Black-eyed Susans & Letting Go

When we moved almost 9 months ago from Michigan, I brought a small tuft of my black-eyed Susans to transplant here.  They were a gift for my 30th birthday from my grandmother.  I wanted desperately to bring the gift with me.  I carefully wrapped the roots in wet paper towels to keep them moist for the long journey ahead, and tucked them in a safe protected traveling place in my vehicle.  Through the years, I had thinned out and transplanted the glorious flowers many times.  I  even shared them with a few close friends, so they could enjoy them in their yards, as well.  I had no reason to believe that the beauty and brightness which adorned the landscape of our Michigan home for more than a decade couldn't also adorn the landscape of our Colorado home.  I envisioned that wherever I would be, some of my grandmother's black-eyed Susans would be WITH me.

After my flowers were planted, to insure their growth, I also planted many of their seeds.  I waited impatiently through the long fall and winter months for spring to come.  I couldn't wait to see if my precious plant survived and if the seeds would sprout.  I longed for them to grow and flourish HERE in this Colorado soil.

As the spring sun began to warm the ground, I grew anxious.  My middle daughter watered seeds, while I keenly watched the plant.  Long past the time new green should have poked out from the Michigan root, I sadly realized my precious black-eyed Susans had died.  My heart ached as my daughter and I realized the seeds, also, would not grow.

To me, it was yet another "thing" from Michigan I had to let go of.  Sigh.  My way-too-sensitive-sentimental-

heart hurt that my grandmother's flowers were not here with me.  It hurt that I "knew" the majority of my gift flowers were still back in Michigan bursting from the spring soil in life-filled green.  "God, all I wanted was one little grouping of them here with me.  Was it too much to ask?"  Perhaps, it was.

Letting go has become so much more than just letting go of my grandmother's flowers.  The black-eyed Susans represented some kind of strange proof to me.  Proof that we bled and almost died to save a little church... Proof that some of the people within that church truly encountered Jesus, and are authentically journeying with Him today...  

 

PROOF THAT THE PREVIOUS DECADE WAS NOT A LOSS... 

 

Proof that if the people don't remember, know, or even understand the depth of ministry that took place while we were there, I would. We would.  We WERE there.  We made some kind of a mark, some kind of a difference in a somewhat thankless town.  We gave until we had NOTHING left to give.  A tiny church was turned around, and so were people.  Why didn't the Michigan flowers grow here in this Colorado soil?  I wanted to remember.  I wanted to look at the flowers HERE and remember that we were once THERE.

The past is something you can't keep. Some things in your past build your future.  Some things in your past you have to let go.  We moved away from the only life we had ever known, and for me it has been a GIANT, heart wrenching process of letting go.

Sometimes we are forced to let go immediately, and sometimes we are given space to heal and are gradually freed.  For me, it has taken the past nine months to truly begin the process.  It may seem somewhat silly that I grieve the loss of my black-eyed Susans, but through my tears I grieve so much more. I TRUST God for the bigger-deeper picture in our souls.  I TRUST that as I faithfully plant, something NEW will burst forth in life-filled-green.  Maybe even something unexpected?  I can't worry about the past anymore.  The future of the Michigan church, and it's people are no longer my burden to carry.  I do treasure the handful of genuine, lifelong relationships that have been forged. These are unspeakable gifts given within the decade of our service.  Certainly, there are stories... stories of WHO and WHY I have become.  Stories about what has happened to me and to us. The stories are mine, and I will tell them, but the Michigan LIFE is no longer mine. That is why the flowers wouldn't grow... couldn't grow.  God knew I was hanging onto something, and he used my precious flowers to show me that I needed to let go.   

 

HE NEEDED ME TO LET GO SO I COULD BE FREE... 

 

Free for what He wants to do in and through me for the future.   

 

I SURRENDER ALL OF ME TO ALL OF HIM.  I SURRENDER TO MAKE ROOM FOR SOMETHING HOPE-FILLED AND BRAND NEW.

My 41st birthday is just around the corner.  I have already asked my sweet grandma, who knows I have grieved the loss of my special flowers, to buy me something new to plant.  I will, again, have "Grandma's flowers."

I will plant.  I will trust.  I will hope.

I BELIEVE HE WILL GROW THE FLOWERS... AND MY HEART~ NEW.

 

I will treasure the gift and the freedom.

 

Second Chance Mom

For twenty years long, she was the faithful wife of an abusive alcoholic.  For eighteen of those twenty years, she was also a mother.  My mother.  She and I, together and separately, survived.

WE BARELY SURVIVED.

My entire childhood filters through the reality of this truth.  I dreaded and despised my relationship with my father, and his abuse and control left me with mere shreds of a relationship with my mother.  She was burdened by the weight of responsibility to insure that our basic needs were provided.  She diligently worked day in and day out at a dingy little small-town factory.  Her meager hourly wage was our only source of steady income.  He never held a job, and the wages he did earn rushed through the sieve of booze, women, and other selfish desires. His anger and violence dominated our home.  There was no time, energy, or emotions left for a brown-eyed little girl.

My mother, sweet and kind, was robbed of truly being a mom.  Eighteen precious years were stolen and tainted with wounds and sorrow, struggle and heartache.  My mother was belittled and weakened, yet she still possessed quiet strength.  We both got out alive.  SOMEHOW.  Although parts of us died, we lived.  We made it through. 

GOD IS A GOD OF SECOND CHANCES.  

BECAUSE HE IS GRACE, MY MOM IS A MOM OF SECOND CHANCES, TOO.

Although time lost can never be regained, it can be redeemed.  The funny thing about second chances, is that some people ignore them.  It's up to you what to do when your second chance comes along.  But those who do take their second chance, embrace the MERCY-GIFT with wholehearted gratefulness.  Perhaps they appreciate even more in the shadow of what was lost.  Perhaps they love a little deeper, hug a little longer, and smile a little brighter because they never thought moments like these would ever return to them. 

REDEMPTION IS BEAUTIFUL.

My mom only mothered me, but she is re-living her second chance four times over with my children.  I love to watch her cuddle up to read stories, plop on the floor to build Legos, or sit at the table for hours to play games, work puzzles, or roll out Play-doh.  She goes on long walks with my teenage daughter, and every evening takes special interest in her day. 

Watching my mom's love for my children unfold before me is like viewing how my mom would have chosen to love and nurture me.  It is healing balm for my little-girl-soul, and I know it is salve to her mother-soul as well.  GRACE.  It is grace alive... living and breathing in our midst.  Grace rebuilds.  Grace restores. Grace covers.  Grace heals.

GRACE IS THE STUFF OF SECOND CHANCES.

GRACE IS THE STUFF MY SECOND CHANCE MOM IS MADE OF.

 ***********  
This piece is in honor of my mom.  Today is her birthday.



HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOM!
HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY, TOO!  
I LOVE YOU! 


p.s.  The picture on this post is my "Second Chance Mom" with my two oldest daughters.  :)

Remember

River's flood angrily swells.  
Currents swiftly sweep by.
Fear trembles soul's depths, 
Even with His promise to part.

Bold trust leeches fear.
Faith steps in.

Water walls erect a passable hallway.
Sand squishes over sandals...
Over toes.

A promise fulfilled strengthens belief...
Strengthens steps...
Strengthens shoulders buckled under burdens.

Imprinted path ~ a trail forged to follow.
The bank is reached.
Waves crash sand-prints, 
As river walls fold into one.
Evidence of the journey walked swept away.

There is no looking back.  
You rest knowing you stand secure,
Across the raging river on the other side.

...and you REMEMBER.