WHEN GRATITUDE'S HARD...

My baby photo--probably one year old....
My name means "God is gracious."

One discipline my parents tried to instill in me was gratitude, my childhood lessons happening around birthdays and Christmas. Before too many days ticked away, I was to sit down and write a thank-you note that “gifted” the “gifter” with appreciation for their effort and thoughtfulness. In the long-range view, this was more than an etiquette thing, especially when the gift we opened was, well, disappointing to a young child. Maybe the gift was socks instead of a new toy. Or an ugly sweater instead of that “cool outfit” everybody else was wearing. Such “thank-you” notes were basic training for bigger things—like trusting God for life's unwelcome turns.

Friends who shared my grief in my husband's recent death helped me see “thanks” in a new way with their sympathy gift of a book, Dark Clouds, Deep Mercy* by Mark Vroegop, a pastor and conference speaker from Indianapolis. My husband's packed memorial service, the kind words, the hugs, the baskets of cards, the meals—all brought comfort. But they didn't address the ache in my heart that asked, Why him? Why now? What next?

Long ago I'd memorized Psalm 46:10, “Be still and know that I am God.” Grief—times of silence and stillness--tested me to the core. It also sent me deeper into scriptures, with this book as a helpful guide.

Vroegop wrote from his own deep pain of holding his just-born but lifeless nine-pound daughter. His and his wife's heartbreak in this inexplicable loss eventually led him to understanding Biblical “lament,” a different emotion from what we understand as “sorrow.” Lament, he said, “is how you live between a hard life and God's promises. It is how we learn to sing and worship when suffering comes our way” (p. 84).

How many years had I read and studied psalms without realizing the “sad ones” had messages for my own sorrows? Vroegop described these “lament psalms” as ways to “turn to God in prayer, lay out our complaints, ask boldly, and choose to trust.” It's not gritting-one's-teeth and thinking somehow you'll get through this. It's banking on the Bible's promises and God's character to learn and grow through pain. It's forging through mourning platitudes to God-directed gratitude.

I'm still on this journey. It actually began decades ago when my parents died six months apart the year I was 31. Then still single, I was tasked with the emptying their home. I tried to be brave, do the “post-death” work. But I didn't grieve well. I'm trusting God to show me renewed hope and healing as I embrace scripture's “lament” passages in fresh ways. To be able to say thank you, even from a broken heart.

*Mark Vroegop, Dark Clouds, Deep Mercy (Wheaton: Crossway, 2019, 223 pages)

COMFORTING

Within a few days of my husband's death this summer, a close friend was at my door with some unusual tokens of comfort: a framed saying and a little glass vial. “These are on loan for a few months,” she said, knowing I was feeling overwhelmed by “too much stuff” in the aftermath of a loved one's death. But they revealed her compassion toward how I'd travel my grief journey.

One “loaner” was this framed saying about the Author of my life. As one who's written books, I understood the comparison. How I needed the reminder that this event was so big that I desperately needed to listen to the Author of life through His book, the Bible. The little ribboned corked glass container referred to an ancient Jewish custom of saving one's tears (in a vial) as proof of the depth of grief. The custom was even mentioned in a psalm:

You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book. Psalm 56:8

Of course, that custom is not part of my culture. But reading about grief and the need to weep reminded me that God sees my tears and it's okay to let them flow when needed. Death is a deep, life-changing loss.

One week at church I was sitting next to another recent widow. One of the worship songs hit both of us in the tender parts of our loss. She started wiping tears first and asked if I had a tissue. (I didn't—just a crumpled handkerchief that I passed over with a look of apology.) But her tears started mine coming. People behind and on the side of us, who know us, understood.

This same widow, upon my loss, started mailing or handing me 3x5 cards on which she had written encouraging scriptures or quotes. My communication strength is “written words,” so that was right up the road to my heart. I posted them on a clip under my computer screen. How often had I read the same scriptures? But now they revisited—via the hand of a caring friend—to comfort and renew again.

Know someone who's grieving? Send notes—even after the first few weeks of loss when the cards fill the mailbox. Keep them simple. Visit briefly. Share their tears. Be sensitive to any saying or token that will remind them of God's care . Like these. Or a Bible bookmark. If a “larger decor” item, clarify you're loaning it for a certain period of time so that they aren't burdened with later getting rid of it.

Embarrassed by my lack of clean tear-soakers that Sunday, I went to the dollar store and got some of those mini-packs of tissues. I'll give one to her, and show her (with a peek into the cave of my purse) that next time I will be prepared. Bring on those heart-tugging hymns and choruses. It's good when worship music reaches our hearts and leaks out through the tear glands. God understands. When loss hurts so bad, it's how He reaches His arms around us (sometimes through another “real” person) to let us know He cares. More than we can comprehend.

BYOODE-FUL

I'm blessed to be a grandma of four, three boys (my son's) and one girl (my daughter's). The grandboys are in town, so often visit. But the granddaughter, Eleanor, lives four hours' drive away and I don't see her often. Yet she touches my Nana's heart with her drawings and first-grade-prose. Yes, I like hydrangeas, too, Eleanor. I agree: they are a "byoode." I carried a freshly picked hydrangea pompom as a simple, homemade bridal bouquet at my wedding.

Because my husband died just weeks short of our 42^nd anniversary, the wedding memories are especially tender. We were older—34 and 36—and never-married-before when our wedding day came. It was a simple, small ceremony, right down to a home-sewn dress, garden-picked flowers and a potluck reception. A year or so ago, Eleanor's mom posed her holding a “bouquet” of hydrangeas, and I have that photo posted by my kitchen sink. Her recent drawing (with its original spelling—how precious) lifted my heart as I realized this little detail was revived to comfort me. The same for the hydrangea bouquet they left on my table before returning to their home on the other side of the state.

Often when I look at this drawing, now prominently posted in the kitchen, I recall a contemporary Christian song that has come to widespread recognition through singer Twila Paris. She defines “how beautiful” through remembering the earthly ministry of Jesus Christ, and how that has translated through the centuries through those who now call themselves “Christian”--followers of Jesus.

The song's rhymes are simple, but profound. Sacrifice. He paid the price. The singer reminds us of Jesus' tender eyes, hands that healed, and a heart that bled. My prose doesn't do justice to the song. It's best just listened to, maybe sung along in the heart in a quiet and tender time.

Will there be “byoode-ful” hydrangeas in God's Perfect Place, Heaven? Why not? Or why not something even more amazing in the eternal place God is preparing for those who followed Jesus?

Here are two videos (of many on the internet). In the “YouTube” one, the background is a sunset on the sea. In the other (“Bing”), images of an actor playing the role of Christ, serving, and dying on the cross. Keep a tissue handy and consider watching both.

Howbeautiful by Twila Paris (Lyrics) – YouTube

Howbeautiful by Twila Paris (with lyrics) - Bing video

I LIFT UP MINE EYES...

It was the first memorable sight of my new hometown that morning in 1970, when the newspaper managing editor who'd just hired me picked me up at the airport. As we came down the hill en route to the newspaper office, he pointed out a huge, unique land formation on the other side of the Columbia River. “Saddlerock, they call it,” he said. And yes, I could imagine that shape in the rocky crag before us, beileved to be an old volcano's neck. After five years as a reporter and editor, I would move away to other opportunities. When I returned to the valley several years later later to be married, the “saddle” still stood there. Stark, high, and regal.

Many have hiked it, even several times. I never did—busyness and health being my reasons. But in June, “Saddlerock” was the commanding view from the window of my husband's hospital room. He would die, just short of age 78. But, thanks to that physical symbol of our great and mighty God, I would be reminded of the comfort freely offered in Psalm 121:

I will lift up my eyes to the hills, where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth....The Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore. (vv. 1, 8)

As I transition into a “new normal” after nearly 42 years of marriage, I sense the hug of God while re-reading familiar and comforting scriptures. The grief fatigue is there. The sense of being overwhelmed is, too. But there's love, too--in food gifts, the flood of cards, the caring visits and phone calls. All said my husband's life (as a Christian, a great dad, a teacher, and all-around friend to many) mattered in theirs. And that meant a lot.

And so does the even-more-stalwart hope and comfort of God. Just the right scriptures come to my sad heart, reminding me that this was not an end, but a transition for someone who loved and served the Lord. Also, that I am the Great Shepherd's lamb, under His protective eye. He walks alongside in the valley of death (Psalm 23).

I'm told that the view from the top of Saddlerock is spectacular. From the “saddle,” you can see the sweep of the Columbia River as it veers from south to east its serpentine journey to the Pacific ocean. And the hills! Gray, scrubby, scruffy, all part of the unique high desert terrain of Central Washington. But be careful from that viewpoint. The other side is a dangerous drop.

And maybe that's a good reminder for this season of life. Not to indulge in prolonged grief or self-pity, but to look to others, and share the hope you have in Jesus. A friend (my long-ago childbirth coach!), who was also widowed this past year, mailed me a card with a caring note, then later just a Bible verse:

Surely God is my help; the Lord is the one who sustains me. Psalm 54:4

This is part of healing a big heart-wound, carrying forth the reality that God comforts us in our troubles “so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God” (2 Corinthians 1:4).

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Here is one powerful rendition of Psalm 121 set to contemporary music:

Bing Videos

That place of quiet rest

There’s something about a shade-dappled pond that simply speaks “peace,”  maybe as a faint shadow of the original, perfect Eden. As I came across this pond at the arboretum adjacent to the University of Idaho in Moscow, Idaho, the hymn title, “Near to the Heart of God” slipped into my heart. The tune stayed with me for a few minutes as I walked back to the car.

There is a place of quiet rest, near to the heart of God;

A place where sin cannot molest, near to the heart of God.

Every hymn has its “birth story,” and when I got home and looked up the background on this one, I realized how unspeakable pain brought forth enduring praise.  The author, Cleland McAfee, was a graduate of Park University in Parkville, Mo., which his father co-founded in 1875 with just seventeen students.  Cleland, his four brothers, and his only sister were all involved with the college. After Cleland’s graduation, he attended seminary, then returned to the college as chaplain and choir director.  For communion Sundays, he would write the words to a musical response that tied in with his  sermon theme.

One week, just before that communion service, Cleland’s brother Howard and his wife lost two small daughters to diphtheria within twenty-four hours. Their deaths shook the college and community. As Cleland meditated on psalms of comfort, he knew he needed to write another song than planned for that Sunday. His choir learned it at the Saturday night rehearsal, and then went to the grieving parents’ darkened, quarantined home. They sang it outside the house, then again that Sunday morning.

Cleland McAfee later became well-known his for scholarly theological writing, but more than a hundred years later it’s this song, written from a broken heart, for which he is best remembered.  Knowing “the rest of the story” of this century-old hymn has helped me appreciate the trusting heart that brought forth memorable lyrics.

The first verse, of course, goes to the “place of quiet rest.”  Verse two is about “the place of comfort sweet.”  Verse three, “the place of full release.”  Then, the affirming chorus:

O Jesus, blest Redeemer,

Sent from the heart of God,

Hold us who wait before Thee,

Near to the heart of God.

A true Christmas story: The Wise Man's Four Gifts

This true personal story, which I wrote thirty years ago, was published by four magazines. It just seemed the right thing to share again with Christmas just a few days away. Maybe there’s someone to whom you can be that “farmer from Bickleton.”

Our wise man came not on a camel, but in a pickup.  His blue jeans bore stains of ranch work, and his thinning gray hair lay in disarray from the icy December wind. He brought three gifts: a 50-pound sack of potatoes from his farm, a quart of his locally famous home-canned sauerkraut, and a freshly killed turkey from his flock.

My sister’s family called this man their “farmer friend from Bickleton.”  They knew him through church.  They were surprised he’d heard about Dad, since very few people in my sister’s town knew him.  And they were even more surprised that he’d come thirty miles over snow-slick, hilly farmland roads just to say,” I hurt with you.”

 A few days before, while 2,000 miles away at graduate school, I got the shocking phone call telling of my dad’s fatal heart attack. It had been just six months since Mom died of cancer.  I wasn’t ready to hear such news again.  Now I was at my sister’s home in a town 200 miles from where our parents had lived.

There wasn’t much time to pause in the kitchen and gaze at the man’s gifts.  On the other side of the wall in my sister’s ma-and-pa style bookstore, customers waited impatiently at the cash register with their Christmas purchases.

“You’ve got to fix the turkey,” my sister said as she rushed out.  I balked.  It wasn’t that I didn’t know how.  I’d fixed my first turkey less than a month before when I helped a Norwegian student family celebrate their first American holiday. It was just that I was having trouble putting my heart into any kind of project.  But dutifully, I gathered ingredients for stuffing and located the roaster.

Outside, snowflakes spit over the gray, chilled parking lot.  People, with lots to do and much to shop for, hastened past.  For us, this Christmas meant a funeral and no more holidays with Mom and Dad.  But for others it would bring happy reunions and parties.  There would be gift-giving to carry on the tradition of the wise men, who gave the baby Jesus gold, frankincense, and myrrh—the king’s metal, a sacred incense, and embalming spice.

Three gifts.  Then I realized our wise man had really brought four gifts, one of which was greater than gold.  He could have stayed home, warm and uninvolved.  But he came, and though he said little, he offered much in offering himself.

The store apartment began filling with the aroma of his turkey, a fragrant offering of love and—in its own way—frankincense for a watching King.