The Beautiful Wounds

    It is the week before Easter, Holy Week as many call it.  This year, we began this week of remembrance with an unexpected snow storm.  My daughter groaned, “This snow is going to ruin Easter!”  What she really meant was, how am I going to wear my new Easter dress and go Easter egg hunting in snow?!  What she didn’t know was that even though we were beginning the week with our biggest snow fall of the year, we were going to end the week with some of the warmest temperatures of the year.  She did not know what was coming.  She did not know what to hope in. 

    In this family, the week leading up to Easter is crazy.  We just have weird things happen around here, and usually it is the night before Easter.  My husband and I definitely think the cause for these strange happenings is spiritual.  There are forces at work, trying to get our hearts and minds off of celebrating Jesus’ resurrection.  And as you may have guessed, the Easter craziness usually involves a child or two with an injury. 

     About three years ago our son lost a good chunk of his big toe when a piano bench fell on him.  I just looked at Chris and said, “I am going to the emergency room.  You have to preach a sermon in the morning.  I will call you later.”  And that was that.  The following year, a projectile object cut deeply into our son’s face, right above his eye.  I lost it.  Chris had to drive that child to the E. R.  Not one of my shining moments.

     So far, so good this year.  We have already had one fluke injury a couple of days ago, and its only Friday.  Sunday is coming.  We have to pass through the night to get to the morning.  And so, we remember the wounds of our past and present.  By looking at these hard things in our lives for a few days, we become watchmen.  We wait with greater anticipation for the morning. 

     When our tears are spent and we have been overcome by our pain and our wrong doing, we become quieted.  We come to the end of ourselves and we have nowhere to look but up.  Up at the cross where blood and tears and sweat flow mingled down.  For you.  For Me.  And it is there that we begin to taste a sweetness.  A joyful sweetness, because of the morning that is to come.  A morning that is full of promise. 

     Scripture tells us that He was crushed for our iniquities and the chastisement for us all was upon Him.  He was beaten for us and He was rejected, a man despised on the earth.  The excruciating pain of what Christ endured became beautiful to us.  His wounds have healed us. 

     With every year, we have seen with our eyes the healing of our own wounds and the binding up of our own broken hearts.  He gently restores and buys back what was taken.  He gives us beauty for ashes.  We have seen the faithfulness of God and that He does not change.

     And so, I do not fear the next 48 hours.  All I have to do is look at the wounds.  The beautiful wounds of Christ.  He obtained peace for my soul, crushing the power of sin and death.  He gave me the oil of gladness through the hope of life eternal.  My pain may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.   Christ has risen and so will I.  I will leave this body of death behind.  And on that morning, oh what joy, what joy!            ~ Your Fellow Sojourner

Who has believed what he has heard from us?

And to whom has the arm of the Lord been revealed?

For he grew up before him like a young plant,

and like a root out of dry ground;

he had no form or majesty that we should look at him,

and no beauty that we should desire him.

He was despised and rejected by men;

a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief;

and as one from whom men hide their faces

he was despised, and we esteemed him not.

Surely he has borne our griefs

and carried our sorrows;

yet we esteemed him stricken,

smitten by God, and afflicted.

But he was pierced for our transgressions;

he was crushed for our iniquities;

upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace,

and with his wounds we are healed.

All we like sheep have gone astray;

we have turned—every one—to his own way;

and the Lord has laid on him

the iniquity of us all.

He was oppressed, and he was afflicted,

yet he opened not his mouth;

like a lamb that is led to the slaughter,

and like a sheep that before its shearers is silent,

so he opened not his mouth.

By oppression and judgment he was taken away;

and as for his generation, who considered

that he was cut off out of the land of the living,

stricken for the transgression of my people?

And they made his grave with the wicked

and with a rich man in his death,

although he had done no violence,

and there was no deceit in his mouth.

Yet it was the will of the Lord to crush him;

he has put him to grief;

when his soul makes an offering for guilt,

he shall see his offspring; he shall prolong his days;

the will of the Lord shall prosper in his hand.

Out of the anguish of his soul he shall see and be satisfied;

by his knowledge shall the righteous one, my servant,

make many to be accounted righteous,

and he shall bear their iniquities.

Therefore I will divide him a portion with the many,

and he shall divide the spoil with the strong,

because he poured out his soul to death

and was numbered with the transgressors;

yet he bore the sin of many,

and makes intercession for the transgressors.

                                                            Isaiah 53

                                                      

                                                       New Life pushing through.

Why I Love Being a Creative Woman

      I have not always liked being female.  There have been times in my life when I thought that being a man would be so much more fulfilling.  But more and more, I love being a woman.

      I feel like a wine that has been marinating for a while.  It is starting to ripen and the taste is improving. I know that my life has been brief compared to many. I do not speak only about myself, but for all women who have courageously lived some life.  

       I love the variety of creativeness in women.  No two women are alike.  Women are as varied as the differing patterns and colors of a lovingly handmade quilt. Yes, men are creative, but women, women have a creativity all their own.  Artistry softens our lives, because our days and hours encompass so many things. We have been designed to embrace life with an artistic flair.   

     Circumstances and people can attempt to suppress the gifts in a woman’s life, but if a creative spark is there, it will glow, however muted it may be.

       One of the key things in my life has been the people who saw the gifts and talents I have and called me to use them.  My father has always been my number one creative cheerleader.  He has never told me that I should not try to do something or that I could not do something.  He has always believed in who God has made me to be.  He helped to forge a foundation in my life that would enable me to take risks and make big leaps of faith.  Thank you, Dad.  Thank you, everyone who helped in pouring the beautiful creative foundation of my life. 

       I enjoy telling other women, no matter what the age, to “go for it!”  It is a joy to see women walking in what they were destined to do.  It is like seeing a fine piece of art.  When you get up close to the real thing, it is always bigger and clearer than what you thought it would be.  You see the details that made it great.

       But I am all too aware of the times in my life, and in others’ lives, when fear dampens the creative flow.  Fear is the enemy of the joyful creative life.  What if this does not turn out to be what I think it will be?  What if others never understand me?  What if it costs me a great deal?

       Truth and love are the fire that reignites the creative soul.  Speaking, reading, hearing, meditating, and living the truth turns into courageous faith.  Love cushions us when the naysayers come.  Love heals the wounds of the failures of the past. 

       Are you a woman?  Embrace it!  You have been creatively made and have a creative intention.  Are you a man?  Speak truth and love to the women that you know.  Call them to live a courageous creative life, and you will be blessed by them!  Are you someone who believes themselves to be uncreative?  Do not compare yourself to another, do what you love to do and bless someone else.  Even making a bed can be a great creative endeavor. 

       Anna Mary Robertson was born into a farming family with ten children in the 1860s.  She went on to marry and live the life of a farmer’s wife and had ten children herself.  The hardness of life drew out her creativity.  Instead of becoming bitter at the end of her life, she made art.  Grandma Moses shared with all of us her love of the simple ways of life through her paintings.  But, her creativity began long before the first painting dried in her daughter’s home.  She had been embellishing her life with art for a long time.

        I want to go into my future embellishing everything around me.  Like the woman of the poet in Proverbs 31, I want to wear strength and dignity so that I can laugh at the days to come.  Oh, let me not eat the bread of idleness, but let me hold and taste the fruit of my hands.  I cannot see what the days ahead will hold, but I do know that as I use these creative gifts, I will stop and close my eyes, and smile at the future. 

       ~ Your Fellow Sojourner

"The Oaks" by Grandma Moses

When The Saints Go Marching In

     A Monday night in March, in downtown Annapolis, is not what you would call a bustling hive of activity.  A few shopkeepers walk past windows and several adolescents scoop ice cream or pour coffee, while boats rock quietly back and forth in the tiny harbor.  The buildings are quiet and the people are too. But this past Monday, I took part in attempting to wake up these sleepy Annapolitan streets. 

     My two oldest children and I walked briskly into the parking lot of St. Mary’s Catholic Church to join a growing crowd of Marylanders.  Sights, sounds, and colors all converging for one purpose, to march.  I did not know most of these people, yet I felt as if I had come to a big family reunion.  Grandmothers, Grandfathers, Aunts, Uncles, Mothers, Fathers, Cousins, Daughters and Sons. 

     Monday, March 11^th is six days after my fifth child, Elias’ birthday, and two days before the twins’ birthdays, Liam and Winston, who are my third and fourth children.  It is the week when our family remembers the birth of our three youngest sons.  To retell all of the miraculous moments surrounding their birth would take many pages and many hours. They were meant to be here.  They were meant to live.

     I could also fill up pages of comments and thoughts from others telling me that I was not wise in wanting more children.  Oh, if I had listened to their voices…  I am so thankful for Truth, Truth that speaks louder and clearer. 

     And so, I came to walk and to pray, to march in awe of what God has done in me and in my family.  He is the Author of life, and life more abundantly. He does not need me to speak for Him, and so I stopped my mouth from speaking. I fasted from speaking and turned all of my thoughts to prayer.  I had a fleeting sense, a sense of calm before a storm. The storms that surround battle, the storms of war.

     One of the last things I said to my son before I put the duct tape across my lips was of war.  “It’s not quite like going out to battle but its close.  Can you feel it?”   And he stood quiet.  He was sensing something as well.

     The people who had poured out of the chapel moments ago, crossing themselves, praying, picked up signs and buttoned up coats.  They found their places in the lines that formed behind the banners.  They had received a blessing and were emboldened to stand, to march.  There were no orders given.  There was no need.   They all knew why they had come, and all grew quiet as the trumpet blew.

     It is as old as battle its self, the trumpet sound.  And at the last blast, the drums began.  Step, step, stride, stride.  It was solemn and quiet. 

      Some greeted us along the way with supportive signs.  Others smiled and honked their horns.  But it was very quiet.  The weight of death was on our minds.  The loss of one soul meant to live is unspeakable, and often, unnecessary. 

     Tonight we blew out twelve candles, six for each of our sons.  We laughed and prayed, remembering how neither of them was supposed to be blowing out even one candle.  Just as their lives have defied the odds, they have emboldened our own.

      I have always said that when the twins were born, my pride went out the window.  With doubling the joy, came doubling the humility.  Every day became an adventure.  Much of my preconceived ideas of mothering and family life changed.

      When Elias arrived, we just threw him in the mix.  We call him our mascot. He is our lively little ambassador.  Our last three children were the result of new marching orders.  We decided to step out of the way and give ourselves to raising and nurturing all that God would give us. 

      I would like to say that we took those marching orders to heart, without any doubts.  But, I can tell you that there have been many days that I have wanted to step out of God’s plan for our family.  But now, more than six years later, I have the benefit of looking back.  And although the terrain has been rocky and dark at times, I can truly say that God has been more than good.  He has been so very good. 

~Your Fellow Sojourner

Our little birthday celebration.