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.

Beach Grace

Peter sat quietly in the handcrafted boat made by his grandfather.  Generations of fishers passed down their family trade, and now Peter was the boat master.  For the past three years, Peter's fishing career had suffered, but all of that would be different now.  It was back to the methodical life of before...

BEFORE JESUS...

SIGH...

The boat lulled softly on the still morning water.  Peter struggled to keep his eyelids from dropping shut.  He hadn't slept soundly the past few days.  He wondered if he'd ever sleep soundly again.  It was Peter's idea to go fishing this night.  Perhaps, routine would be a distraction from the insomnia, the sorrow, the regret.  All night they cast their nets into the cool waters, and not a single fish was taken captive.  Discouraged, Peter thought about the time their nets burst with so many fish that two boats could scarcely hold their catch.  Jesus was there on the miraculous fishing day.  Peter fell on his knees humbled, awestruck, unworthy. That was the day Peter left his nets behind to follow Jesus.

JESUS...

JESUS...

JESUS...

Peter worried a loose wool cord from one of the nets between his fingers as his wandering thoughts betrayed the task at hand.  The sky shifted from navy to light gray.  Clouds mirrored the pink reflection of the sun that would soon break the horizon.  Peter's shoulders sank as he remembered the day Jesus gave him a special name.  ROCK.  Peter the rock.  "On you, I will build my church,"  Jesus told him.  Peter's confidence soared that day, and His heart was overwhelmed with love for  Jesus.  Now, Peter's heart crumbled in shame.  Tears streamed down Peter's sun weathered face.  Things between Jesus and him would never be the same.

PETER THE ROCK...

PETER THE BETRAYER...

In Jesus' darkest hour, Peter told others that he never even knew his friend, master, teacher.  Peter denied.  Peter betrayed.  Peter lied.  Not once.  Not twice.  But three times.  Jesus, himself, had warned Peter.  Peter refused to believe from the depths of his bones that he would ever reject Jesus.  The rooster crowed, and the veil was lifted from Peter's eyes.  On this RUBBLE no church could ever be built.  The sun peeked through the horizon.  The sky was awake in flames of orange and pink.  Peter halfheartedly tossed the net into the sea.  He didn't want to fish.  He wanted to run.  Run to escape the grief,  the pain, the reality of who he was. 

ROCK.  BETRAYER.  RUBBLE.

"Peter, look!  It's Jesus!  On the shore.  Look, Peter.  Look."  Peter's thoughts jolted.  He didn't even bother to see which of the others was speaking to him.  Eyes squinted, he focused his gaze towards the beach.  Was it really Him?  Was it... JESUS!  Peter's heart pounded hard within his chest.  Without thinking, he plunged into the water recklessly.  Each stroke closer to the beach.  Each stroke closer to Jesus.  Peter's palms smacked the water.  His legs kicked fierce.  Maybe he could tell Jesus that he was... that he was SORRY.  Peter's heart ached and his conscience poked wounds.  BETRAYER...  The sting was almost too much to bear.  "What am I doing?  I am a fool," Peter thought.  Madness had overtaken Peter's sense.  Now, it was too late.  He was already halfway between the boat and the shore.  There was no turning back.

Soaked in regret, Peter stood up in the shallow water.  Legs heavy, heart sluggish, he waded the rest of the way towards the beach.  RUBBLE BRACED HIMSELF FOR REPRIMAND.  He would have no words.  No answer.  No explanation.  Jesus motioned for Peter to come.  Peter's heart tripped and stumbled as he dragged himself closer to his beloved friend.  A small driftwood fire was blazing bright in the shadow of dawn.  Drenched, Peter sat close to the fire to chase the wet and chill from his bones and clothes.  A rugged stick, propped on a rock, pierced two hearty fish that cooked over the flames.  Peter's eyes welled up with tears and spilled over his cheeks.  Jesus placed a single index finger over his lips as if to say, "Shhhh, it's okay."   Peter almost lost himself within the deep of Jesus' warm brown eyes, but shamefully turned to look down at the sand...the dirt like him.  Jesus gently put his hand on Peter's knee.  Cautiously, Peter raised his eyes to meet Jesus' tender gaze.  Grace began to soothe regret.  The fish crackled over the fire, and Jesus reached for the stick.  Smiling, He passed it to Peter.  FORGIVENESS SHATTERED SHAME as Peter realized that Jesus had been waiting for HIM.  God made Rubble breakfast, and he would never be the same again.  BEACH GRACE gripped the bones of his soul.   

ALL HE HAD TO OFFER WAS THE RAW BROKENNESS OF WHO HE WAS.  

TO JESUS, IT WAS ENOUGH.

***********

Could it be that Jesus waits for you to jump out of your boat and swim to Him, so He can blanket you in His love, intimately cook you breakfast, and envelop you in His BEACH GRACE?  All that you are (and you know what you are) melts away in the heat of the fire, in the warmth of His eyes, in the tenderness of His touch.  ALL THAT HE IS BECOMES ALL THAT YOU ARE.  You are you, yet changed.

RUBBLE TO ROCK-NEW... 

Could it be the one humbled by failure, reduced to rubble is the rock on which the church is actually built?

RECKLESSLY ABANDONED TO JESUS, OUR FAILURES AND FLAWS BECOME STORIES... THAT BECOME RELATIONSHIPS... THAT BECOME COMMUNITIES... THAT BECOME THE LIVING-BREATHING-HANDS-AND-FEET-AND-HEART-OF-CHRIST-TO-OTHERS.

This is the ROCK on which His church is built.  True.  Church.

Offer your RUBBLE.
    
IN HIS BEACH GRACE,  TO JESUS...
  
IT IS ENOUGH.



"Now come and have some breakfast...."  (John 21:12)

***********

The above "fiction" is based on the following scriptures:

Luke 5:1-11

Matthew 16:18

Mark 14:66-72 

John 21:1-14

Dirty Feet and a Grace Wash

OH, THOSE DIRTY FEET.

I can't get them out of my head or heart.  Those stinky dirty feet, cracked and calloused from miles and miles of walking.  Twelve pairs of feet, caked with layers of crusty dust.  Dirt exaggerated lines like a map on the underside, tracking every place the feet had traveled. 

EVERY.  PLACE. 

Other than acts of heart, your feet take you everywhere you go.  Every action, your feet trod the path to get you there.  Every good deed, every kindness. Your feet lead the way.   Every entanglement, every brokenness, every sin, every secret, every failure. 

FEET.  FEET.  FEET.

DIRT.  DIRT.  DIRT.

Those twelve grown men waited for a servant to come and wash their grimy feet, so they could fellowship around the table with Jesus.  Earth from the day's travel evidenced the journey beneath their sandals.  Some had feet more filthy than others. 

ONE...

HAD FEET THE FILTHIEST OF ALL.  

Jesus got up, grabbed a towel, and revealed His servant hands and heart.  He poured water into a bowl, and began to wash the feet of the twelve.  Shocked and dumbfounded, each disciple yielded their unclean toes and heels, and soles and souls to the servant king for a grace wash.  With each dip into water and scrubbing cleanse, Jesus not only washed feet, but hearts.

BETRAYER SQUIRMED.  

JESUS KNEW.

JESUS WASHED MERCY OVER THE BETRAYER'S FEET, ANYWAY.

The beautiful thing about Jesus is that He offers His mercy wash to all.  He never forces us to accept Him.  He wants His love and tenderness towards us to compel our hearts to reciprocate that love.  Some will reject Him like the betrayer among the twelve.  Some will surrender.

I AM A SURRENDERED BETRAYER.

I HAVE THE FILTHIEST FEET OF ALL.

I am salved and relieved that the dirty lines are washed from the map of where I've traveled.  Sometimes my feet still become tired and calloused, dirty and worn.  Sometimes my feet travel places they should not step.  Sometimes.  All the time.  I need a fresh bath of grace from the Mercy Washer.  I need to be re-drenched in His love, re-flooded with His tenderness, and re-affirmed by His grace.  I abandon myself to His cleansing balm, and I am so thankful that He isn't deterred by my dirty feet.

OH, THOSE DIRTY FEET.

Are your feet tired and calloused, dirty and worn?  Have your feet traveled places they should not have stepped?  Do you need a fresh bath of grace from the Mercy Washer?  Do you need to be re-drenched in His love, re-flooded with His tenderness, and re-affirmed by His grace? 

NO MATTER WHERE YOUR FEET HAVE TAKEN YOU, REMEMBER THAT HE WASHES IT ALL.

"Wash me, and I will be whiter than snow."   (Psalm 51:7)