The children have been brimming with anticipation for weeks. An early snow set for them a Christmas scene that beckoned the holiday to come quickly. But it only seemed to stall. Still, I shop and wrap and scheme a plan to make this a special Christmas to remember.
"It’s Jesus’ birthday! Happy birthday, Jesus!” the littlest exclaims. “Do you think He can hear me?”
I nod and smile, knowing intimately that He does.
He does.
A newlywed couple sent us their card, of eyes and grins beaming, enjoying their first holiday together. And others now adorn our pantry door, a patchwork of faces and stories. Of smiles in spite of pain and of joy in spite of trial. I have walked in some of their shoes for just a mile or two, and can see past the red and green fonts and clip art. On some cards there are new, round faces to kiss. While on others there are sweet faces missing. The tears come easily as the tape masks these ones into place in this half finished collage.
There is a sweet newborn cry at the hospital, of a little girl who has just begun to breathe in this world.
And there’s an old man lying in his bed, in a house that echoes with memories of Christmases past, where children and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren alike, have laughed and shared meals together. The halls are quieter now as he waits for a Home coming like no other.
We drive. With five merry souls singing a carol out of tune in the rows behind us, we go. The twinkling lights that dress the houses along the streets seem to echo, becoming mere joyous reflections of the crystal night with her gleaming, white stars.
A universe aglow above us. Around us.
My heart is full, with both the heights and the depths, in awe of how they seem to mingle together into a finely tuned song on this one day of the year. And I’m in awe of their higher purpose, which can only be brought into focus by the King who heard us, and answered.
With my face turned toward the foggy car window that is refracting the glow of the world, I whisper, “Do You see it? It’s all for You.”
Dec 25, 2013
Aug 15, 2013
Memoirs For Miriam (excerpts)
August 21, 2008
The earth is the Lord's and everything in it, the world and all who live in it.
Psalm 24:1
Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.
Prov. 3:5
We received a picture of Siddhi last night. And there was nothing to do but cry. How is it possible that she is even smaller than before? Sicker? Her arms and legs look like bones. She looks like an old woman, not a child. And is that her hair falling out? Strands of dark brown lightening to red from malnutrition? My mind lingers over these terrible questions and yet my heart cannot even bear to go there.
Am I watching her die?
Father, you are asking me to trust you with the life of my daughter. And so I find myself wondering if I ever knew what it meant to trust - to relinquish ALL control.
No...to acknowledge that I never had it.
I realize now that in the deepest parts of my heart I have been deceived into believing that I do have control - over my life and also over the lives of my children. I feed them. I clothe them. I take them to the doctor when they are sick.
I take care of their every need.
Don't I?
I am now feeling the fear of what it is like to be totally and completely out of control. I have no earthly power to save Siddhi's life. I have none but You. Is it because, for the first time, I am helpless? Or is it that for the first time I am seeing that I have ALWAYS been helpless? That I have no control over any of my children's lives, not just Siddhi's. Every day we're dependent on the One who gives and takes away.
Nothing that has come to be, or that will eventually come to be, happens without first passing through Your hands. And if I truly believe that this adoption is ordained by You - that this little girl is our daughter, our covenant child - then I must also believe that she was Yours before she was ever mine. In fact, she will never be mine. Always Yours.
So I have no other choice but to trust You with what is already Yours.
I plead every moment of every day that she will make it home to my arms. My heart groans with words that only Your spirit understands. Please save her life, Father, if it be Your will. Please bring her home to us, if it be Your will.
But what will Your answer be?
We don't know. And all I have to cling to are Your promises, no matter what the answer may be. I must tell myself what I know to be true - the miniscule and finite understanding I have of who You are. Yet my understanding is too small; I must not lean on it too heavily. And so I find myself repeating this over and over again:
I trust You. I trust You. I trust You. Whatever the answer may be...she is Yours.
December 28, 2008
Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.
John 14:27
The thing about John 14 is that it takes place before the cross, and the irony is that Jesus is about to make this gift of peace possible because of that fearful thing He is facing.
What kind of power is this?
He knows that He is facing torture and death and yet He speaks of peace. KNOWING peace - a gift not of this world, because He does not give to us as the world gives.
Other worldly peace.
I have learned this in its fuller meaning these past seven months. First You were teaching me how to trust, and now I realize that I could not experience Your peace without first trusting You. Peace is the bloom that flowers from the scraggly roots of trust which are gripping tightly to their source of nourishment.
The terrorist attacks in Mumbai could have sent me into a new wave of concern - realizing the turmoil in India in a new way, and worrying that our travel may be inhibited to go and get our daughter, even worries for our own safety when we travel. I could have been sent flailing into a stormy sea of fears.
We felt incredible sadness for the families involved, but somehow no fear was added to that sadness. And the strangest thing happened as I watched the horrible news stories flood in: there was a profound peace, an unusual and very present sense of peace. And this passage came to mind as Your peace washed over me.
Mary's Song: "My God has been mindful of the humble estate of His servant. The Lord has not abandoned us here. He has performed mighty deeds...brought down rulers and lifted the humble. He has filled the hungry with good things."
Those words I had never memorized were whispered in my mind as I watched the images of terror on the television screen. Your Holy Spirit was reminding me of all you have already done - not only in continuing to preserve Siddhi's life, but in teaching my heart contentedness. You have opened every closed door that seemed to signify the end of this adoption. And now those words in Mary’s song, "filling the hungry", mean so much more to me than ever before. You have physically sustained her tiny, hungry body, just as you have sustained my fainting spirit.
You have made my heart, as the proverb says, like a weaned child is with its mother; content to just sit on Your lap and be held by You. The struggling to meet my own needs has vanished. You will meet them in Your way, in Your time. Every day I give Siddhi back to You. She is Your child. You have brought her this far and Your mighty hand will bring this work to completion.
“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.”
The earth is the Lord's and everything in it, the world and all who live in it.
Psalm 24:1
Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.
Prov. 3:5
We received a picture of Siddhi last night. And there was nothing to do but cry. How is it possible that she is even smaller than before? Sicker? Her arms and legs look like bones. She looks like an old woman, not a child. And is that her hair falling out? Strands of dark brown lightening to red from malnutrition? My mind lingers over these terrible questions and yet my heart cannot even bear to go there.
Am I watching her die?
Father, you are asking me to trust you with the life of my daughter. And so I find myself wondering if I ever knew what it meant to trust - to relinquish ALL control.
No...to acknowledge that I never had it.
I realize now that in the deepest parts of my heart I have been deceived into believing that I do have control - over my life and also over the lives of my children. I feed them. I clothe them. I take them to the doctor when they are sick.
I take care of their every need.
Don't I?
I am now feeling the fear of what it is like to be totally and completely out of control. I have no earthly power to save Siddhi's life. I have none but You. Is it because, for the first time, I am helpless? Or is it that for the first time I am seeing that I have ALWAYS been helpless? That I have no control over any of my children's lives, not just Siddhi's. Every day we're dependent on the One who gives and takes away.
Nothing that has come to be, or that will eventually come to be, happens without first passing through Your hands. And if I truly believe that this adoption is ordained by You - that this little girl is our daughter, our covenant child - then I must also believe that she was Yours before she was ever mine. In fact, she will never be mine. Always Yours.
So I have no other choice but to trust You with what is already Yours.
I plead every moment of every day that she will make it home to my arms. My heart groans with words that only Your spirit understands. Please save her life, Father, if it be Your will. Please bring her home to us, if it be Your will.
But what will Your answer be?
We don't know. And all I have to cling to are Your promises, no matter what the answer may be. I must tell myself what I know to be true - the miniscule and finite understanding I have of who You are. Yet my understanding is too small; I must not lean on it too heavily. And so I find myself repeating this over and over again:
I trust You. I trust You. I trust You. Whatever the answer may be...she is Yours.
December 28, 2008
Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.
John 14:27
The thing about John 14 is that it takes place before the cross, and the irony is that Jesus is about to make this gift of peace possible because of that fearful thing He is facing.
What kind of power is this?
He knows that He is facing torture and death and yet He speaks of peace. KNOWING peace - a gift not of this world, because He does not give to us as the world gives.
Other worldly peace.
I have learned this in its fuller meaning these past seven months. First You were teaching me how to trust, and now I realize that I could not experience Your peace without first trusting You. Peace is the bloom that flowers from the scraggly roots of trust which are gripping tightly to their source of nourishment.
The terrorist attacks in Mumbai could have sent me into a new wave of concern - realizing the turmoil in India in a new way, and worrying that our travel may be inhibited to go and get our daughter, even worries for our own safety when we travel. I could have been sent flailing into a stormy sea of fears.
We felt incredible sadness for the families involved, but somehow no fear was added to that sadness. And the strangest thing happened as I watched the horrible news stories flood in: there was a profound peace, an unusual and very present sense of peace. And this passage came to mind as Your peace washed over me.
Mary's Song: "My God has been mindful of the humble estate of His servant. The Lord has not abandoned us here. He has performed mighty deeds...brought down rulers and lifted the humble. He has filled the hungry with good things."
Those words I had never memorized were whispered in my mind as I watched the images of terror on the television screen. Your Holy Spirit was reminding me of all you have already done - not only in continuing to preserve Siddhi's life, but in teaching my heart contentedness. You have opened every closed door that seemed to signify the end of this adoption. And now those words in Mary’s song, "filling the hungry", mean so much more to me than ever before. You have physically sustained her tiny, hungry body, just as you have sustained my fainting spirit.
You have made my heart, as the proverb says, like a weaned child is with its mother; content to just sit on Your lap and be held by You. The struggling to meet my own needs has vanished. You will meet them in Your way, in Your time. Every day I give Siddhi back to You. She is Your child. You have brought her this far and Your mighty hand will bring this work to completion.
“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.”
Jul 2, 2013
Of Wars and Men
He had strong, carpenter hands that were rough and calloused. From building things and making them sound or fixing something when it was broken. “Pick me up!” I’d squeal, knowing those hands were gentle and affectionate too. He’d oblige and carry me about the yard which was half meadow and half woods.
The air around his house smelled of old pines and sandy soil mingled with the scent of motor oil on his shirt. It drifted from his workshop too. And sometimes he’d walk me through his treasure trove in that outbuilding so I could marvel at all of the old things he’d kept stored away. An antique milk cart that had once required a horse to pull it. A black car that had first seen the road in the 1930’s but no longer had the will to run. An attic full of desks he’d salvaged from a 19th century school house, along with a myriad of other items he’d saved from destruction. I was curious at the stories which these objects had been a part of and I held a deep admiration that my grandfather had kept these pieces of history hidden here. Safe from an ever changing world that did not always appreciate their value.
At the back of that workshop was a small garage where I would often find him and my father bent over the hood of an old Ford restoration together. Except for the sound of clinking tools, their work was quiet and earnest. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of hours were invested into that engine over the course of my growing up years. And when it was all ready for going, I would sit in the rumble seat with my sister and take a ride down the pebbly New Jersey roads, with granddad at the wheel and daddy sitting proudly beside him. Or sometimes, the other way around.
At precisely 12 o’clock my grandmother would holler from the back porch: “Harold!” And granddad would come into the house for his lunch. Together they sat at a checkered tablecloth and ate sandwiches beneath a ticking antique clock, as they had for decades. He kept a stock of pantry items on a long shelf just inside their basement door. There were always extra canned goods and bottles of 7Up ready for another depression should it ever come. Because he could not un-know what he had seen. Somewhere else in that dusty basement was a military issued duffle bag full of yellowed letters that had been written between the years of 1941 and 1945.
At the end of our visits we’d relax on their screened-in porch. My grandfather would sit in the same upholstered chair each time with his large hands hanging off the slip-covered arms, a big panting dog at his side. Keeping watch over him. And we would talk about the weather, or some other simple thing, before we left for home. Every time we pulled away granddad would stand in the driveway and wave until we were out of sight, his face looking longer and more weary as the visits numbered over the years.
Eventually, his body did give out. As all men’s do. But I will never forget how he laid next to grandmom in the bed they had shared for sixty years, with caretakers tending to them. Holding hands. His work shoes sat by his nightstand, retired from duty. A row of weathered shirts hung in his closet.
And like so many of that greatest generation, he went quietly into the night.
There was a long shelf in my father’s basement where stacks of books and volumes of military encyclopedias were stored behind a closet door. Each page of those thousands recalled some detailed memory of the Second World War. Throughout my childhood I had studied those black and white pictures and words, trying to understand the atrocities that took place in Europe and the heroes who fought to end them. But it didn’t occur to me until I was much older that perhaps my father’s purpose had been the same. Only he’d been seeking to know his own father through those pages. Of landing in Normandy on D-Day plus two. Of fighting in the Battle of the Bulge. Of Holland and the tokens of war now hidden away in our family’s safe. These were stories that were hardly mentioned in passing. Perhaps because my grandfather had learned too many hard lessons from grief and he would never speak of things done in darkness. Or perhaps because he meant to keep those memories safe in an ever changing world that doesn’t always appreciate the value of such things. His strength had come with stoic quietness that did not recognize his own contribution to salvaging something so large from destruction.
Or maybe he truly believed that he had done nothing grand. Nothing of importance.
A few years after I was married that old duffle bag from my grandparent’s basement sat in my home. And I poured through the handwritten love notes exchanged between a young bride and her groom, who were oceans apart at the time. On those brittle papers were the simplest words that held the deepest of meaning, which could only be perceived in full by the next generations who would watch these two lovers hold on to each other until the end.
He gave his life to her, all that he had. And that was all we needed to know about him. That he had strong, carpenter hands which were rough and calloused. From building things and making them sound. Or fixing something when it was broken. Maybe, more than anything though, he just wanted us to know that they were gentle and affectionate hands too.
The air around his house smelled of old pines and sandy soil mingled with the scent of motor oil on his shirt. It drifted from his workshop too. And sometimes he’d walk me through his treasure trove in that outbuilding so I could marvel at all of the old things he’d kept stored away. An antique milk cart that had once required a horse to pull it. A black car that had first seen the road in the 1930’s but no longer had the will to run. An attic full of desks he’d salvaged from a 19th century school house, along with a myriad of other items he’d saved from destruction. I was curious at the stories which these objects had been a part of and I held a deep admiration that my grandfather had kept these pieces of history hidden here. Safe from an ever changing world that did not always appreciate their value.
At the back of that workshop was a small garage where I would often find him and my father bent over the hood of an old Ford restoration together. Except for the sound of clinking tools, their work was quiet and earnest. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of hours were invested into that engine over the course of my growing up years. And when it was all ready for going, I would sit in the rumble seat with my sister and take a ride down the pebbly New Jersey roads, with granddad at the wheel and daddy sitting proudly beside him. Or sometimes, the other way around.
At precisely 12 o’clock my grandmother would holler from the back porch: “Harold!” And granddad would come into the house for his lunch. Together they sat at a checkered tablecloth and ate sandwiches beneath a ticking antique clock, as they had for decades. He kept a stock of pantry items on a long shelf just inside their basement door. There were always extra canned goods and bottles of 7Up ready for another depression should it ever come. Because he could not un-know what he had seen. Somewhere else in that dusty basement was a military issued duffle bag full of yellowed letters that had been written between the years of 1941 and 1945.
At the end of our visits we’d relax on their screened-in porch. My grandfather would sit in the same upholstered chair each time with his large hands hanging off the slip-covered arms, a big panting dog at his side. Keeping watch over him. And we would talk about the weather, or some other simple thing, before we left for home. Every time we pulled away granddad would stand in the driveway and wave until we were out of sight, his face looking longer and more weary as the visits numbered over the years.
Eventually, his body did give out. As all men’s do. But I will never forget how he laid next to grandmom in the bed they had shared for sixty years, with caretakers tending to them. Holding hands. His work shoes sat by his nightstand, retired from duty. A row of weathered shirts hung in his closet.
And like so many of that greatest generation, he went quietly into the night.
There was a long shelf in my father’s basement where stacks of books and volumes of military encyclopedias were stored behind a closet door. Each page of those thousands recalled some detailed memory of the Second World War. Throughout my childhood I had studied those black and white pictures and words, trying to understand the atrocities that took place in Europe and the heroes who fought to end them. But it didn’t occur to me until I was much older that perhaps my father’s purpose had been the same. Only he’d been seeking to know his own father through those pages. Of landing in Normandy on D-Day plus two. Of fighting in the Battle of the Bulge. Of Holland and the tokens of war now hidden away in our family’s safe. These were stories that were hardly mentioned in passing. Perhaps because my grandfather had learned too many hard lessons from grief and he would never speak of things done in darkness. Or perhaps because he meant to keep those memories safe in an ever changing world that doesn’t always appreciate the value of such things. His strength had come with stoic quietness that did not recognize his own contribution to salvaging something so large from destruction.
Or maybe he truly believed that he had done nothing grand. Nothing of importance.
A few years after I was married that old duffle bag from my grandparent’s basement sat in my home. And I poured through the handwritten love notes exchanged between a young bride and her groom, who were oceans apart at the time. On those brittle papers were the simplest words that held the deepest of meaning, which could only be perceived in full by the next generations who would watch these two lovers hold on to each other until the end.
He gave his life to her, all that he had. And that was all we needed to know about him. That he had strong, carpenter hands which were rough and calloused. From building things and making them sound. Or fixing something when it was broken. Maybe, more than anything though, he just wanted us to know that they were gentle and affectionate hands too.
Feb 12, 2013
My Last
You tell everyone that you were a surprise. And you were.
I named you “God is Gracious” because He gives good and perfect gifts. And because the best gifts are the ones that aren’t asked for but given anyway, and received with an overflowing heart.
You tell everyone that preschool “didn’t work out for us.”
But in truth, it was me. I wasn’t ready to let you go yet; I wasn’t ready for this stage to be over. Because you know, we can never get this back again. And I don’t want to miss a thing.
After all, you’re only three.
My last three.
You tell me that you want to grow big so you can play the big drums.
But I tell you to wait for me. I’m not ready for growing big yet, and when you’re big you’ll leave.
You promise, “I won’t, mommy”. You smile and say that I can come and live with you when you’re bigger, and I’m older. You seal the promise with the sweetest of kisses. And daddy thinks I’m funny when I laugh and cry at the same time. But I kiss you back and receive it just the same.
You take my hand when we’re walking; your chubby fingers nestle in mine. And I find myself walking a bit slower than usual, keeping pace with your shorter stride. Do you know that I would walk slower still if it would make this last a little longer?
You hug me so tightly when I tuck you in at night and I am thankful to have been loved by a rough-and-tumble little boy. It’s the best kind of love.
But sometimes I come into your room at night and I watch you while you are sleeping. In the shadows. Snuggled up in a Star Wars blanket. Your long lashes resting on your cherub cheeks. And I think that this baby-like sweetness is the best kind of love too.
After all, you’re only three.
My last three.
That next birthday is just around the corner. One day very soon it will be our last day of three. And on that day I’ll walk all the more slowly with you; I’ll rock you a little longer and sing to you a little sweeter. I’ll hold you more tightly, if it were possible.
And then, when the morning comes, I’ll do the same for my four year old.
I named you “God is Gracious” because He gives good and perfect gifts. And because the best gifts are the ones that aren’t asked for but given anyway, and received with an overflowing heart.
You tell everyone that preschool “didn’t work out for us.”
But in truth, it was me. I wasn’t ready to let you go yet; I wasn’t ready for this stage to be over. Because you know, we can never get this back again. And I don’t want to miss a thing.
After all, you’re only three.
My last three.
You tell me that you want to grow big so you can play the big drums.
But I tell you to wait for me. I’m not ready for growing big yet, and when you’re big you’ll leave.
You promise, “I won’t, mommy”. You smile and say that I can come and live with you when you’re bigger, and I’m older. You seal the promise with the sweetest of kisses. And daddy thinks I’m funny when I laugh and cry at the same time. But I kiss you back and receive it just the same.
You take my hand when we’re walking; your chubby fingers nestle in mine. And I find myself walking a bit slower than usual, keeping pace with your shorter stride. Do you know that I would walk slower still if it would make this last a little longer?
You hug me so tightly when I tuck you in at night and I am thankful to have been loved by a rough-and-tumble little boy. It’s the best kind of love.
But sometimes I come into your room at night and I watch you while you are sleeping. In the shadows. Snuggled up in a Star Wars blanket. Your long lashes resting on your cherub cheeks. And I think that this baby-like sweetness is the best kind of love too.
After all, you’re only three.
My last three.
That next birthday is just around the corner. One day very soon it will be our last day of three. And on that day I’ll walk all the more slowly with you; I’ll rock you a little longer and sing to you a little sweeter. I’ll hold you more tightly, if it were possible.
And then, when the morning comes, I’ll do the same for my four year old.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)