We Will Miss the Harvest

As I look outside our window and see the spread of farmland that blankets the area, I am fully aware that autumn is close.  The corn is stretched strong and tall, the ears are formed, and the tops of the stalks are tasseled.  Harvest is just around the corner.  We have enjoyed the seasons in this little Michigan home for more than a decade, but the winds of change are blowing.  This summer will be our last season here.


WE WILL MISS THE HARVEST...


Having grown up a Hoosier farm girl on my grandpa's farm, this makes me sad.  I relish the fact that my own children have tasted a little bit of what it's like to grow up in the middle of a corn field.  The stars are brighter, the crickets chirp louder, and the tree frogs sing an unforgettable melody. To pass the time, you climb trees, swing on the porch swing, and watch the deer play in your backyard.  But the winds of change are blowing...


WE WILL MISS THE HARVEST...


To a farmer, the harvest is the most important time of  year. He is rewarded for his labor of planting and tending to his fields and crops.  The harvest is a TANGIBLE reward for his diligent efforts.   But because the Michigan wind is blowing...


WE WILL MISS THE HARVEST...     


 God asks some to ready the ground and plant the seed, some to water the seed, and some to gather the harvest.  A rare few are called to all the tasks, but we are not among the few.  This is God's work here, and our specific job is complete in this little corner of His Kingdom.  It is difficult to leave before the harvest.  We cannot gather the fruits of our labor and experience a tangible reward.  It takes a lot of faith to leave the "field" and trust that someone else will come to tenderly and carefully gather the harvest for which we lovingly labored.  We are sorting through our tangle of emotions.  We are sad the wind is blowing...


WE WILL MISS THE HARVEST...


The ancient wind of change is blowing our family all the way from Michigan to Colorado.  We have no plan.  We only know that God is calling.  We follow.  We radically trust.  We know there are things that our eyes cannot yet see.  Our hearts are stirred, and we must obey the call.  Perhaps a readied field awaits our arrival.  Perhaps we will reap in our journey ahead.  Whatever God has planned, we will do our "BROKEN BEST" to follow His lead. 

WE WILL MISS THE HARVEST...

BUT SOMEWHERE A NEW "FIELD" AWAITS US AND WE TRUST HIS LEADING FOR THE JOB WE ARE CALLED TO DO...

LET THE WIND BLOW...

"We are only God’s servants through whom you believed the Good News.  Each of us did the work the Lord gave us.  I planted the seed in your hearts, and Apollos watered it, but it was God who made it grow."  1 Corinthians 3:5-6 

Treasure Tree

I am so excited to share a link to my *VERY FIRST~EVER* guest blog!   Today, I'm writing at Alise...Write!  I met Alise on Twitter a little less than a year ago. I have a deep respect for her and her writing, and I don't know if I've met anyone more genuine in the blogging community.  She is not afraid to wrestle with extremely difficult issues, and she always stretches my thinking.  Alise is a blessing, and I am so thankful our paths have crossed.    :)

Here's a bit of my piece about brokenness, cherry trees, dead branches, and God's love... Thanks for reading!  :)

Between our sidewalk and driveway, stands one of my favorite things, a weeping cherry tree.  Each new spring she blesses us with an enchanting array of pink and white blossoms.  When the wind whisks through her branches, the loosely attached buds create a seemingly endless snow of petals.  Late spring, she offers another gift.  FRUIT.  Her branches fill with bright red cherries that are picked, pitted, and fashioned into Grandma's sour cherry pie.  The summertime gift she offers is a hideaway for my children.  They love to climb into her strong, twisted trunk and escape behind her waterfall of branches.  Her secret cove is the perfect place to get lost in a book on a warm summer day.  These are all splendid gifts to be sure, but the most valuable thing I've ever received from Treasure Tree is not in her beauty, her fruit, or her hideout, but in the lesson of her DEAD BRANCHES.  To continue reading, click ~~>  HERE.

Tears in the bucket

Growing up with an abusive alcoholic is like...



being a puzzle with missing pieces.

 You can ask everyone around you to halt and help you look for the missing pieces, but you'll never find them.   You fill in the empty spaces the best that you can, but you are always on a quest to find a better piece here or there, anywhere.    

ALWAYS ON A QUEST…

To cope with being the wife of an abusive alcoholic, my mom became a creature of habit.  She learned to control as many things around her that she could.  Almost everything in her life was out of control.  Routine gave the shambles of my mom's life something stable.  She could create it.  She could manipulate it.  She could master the discipline of it.   

AND MASTER THE DISCIPLINE OF ROUTINE...

SHE DID...

Every Friday night, while my father was hopping from bar to bar, my mom was at home washing toilets.   While my father was hopping from bed to bed and woman to woman, my mom was alone mopping the floor.

My mom was a hands and knees floor scrubber.  I can still see her hunched over on all fours methodically scrubbing with the old wooden scrub brush.  She would meticulously begin in the same corner of the kitchen every Friday night.  Back and forth she scrubbed.  She tried to scrub away her sorrows of wondering where her husband would be that night.  Who would be with him?  Would he make it home alive?  Would she get a call at 3:00 a.m. and have to pick him up from a bar, or a jail, or a hospital?  Would he come home at all?  Back and forth she scrubbed, constantly wiping the sweat from her brow.  Tears fell in that dirty old mop bucket.  Tears became the solution that cleaned our kitchen floor.  Tears drove my mom to wish her daughter a better life than she had. 

TEARS BECAME AN AVENUE FOR PRAYER... 

With each tear that fell in the bucket, my mom's heart cried out in prayer that her only child would have a better life than she had.  My mom's tears pleaded with God that He would somehow assemble the puzzle of my life that had severely damaged and missing pieces.  My mom prayed for rescue.  Escape.  Protection.  Guidance.  Help.   

EACH TEAR A PRAYER THAT THINGS WOULD BE DIFFERENT FOR ME.

Every Friday night, I think that old plastic bucket filled faster than it emptied.

  

AS TEARS BECAME PRAYERS...

PRAYERS BECAME HOPE...

My mom had a hope that my life would be better.  My mom had a hope that my broken puzzle could somehow be restored.    


MY MOM HAD HOPE, AND GOD HEARD HER TEAR-PRAYERS. 


 This is the life that my mom prayed for me.  Safety.  Love.  Faithfulness.  Security.  Strength.  Peace.  Tenderness.  Faith.  Light.

HER PRAYERS WERE HEARD...

AND ANSWERED...

THE TEARS OF HER OWN LIFE CAUSED PRAYERS OF HEALING TO FALL ON MINE...

THE TEARS IN THE BUCKET STILL CARRY ME...

THANKS MOM...

Good Morning Forty

Good morning, Forty.  I knew you would be here to greet me this morning. 

I've been thinking about our meeting for quite some time.  I always used to wish that somehow you would show up late for our appointment.  I wasn't really sure I ever wanted to meet you at all, but now that this day is here, I can quite see that you are actually right on time.  

Forty, I see that you have brought with you Second Chances and New Opportunities. Grace and Mercy have been my ever constant companions.  You should all get along nicely.  As we walk hand in hand ~together~ into today, tomorrow, the next day, and the next, I will remember the blessings and delights of my first forty years.  I will also remember the heartaches, brokenness, and disappointments.  All of the sorrow has shaped and formed me, and has grown me up to be content to be here ~on this day~ with you. 

Thank you for coming.  It is a mercy and delight to be here.  So many never get to see you, and for me you are perfectly on time. Forty, I embrace you. Let's journey forward and never look back.  Somehow, I have this distinct feeling that the best years are actually yet to be. 

Good morning, my friend.  

Good morning, Forty.  

Good morning.  

  

"Every day of my life was recorded in your book.  Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed."  Psalm 139:16

A Beautiful Grace

Certain words have a way of painting pictures in our hearts.

At the mere mention of one of these unique words specific emotions, images, and opinions are sparked. Our experience, in part, frames the conclusions and definitions we draw from these words. The word "father" is one of these such words.

When you hear...

FATHER. Do you feel warm and tender? Do you feel safe and protected? Does "father" to you represent wisdom and love?

Or when you hear...

FATHER. Do you feel distant and fearful? Do you feel nervous and defensive? Does "father" to you represent abandonment or pain?

When you hear...

FATHER. Maybe you feel something completely different than these two scenarios. Maybe you even feel a combination of both. Perhaps the word doesn't evoke any particular feeling at all, but I want to share with you why the word FATHER for me is a grace.

A BEAUTIFUL GRACE...

For the first twelve years of my life my earthly father sunk his sorrows in a bottle from bar to bar almost every single night of the week. He's been in more brawls than I would care to know about, most were probably over women. He wasn't able to hold down a job for apparent reasons, and he wrecked more vehicles than I could ever remember. I am quite certain that he cheated death. SEVERAL TIMES. I don't remember him ever being tender with me when I was little, and he certainly didn't make me feel safe or protected. My childhood memories include trekking off to bars and jails to retrieve my father. My childhood memories include watching my father physically hurt my mother, and include my father hurting me. I remember that when he was home, even in the middle of the most beautiful sunshiny day, our house was dark, and the thick heavy drapes were drawn on all the windows. I was instructed- sternly- not to make the tiniest rustle of noise. His skin wreaked of liquor combined with the stench of vomit. Yet the word "father" for me is a grace.

A BEAUTIFUL GRACE...

I think I've always known that a good father would be nothing at all like my biological father. When he broke away from the bottle once and for all, the only thing that changed was the presence of alcohol. Sadly, all of the other violent behaviors remained. Always hoping for the best in every situation, I still believed that one day I might awaken, and my father would suddenly be changed. He would realize the gift he had in my faithful, beautiful mother. He would realize the gift he had in me. He would be kind and tender, playful and caring. He might even show me how to hit a baseball, or take me on a bike ride. His eyes would sparkle and dance when I walked into the room, and he would be proud of me, his little girl. I never awoke to such a dream being fulfilled. Even still, the word "father" for me is a grace.

A BEAUTIFUL GRACE...

As a girl I cowered around men close to my father's age. Even as a teenager I feared my friends' fathers. When I was in elementary school, I was ridiculed by other children, because my father was the town drunk in a very, very small town. My father used to tell me that no man would ever love me. As a result of him mistreating me, I have always been plagued with deep insecurities. To cope, I looked for love in all the wrong places so I would feel approval, acceptance, and security. I was simply longing for a place to belong. Heaps of brokenness and shame buried me. My father was charming to everyone around us, but in the prison of privacy he threatened to take my life if I ever shared what went on inside our home. I believed him. I was silent. My own father should have shattered any positive image that I have of any and every father. But, the word "father" for me is a grace.

A BEAUTIFUL GRACE... 

As I look back on every single one of my formative years, I realize that I have a REAL FATHER who held and kept me. Maintained and protected me. Even though He allowed appalling things to happen to me, He did not allow those things to destroy me. Even when I strayed, He did not allow me to stray beyond His grasp. As a grown woman, layers of my own brokenness continue to be peeled away. Each undone layer brings to light pain along with new graces. My REAL FATHER directed me here, to this particular time and place, through the traffic and devastation of the circumstances of my life. Every hurt, regret, sorrow, mistake, and shame from my earliest memory until this very day, He has used to form and shape me, mold and seal me. He has whispered deep into my soul that *I* am *HIS* LITTLE GIRL. It is His eyes that sparkle and dance when I enter the room, because... He. Loves. Me. My FATHER loves me. He is my grace.

A BEAUTIFUL GRACE...

INDEED... 



All is grace...always grace,