to be born. We even wait to die. But amazing things can happen if we open our eyes in The Waiting Place and peer into its dusty corners. Sometimes relationships are built, faith is discovered, dreams are (slowly) realized, and our hearts are expanded.
With humor and heart-breaking candor, Eileen Button breathes life into stagnant and, at times, difficult spaces. Throughout this collection of essays she contends that The Waiting Place can be a most miraculous place—a place where beauty can be experienced, the sacred can be realized, and God can be found working in the midst of it all.
My Review:
I love books that meet you where you are, don’t require much from the reader, and you can pick it up and put it down as time allows, without hindering the enjoyment of it. The Waiting Place is just such a book.
Button writes from a personal place, as if writing a letter, sharing a window of her days. She shares funny details, but never too many; ironies, while still being respectful; and oddities, from the natural perspective of a young child in such a way that anyone can relate. As she describes the moments in her life she has been left waiting, usually with no control over the situation, she observes, she learns, she laughs, she makes notes for later, and when necessary, she cries.
After reading this book, I realize that Eileen Button is the type of person that would make a great friend. And, in my opinion, that is the sign of a great writer.
Well done for your first book project, Eileen. Well done.
Disclaimer: I was provided a copy of this book from Thomas Nelson, and was not required to present a positive review in return.
The Muir House by Mary Demuth
Four out of five stars.
The truth about secrets is that they steal your joy, hold you hostage, and over time, build invisible walls that seem insurmountable. No one knows this better than Willa Muir. Moving past her past proved to be more difficult than she ever imagined; not so much because of what she remembers, but rather, what she does not. A proposal of marriage from the guy who was perfect for her, she finally had a chance to run headlong into her future. But with the holes that remained in her past, she was not whole enough to accept such an offer.
Fleeting visions and an entire year that was absent from her childhood memory propelled her to follow that void, no matter how dark the path may become. Angry at herself for running, she soon found that no one wanted her to uncover the mystery; perhaps more to protect her than themselves. Still, she had to know.
The Muir House paints a symbolic picture of a former funeral home, made over to become a Bed and Breakfast, in an ironic attempt to mask secrets of its own. A center point of the town of Rockwall, Texas, it is a common fiber in the lives of the people who call Rockwall home. But for Willa, the return to her home, her town, her past proves, at first, that this is the last place she belongs.
Mary Demuth writes with an uncommon transparency, facing troubling subjects head on. Such is the case with her character Willa Muir. Mature, questioning, broken, yet strong, independent, yet longing to belong.
I recommend this book simply to experience the unique story-telling ability of Demuth. I suspect that her fictional characters are based on complex people that have touched her life in one way or another, which is what makes them so real.
My only constructive comment regarding her characters is that I found some of them a bit distant and difficult to relate to, especially as they evolved from start to finish. But truth, once it is finally revealed, does change people, and Demuth dares to share those stories from all angles.
Demuth has become a master at sharing such stories. She holds nothing back, and healing is indeed a messy process, and a great story worth following.
Disclaimer: I was provided a copy of this book from Zondervan Publishers, but was not required to write a positive review in exchange.
We Promise to Remember
Oct 11
a poem I wrote a few years ago for some friends of mine who lost both their children in a horrific plane crash.
http://www.opentohope.com/?post=poem-we-promise-to-remember
