So close, so far away

This week marks the first time I've vacationed with my family in the Caymans since I began visiting the Caribbean for a different reason three years ago: to spend time in the little Haitian village on Carmichael Road. Since that time, I have made five trips and it has become a place as dear to me as these beloved islands I've been visiting my whole life. I've needed this time away for rest and respite and reflection after a daunting season of ministry and study. But I have been missing Carmichael especially this week.

When I first started going to Nassau, telling the kids, "We love you; see you in a year" seemed a little flat, but it was all I had and so in my quivering heart, I let it be enough. I shrank back from the overwhelming need because there wasn't space in my heart yet, space carved out by the years and the gut-wrenching stories and the deepening of friendships, for anything more. But as the trips and the years have gone by those words taste sickening coming out of my mouth. They are bile on a hot Bahamian day. I can no longer say them.

"See you next year...."

When I'll bring you a few measly snack crackers and teach you a Bible story.

When I'll come knock on your door to play for a few hours, carry you on my shoulders.

How insufficient in the face of death and rape and hunger and deportations that rip apart families.

How insufficient when my big brother, Jesus, left his perfect Home to drag me out of my brokenness. When he came to our impoverished neighborhood and paid the debt to give me a new inheritance.

How can I claim him and do nothing in the face of the brokenness I see in the little Haitian slum in Nassau?

No, these friends have become too dear only to say "See you next year."  Now I know their names, one by one. I have listened to their stories. I have been asked to take them home with me. I have seen their hell, and it demands a more valiant response. I may be small, but I have power and wealth beyond what they can dream. And I walk with a Big God.

My God says that He is near to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18). That He rescues the oppressed (Psalm 103:6).

When I used to read these verses in Scripture, I don't think I understood. Not really, not in any way that mattered. I never lost sleep over whether my little friends had enough to eat, or wondering if the Bahamian government had made them orphans.

But as my heart has been enlarged little by little through their suffering, I think I am finally beginning to see. Jesus knows firsthand what it feels like to be broken, oppressed. He has absorbed the smack of cursing words spoken to a foreigner; he knows how it smarts to be rejected and despised.  He has borne for us the sting of death, has become an orphan on our behalf.

It's a profound mystery that they know Him in a way foreign to me--I with all my theology and books and lofty ideas. I am spiritually obese, feasting on the rich things of God with all too little action. He nourishes them day by day in a way they probably do not understand, but they expend every ounce, every droplet of His nearness for their survival in a harsh world. As they share their food with one another, take care of the little babies, dream of a better future, they display His nearness.

So how can I be near to Him without drawing near to these little ones He holds so dear?  These precious gems with whom he willingly identified? His Word is clear: to be made like him I must become like the least.

That directive seems hazy in a twenty-first century world, especially one in which I have such tremendous resources. How obscure that Jesus would invite me to make myself small! As I write this, I am enjoying the little luxuries of diving and rest and fish tacos and rum punch on an island not so very far from Nassau.  These are good gifts from God to rejuvenate a weary soul, not to be disdained or ashamed of. But when I let them cloud my vision and cheer my heart to the point there is no room for the suffering of the poor, I have taken giant steps away from Jesus.

How Christmas Myth Prepares Us for Advent Truth

We're already more than a week into Advent and I've barely begun the daily Scriptures, much less posted them for friends to download. {they're included at the bottom of this post!} I have to confess that I'm a little sad my Christmas decorations are all neatly packed away in storage. I think their absence this year has made me feel less Christmasy, so I've finally decided that I must get at least a tabletop tree to adorn "the Shire" (my room at the Dorsch Casa, affectionately named because it has a short, hobbit-hole door that opens into a large, high-ceilinged space with lots of glorious light--it reminds us all of a hobbit hole!).

Tonight I'm shamelessly re-blogging a post I wrote for my Church since the Reformation class in response to a forum question about whether or not Christians should observe the secular traditions associated with Christmas.  I hope it inspires you to read not only the Advent Scriptures this month, but also some fancy that will help you to believe in the seemingly too-wonderful story of God in the manger.

My family has always celebrated Christmas with a lot of intensity and sparkle. In an almost Narnian way, the fanciful traditions of Santa Claus were mingled with the nativity, which I understood from an early age to be the true meaning of Christmas. While I have heard many of my gospel-minded friends express concern about confusing their kids with notions of the jolly old elf sliding down their chimney, these two aspects of my family's Christmases never seemed to me to conflict.

I remember one special Christmas Eve when Santa Claus made a visit to my grandparents' living room.  I was about five and desperately enthralled with the magic of it all, although my older cousins recognized the man in the red suit as a man from their church. Being the youngest, I anxiously awaited my turn as Santa addressed the cousins one by one, giving us each a gift and whispering a secret in our ears. Finally, Santa presented me with my gift, and then, pulling me close whispered, "You know that Jesus is the real reason for Christmas."  In a strange way, it was one if the holiest moments of my life, when I sensed that all I had heard about Jesus was true.  Thus began an even deeper faith in Santa {{he was a Christian! Somehow I had sensed it all along!}} and in the Jesus we both shared.  Believing in Santa helped me to believe in Jesus. And when I stopped believing in Santa, I kept right on believing in his God.

I recently read a Wall Street Journal article from 2008 in which a Christian father explains why he encourages his kids to believe in Santa. He writes: "This sheds light on a seeming paradox in St. Paul's letter to Roman Christians: "For since the creation of the world His invisible attributes are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made. . . ." How does one see "invisible attributes"? Only people raised on fairy tales can make sense of that. It belongs in a terrain where magic glasses can illumine what was heretofore hidden, where rabbit holes open into wonderlands."  

I dearly love this idea that myth prepares our hearts for Truth, and never sense it so profoundly as at Christmastime.

I must say that I am disturbed by moralistic interpretations of Santa Claus, such as the Elf on the Shelf tradition (although the lighted-hearted Facebook pictures of his mischievous escapades are hilarious) that conflict with a gospel of grace. But that was not the Santa I knew growing up--thanks, I suppose, to the fact that my parents didn't rely on his pending visit as a way to make me behave.  I agree with others who have commented that we need to resist the secularization of Christmas, including the accompanying, all-too-prevalent materialism. However I think there is a way to hold the mystery of the Incarnation in tension with the fairy tails--and traditions--that help us to believe it.   

 As Sally Lloyd-Jones retells the meeting of Mary and the angel Gabriel in her beloved Jesus Storybook Bible, "So Mary trusted God more than what her eyes could see. And she believed." 

Advent Scriptures 2013: Daily Readings to Anticipate Christmas

He is Risen!

If you called any member of my friend Sarah's family today, he or she would answer the phone with a hearty "He is risen!" The obligatory (and joyful!) response is "He is risen, indeed!"

I love that! He is risen, and it's beautiful to reflect on that truth on this Resurrection Sunday.

My family had a lovely Easter celebration in Savannah, GA, where we've convened for a long weekend. (Taylor and I made a little road trip down from Birmingham.) We attended a service at Independent Presbyterian Church this morning, where the senior pastor is a Gordon-Conwell grad. Lowell Mason, the musician who wrote the music to several famous hymns, including "My Faith Looks Up To Thee" (one that the Walnut Hill band played last weekend at the Strand!) and "The Wondrous Cross" played the organ there back in the 1820s.

Probably my favorite thing about IPC was that the choir loft is in the back of the church, situated in a balcony high above the congregation. It's so powerful to be led into worship from the back of the church--especially when the sung worship includes the Halellujah chorus from Handel's Messiah. Needless to say, Mom was in tears!

I want to know Christ--yes, to know the power of his resurrection and the participation of his sufferings, becoming like him in his death and so, somehow, attaining to the resurrection from the dead.

Philippians 3:10-11

Behold the Lamb of God

It's Passover, and if I weren't currently touring some of my favorite Southern cities (and people!), I would love to be attending a Seder meal somewhere tonight.

Seder meals--the true Jewish ones--are such instructive celebrations of the heart of God for His people. During the Passover meal, Jewish families impart the history of Israel's redemption to their children through the reenactment of the first Passover. Appropriately, today's Lenten readings include Exodus 12, the Passover story.

And today, on Maundy Thursday and on many other days throughout the life of the Church, Christians reenact Passover through the method given us by Jesus himself, the Lord's Supper. We read in Matthew 25 that it was on the first day of the feast that Jesus invited his twelve closest friends to observe the Passover with him. There in the upper room, Jesus breathed new meaning into the Passover wine and unleavened bread, commanding them to remember him each time they partook of this meal. Still, they did not understand that he was their final Passover Lamb, the one who would remove the barrier of sin forever.

We find in this meal the significance in John the Baptist's remark, "Behold, the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!" (John 1:29). To a first-century Jew, it would have been remarkable to think that one lamb could absolve the whole world of its sin. R. Kent Hughes points out (in a book excerpt in Jesus, Keep Me Near the Cross) that during the Passover feast, more than two hundred thousand lambs were slain in Israel. He continues:

"John mentions in [chapter 18] verse 1 that "Jesus left with his disciples and crossed the Kidron Valley." A drain ran from the temple altar down to the Kidron ravine to drain away the blood of sacrifices...So when Jesus and his band crossed the Kidron [following the Passover meal and their vigil in Gethsemane], it was red with the blood of sacrifice."

I love the lengths Jesus went to in order to help his disciples understand what was happening.

Since I'm in Birmingham, visiting my baby sister at her new home away from home, Samford University, I went to a Maundy Thursday service tonight at Christ the King Anglican Church, which meets in Beeson Divinity School's beautiful Hodges chapel. I'd never been to a Maundy Thursday service before, but it was a beautiful way to begin Easter weekend--and I loved worshiping with Evangelical Anglicans.

Dr. Lyle Dorset, a Beeson professor and the father at Christ the King, spoke of the way in which the Communion meal ushers in Christ's presence for us. Before we took the bread and wine together, we sang one of my favorite Easter/Communion songs, "Behold the Lamb of God" by Keith and Kristen Getty.

I know this post is getting long, but I have to share these lyrics with you:

Behold the Lamb who bears our sins away,

Slain for us: and we remember
The promise made that all who come in faith
Find forgiveness at the cross.

So we share in this Bread of life,
And we drink of His sacrifice,
As a sign of our bonds of peace
Around the table of the King.

The body of our Savior, Jesus Christ,
Torn for you: eat and remember
The wounds that heal, the death that brings us life,
Paid the price to make us one.

The blood that cleanses every stain of sin,
Shed for you: drink and remember
He drained death's cup that all may enter in
To receive the life of God.

And so with thankfulness and faith
We rise to respond: and to remember.
Our call to follow in the steps of Christ
As His body here on earth.

As we share in His suffering,
We proclaim: Christ will come again!
And we'll join in the feast of heaven
Around the table of the King.

When Kids Hurt: Parenting Class for Moms at WHCC

One of the "assignments" I'm most excited about this semester at Walnut Hill is a parenting class our team is helping to teach for the morning women's ministry, AM/FM.

Maybe it seems a little presumptuous for a 25-year-old single girl with no kids to teach a class on parenting teenagers, but I've always felt that my family's story lent itself to interacting with students AND parents. So I'm super-excited that I get to teach the week on families! And since I'm the resident "party girl" on our staff youth team, I get to teach on teen partying one week, too.
The class facilitators collaborated with our crew to choose the book: When Kids Hurt: Help for Adults Navigating the Adolescent Maze. It's a paired-down version of an earlier, more textbookish title by Chap Clark that addresses the issue of teenage abandonment and how it affects every area of a student's life. The idea is that we adults who care about adolescents (parents, youth workers, teachers, etc.) need to boldly step into a teenager's world and reverse the systemic abandonment he or she feels. It's a tall order, but one our team wholeheartedly believes in.

I commend the book--and the class (if you're a mom here in CT)--to you. We've given a copy to each one of our Walnut Hill Youth (WHY) Ministries leaders to read in the coming months, so I'm excited to see how this line of thinking will impact our ministry!

Lessons from a French Monk

As I write this, my first post in months, I'm just beginning to grieve the passing of my Grandpa Russell. It seems surreal: we only lost Grandma a few months ago, and now the tears, the funerals in Champaign, IL and Evansville, IN, the whirlwind of emotions, will all be repeated. As I was leaving the office today, dressed in black but basking for a moment in the perfect Connecticut summer sun, my mind drifted to a plane ride from Chicago to Zurich about this time four years ago.

I was headed to Perugia, Italy via Switzerland and then Rome when I met a man who shamed me in my understanding of death and dying.

He was dressed in a grey burlap robe that touched the floor, and his navy baseball cap looked out of place perched atop his shaven head. At first he struck me as Middle Eastern. It took me a moment to notice the rosary beads and cross draped around his waste in a belt-like fashion. As he slung his bag into the storage compartment, he smiled and made a joke about the small seats, indicating that he would need to get past the aisle seat I was struggling to settle into. I returned the smile as I let him pass and asked where he was from. “I’m French,” he replied, not answering my question directly, but claiming his nationality. I learned that he was a Catholic monk and had moved to Peoria, Illinois, about an hour from my hometown, to live in a monastery there. He was traveling home to France to attend the funeral of his monastery’s founder.

When I offered my condolences, he quickly replied, "For us it's not a sad thing. It's the best thing that could happen." Holding my John Piper book and my Bible, I felt suddenly ashamed. Of course! Shouldn't I, the protestant girl with all the good theology, know about hoping for Heaven?

To my dismay, he fell asleep almost immediately and our social interaction was cut short. But I shall never forget the wise monk who understood the secret of "looking for the city that is to come" (Hebrews 13:14).

I praised God for that Frenchman today as I walked to my car. There are many tears to come this weekend as I grieve the loss of my dear Grandpa in this life. But I am trying desperately to hold on to those words from the Swiss Air flight four years ago: "It's the best thing that could happen."

As Christians, we hold these two things in tension: the bitterness of losing a brother of sister in this life and the joy in knowing that the gospel has achieved its fullness in them in the next life.

The Caedmon's Call lyrics that cheered me in my grandma's death this fall put it well:

there's a Land
where our shackles turn to diamonds
and we trade in our rags
for a royal crown
on that Day
our oppressors hold no power
and the doors of the King are thrown wide

Thank you, Jesus, that you conquered death and the grave. Thank you that you are the resurrection and the life (John 11:25).

Abide with Me

I'll be honest: I still don't have the heart to write about all things I love about my grandma. I'm feeling more joyful thinking about her dwelling in glory with her King, but I'm still so choked up thinking about my memories of her. While I continue to process, one thing has been especially sweet to me.

Over the past few months I've fallen in love with the Indelible Grace project, a musical effort initiated by Reformed University Fellowship at Belmont University in Nashville to resurrect old reformed hymns. At my churches in Richmond and in Nashville, these hymns became widely known, but in New England I'm finding they're still in need of resurrection. All of that just to say, I've been listening to these albums a lot the past few weeks. One of my favorites from the three albums on my iPod is "Abide with Me" because it always reminds me of my grandma Russell.

Once when Grandma was staying with us for a few days she was listening to me practice the piano. I loved hymns then, too, and was playing through a book of them for my lessons. I wasn't familiar with "Abide with Me," having never sang it at church. As I started to pluck out the notes, Grandma R. expressed that it was a hymn she really loved. It became instantly cooler in my eyes and I remember it as one of my favorites from that book.

While I was home this weekend, the fourth verse popped into my head and I realized how perfect it was for this season. We sang it at the funeral service in Champaign.

As I've been walking through this process of grief, the thing that's been most helpful to me is feeling connected to my grandma: knowing we shared common interests or a common personality trait, meeting her old friends, etc. This hymn is one of those "connection points" because I can just imagine her finding comfort in it as she slipped away...and now I am resting in its theology as I mourn. How like God to surface this hymn that we loved together while she was living to comfort me in her death.

Abide with me; falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord with me abide.
When other helpers, fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, abide with me.

Thou on my head, in early youth didst smile;
And, though rebellious, and perverse meanwhile,
Thou hast not left me, though I oft left Thee,
On to the close Lord, abide with me.

I need Thy presence, every passing hour.
What but Thy grace, can foil the tempter's power?
Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be?
Through cloud and sunshine, abide with me.

I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless
Ills have no weight, tears lose their bitterness
Where is thy sting death? Where grave thy victory?
I triumph still, abide with me.

Hold Thou Thy cross, before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies.
Heaven' morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, Lord, abide with me.

Mother: A Tribute from my Mom to Hers

My Grandma Russell passed away last week and I was at home this weekend for services. I've been so spoiled to have all four of my grandparents--and I think they are just about the coolest people in the universe--living and invested in my life. These days of mourning the loss of my sweet grandma have been so dark...I'm still struggling just to process it. I want to write something to honor her memory and to make her just a bit famous, if only to my six or so faithful readers. But for now, as I try to wrap my head around the emotion of it all, I'll let my mom say what she so eloquently did at both funeral services this past weekend. She will no doubt be embarrassed when she learns I've made her a "guest blogger," but she captured Grandma so beautifully that I just couldn't resist sharing this with you:

Mother had no credits or credentials, professional designations or degrees. The only list of accomplishments she had behind her name is us, her 2 daughters (Kathy and Jennifer), their husbands (Rob and Kevin) who Mother considered her true sons, her 5 granddaughters (Emily, Kelly, Lindsey, Chelsea, and Taylor) and their 3 husbands (Joe, Bob, and Dominic) who Mother also considered her true grandsons, and her two little great grandchildren (Jack and Mollie). She devoted herself to her husband and life-long friend, Bill and their family. She loved her family above everything else on this earth and gave her life serving us most of all. She wanted nothing more than to see each one of us happy and content.

Contentment was a big thing for Mother. Always seeking it herself; having been impacted by Paul’s example in Phil 4:11-12 she strove to learn, “to be content whatever the circumstances.” It was her desire that each of us would know and love the Lord Jesus Christ and find our contentment in Him. I know she is rejoicing, and wants us to do the same, for she has finally found true contentment beyond anything we can know on this earth. And so for that we do rejoice! Always interested in learning, Mother loved to be around interesting, funny, and happy people. She delighted in and was fiercely loyal to anyone she called “friend.” Always thinking of others and desiring to contribute to meeting their needs, she sought to love and serve God by loving and serving people. Well acquainted with pain and loss herself, she was especially sensitive to those who were sad, sick and suffering. How better to minister to someone than through a personal hand-written note or a heartwarming meal? Some women collect tea cups or figurines. My Mother collected greeting cards and recipes so she’d have a ready arsenal from which to choose when someone needed encouragement. All her grandchildren would agree, no one could pick out the perfect card like Grandma Russell! One of the ways we knew we were special is the painstaking efforts she took to get a card that, as she would say, “looks just like you!” And a card was never enough. There would always be a personal note written in perfect handwriting. (As I’ve been sorting and cleaning for Mother these last couple of years I’ve come upon notebook after notebook with personal notes to each of us which she then edited and put in the cards she wrote.)

She held herself to a high standard in this regard. She admired those who seemed to get cards and notes sent on time. Mother had a lot to give and desired to give it all. It upset her that she could never keep up with the need. And it grieved her especially in these later years as she gradually had to give it up altogether. The cards and notes that so many of you have sent to her over the years meant so much to her, too. She kept every one. I know because I’ve just been through them all and she wouldn’t let me throw even one away. She loved to go back and read them again and again. Through them she could feel your love.

And of course, there were many times when a note or card was not enough. Sometimes nothing says lovin’ like bakin’ from the oven! As I recall growing up, it seems there was scarcely a week went by that she wasn’t cooking a meal for someone. And of course she cooked for her family all the time. She really enjoyed fixing meals that we loved.

Mother was a self taught cook. Having lost her mother at age 16 she took up cooking for her “Daddy.” She never tried a recipe that she didn’t improve; always tweaking it to make it better; adding ingredients to make it tastier. Calories weren’t a consideration; fat content was not an issue. Taste! That’s all that mattered. How satisfying was it? To her cooking was both an art – an expression of herself – and a science. Our kitchen often looked like a lab, so many were the pans, dishes and utensils she’d use to create her masterpieces. As I write this I’m so hungry for her vegetable soup I’m sad to think I’ll never taste anything like it again. Always for my birthday she’d make me a batch. We used to tell her she should can and sell it. But, she said it’d be too expensive to market because of the time it took to prepare. We always asked her to write down her recipes and she would try, but since you have to go by taste, nothing Kathy or I make of Mother’s ever tastes as good.

Whether through cooking or writing cards, her aim was the same. She wanted the recipient to “feel the love”–her love for them, but more importantly the love of Christ. To “feel the love” was her theme in life. I can see her holding her grandchildren. As she did you could see her absolute delight in them. She made each feel special, as though they were the only one. Chels always said, and I know all the granddaughters would agree, that Grandma Russell was her greatest cheerleader. She was absolutely captivated by every word they said. It is one of the things I will miss most about her; I could sit and talk with her for hours over every detail of my girls’ lives and she would never tire of hearing it. If it weren’t for Dad’s ability to do the same, and my children’s other grandparents, Cherry and Corwin, I don’t think I could stand it. She wanted no one or nothing to distract her from hearing every word.

Such is the love of a grandparent. But, I’d say Mother had a special gift in this area. She had the ability to get past information to hear your heart! I wouldn’t even have to finish my sentences or sometimes I just wouldn’t be able to find the right words to describe how I was feeling or what I was going through but I didn’t have to – Mother understood and could often articulate for me what I couldn’t articulate for myself. From that I learned something about God. Often I can’t praise Him as I’d like, I can’t articulate adequately what’s on my heart and mind. But, from my mother’s example I know, He understands. Mother “got me” in much the same way as God “gets me”. Very few people “get me” but my mother did just as she “got” all her loved ones. She understood and accepted each one of us just as we are and never sought to change one thing about us; she just loved us each unconditionally.

She loved her husband, my Dad, more than words can tell. Their story together began when they were both just 8 years old. My Grandpa Russell was the Pastor of my mother’s family church. One Sunday morning, unbeknownst to the other, both my mother Charlotte and my father Billy went forward to receive Jesus Christ as their personal Lord and Savior. At age 16 they started dating and the rest is history. This past September 11 they celebrated their 61st anniversary.

Their love story has been an inspiration to all of us daughters and granddaughters. To think they have known, been infatuated with, and loved each other for 75 of their 83 years boggles the mind. No love story could be sweeter and the loss my Dad feels, the loss of his beloved, is beyond comprehension. He has been her companion and lover, and in recent years also her 24/7 caregiver. Such love and devotion reminds me of Christ who demonstrated His love by laying down His life for the church. Mother scarcely made a move Dad didn’t know about this last year or more. Only if he could have wheeled her into Heaven himself might he have found this separation bearable. I’m grateful for all the sweet memories he has of her which will carry him and all of us through the very difficult days ahead. Dad, we’re going to want to hear all the stories about Mother from the early days again and again. They will help us all to heal.

Mother was meticulous about everything except housekeeping. She was, at heart, a girl who just wanted to have fun. Housekeeping was not fun. But what a gift she had for making things feel special! She valued hard work and would exhaust herself to create a holiday, a party, a birthday—each gathering more spectacular than the last. As a result, Christmas at our house was absolutely magical. But whether it was the yearly Easter egg hunt or serving your favorite meal on your birthday, Mother MADE it special; she sweat over the details to make sure it was fun.

She loved numbers and details. Serving as church treasurer at Penn Ave, as Class administrator for BSF, and as head of Wednesday night dinners was a mix that suited her well. She served in these capacities for many years, all at the same time. One job would have been a lot. But, what she considered most fun was being out there doing and seeing; using her gifts and contributing as much as she could.

She was also meticulous about laundry. I don’t know what it was about doing laundry that was fun, but something about it was rewarding. I especially remember as a little girl the hours she would spend ironing. As I think about it now, perhaps it was fun because she could iron while watching As the World Turns, her favorite soap. But the result was crisp, starched dresses whose big bows in the back would stand straight up at attention all through the long Sunday mornings at church. It was Dad’s duty, in helping to get the family ready for church each Sunday morning, to tie those bows right before we left for church and he did it perfectly. Mother and Dad were such a great team, always working together; cooperating like that in little household and family matters.

Another thing about Mother that I will always remember was her determination. When she made up her mind about something, just try—I dare you—just try to change it! Oh, she might look like she was cooperating with you; she was so sweet!! But, soon you’d find she was not cooperating at all! While this meant there was some head butting at times, this steadfast determination served her very well. When she was in the hospital two years ago she developed pneumonia with complications that kept her in nursing care for 90 days. She never wavered in her determination to get well. She was sick to the point of death – we thought one night that we’d lost her. But, she fought like a tiger (Jack, Great Grandma was a superhero tiger grandma! Did you know that?) She fought with every ounce of strength she had not to succumb. And in the months of recovery at Carle Arbors she suffered every kind of indignity, yet she would say, “I can’t let myself get upset about it; I have to reserve my strength so that I can get well and go home.” She handled it all with such dignity and grace. Even in those circumstances she sought to be positive, kind, and gracious to her friends, family and those who served her so well at Carle Arbors. What a great example she was as she persevered to fight the good fight of faith.

It would be an injustice to my mother also not to mention that in all she did to love others, she loved Jesus most of all. Her greatest desire; her motivation was always to point people to the love of the Savior. She never got over what Jesus did for her that Sunday morning when she went forward to receive Christ in my grandfather’s church at 8 years of age. She wanted many things in her life; to travel, to have and enjoy friends, to use her gifts to serve God, to have fun, to learn, to improve herself; but her greatest desire in all that she did was to point others to Christ. In this way, too, she has been a wonderful example for me.

There are so many things about Mother’s life which warrant telling, remembering and treasuring. How can you in one short eulogy ever really capture what a person means to you, her church, or her community; her value, the depths to which she is loved, the grief we feel in loosing her? But, Mother would not want us to wallow in self pity – she hated that! Nor would she want us to stay stuck in our grief. She would want us to fly! She’d want us to remember her at her best, and she’d want us to find joy, peace and contentment in the fact that she is not suffering anymore; that we will see her again; that she is with her Savior and reunited with her firstborn, Caryl Deen, her beloved “Daddy,” Mother, her big sis, Mary, her nephew Chet, and Uncle Art. There is a whole company of believers who’ve gone before her with whom she is celebrating. How could we deny her that? We needed to release her. And we all know she would want us to LIVE and enjoy life NOW with the hope of seeing her again.