My Mom - Part 3

Part 1

Part 2

My mom has a Bible that she keeps by her comfy chair in the living room.  Its navy blue case is faded from the years.  The gilt edges of the pages are long since worn off.  Marked in the margins, between the words, and in the end notes are thoughts and comments from her years of study.  Though I have probably had more formal Bible training than she has, I am always astonished when I know some fact about the Bible that she doesn’t.  My mom has made a practice for many years to earnestly study the Bible to know God better.

Mom likes debate.  A lot.  Far more than me.  But more than debate she likes to know what is true.  Is that really what the Bible says?  Do I agree with the undercurrent of the message?  If not, why?  Why do they say that?  Why do you think that?  All these were questions of my childhood.  And adulthood.  My mom pursues truth in the abstract sense and Truth in Jesus, the Way, Truth, and Life.  She is not content to let untruth simply pass by; it must be addressed and its foundations shaken.

Theological discussions were extremely common in my college years.  Typically, it was Mom and my older brother actually engaged in the debate but I listened and learned too.  Mom and Dad both encouraged us to not merely memorize Scripture but to understand what it means.  And with understanding, to apply it.

When we were little, my brothers and I gave Mom an apron on which we had painstakingly painted the words “My Godly Mom” and signed our names.  I’d make the same for her today.

Conclusion

My mom is awesome.

No, really, she is.

I’ve known it for a long time.  Now you know too.

My Mom - Part 2

See part 1 here

Mom taught me hospitality

My dad worked a lot with FCA (Fellowship of Christian Athletes) when I was growing up.  Often, the group of teenagers would meet over at our house for the Bible study.  Mom was always a gracious hostess, ready with drinks and/or snacks for all.  I cannot begin to count the number of times we would have friends come over after church for lunch and “a few hours” which turned into the entire afternoon and supper and half the evening.  I’m certain there were times when Mom was half-wondering how we would feed everyone (again) but she never complained or tried to shoo people out (considering our friends being over often meant another dozen people, that is no small feat).

In these past few years Mom’s health hasn’t allowed her to host nearly as often as when I was a kid but the lesson of an open house still stands.  I love simply opening my home to let people come in and crash for the night, stop for a drink of water, or snatch a nap.  I’ve even had folks come over after going to a movie without me and just assemble to discuss and decompress.  Without my Mom’s early lessons on having an open, welcoming home, I don’t think these things would happen nearly as often.

Mom teaches me endurance

I’m known for stubbornness and refusing to give up.  Mom called me “Bulldog” when I was in high school for the way I would not let go and give up in a tennis match.  Now I see her fighting against ill health that doesn’t let her sleep well consistently, makes her muscles and nerves constantly ache, and generally leaves her continuously tired and she doesn’t give up.  Sometimes, that works against her as she tries to do too much too soon but she hasn’t let it stop her from trying. 

I hope you know, Mom, just how much I admire you for fighting through chronic pain.  I cannot imagine what it is like to keep going even when everything hurts.  You’re amazing.

Mom shows me love

I’m not the best with emotional stuff.  Or with asking for help.  Or with keeping in touch with people even when they live in the same city as I do.  (I’ve talked about this a little in “Burdens Shared.”)  I’m quite certain there are times when Mom wishes I would just talk to her more.  But she knows the spoken word isn’t my strong point or, honestly, even the way I show love or receive it.  So she’s made a way for us to have special times together.  Twice now we’ve been to a weekend conference and I hope that we’ll be able to set aside time over the summer to “hang out.”  I’m trying to be better about actively talking with Mom for fun – I think that’ll be a lifelong journey.

Mom taught me the love of Story

I am a storyteller.  But I learned that at my mother’s knee.  She read us The Chronicles of Narnia and Caddie Woodlawn and Little House in the Big Woods and The Great and Terrible Quest and Charlotte’s Web and many, many more.  And then as I grew older, she gave me good and great books.  Sir Walter Scott.  J. R. R. Tolkien.  C. S. Lewis.  Rosemary Sutcliff.  Madeline L’Engle.  Jane Austen.  Even Louis L’Amour and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  These days I’m more likely to be handing her books to read, but it all started with her.

Part 3 to come on Sunday

My Mom - Part 1

This post was three years in the making.  Not because I didn't have enough to say, but because I had too much and kept going past my self-imposed deadlines.

Today is my mom's birthday.  Happy birthday, Mom!  As it coincides with Mother's Day, I present to you a three-part series about my mother.

(Mom, I'm going to make you cry.)

You’d think that, growing up with only brothers, I’d’ve been super close with my mom, that we’d be best buds, standing together in the face of all the guys.  Eh, not so much.  I was Daddy’s Little Girl (still am) and I’ve never been much for talking about stuff.  It’s not that we weren’t close but that fluffy, share everything friendship you sometimes see in movies and TV (I’m actually thinking of Gilmore Girls right now) was never ours.  Sometimes, I wonder what that has been like for her.  But I can't change the past, only do better in the future.

Enough about me.  Let me tell you about my mom.

Mom taught me how to sew. 

One of my earliest memories – perhaps even the earliest – is peering up over the edge of a table or desk watching my mom at work on the sewing machine.  She was making me and my older brother stuffed rabbits.  Those rabbits – Whisper and Grocery Store – now sit on my bookshelf, both still with their original outfits.  Grocery Store’s arms got torn off and we haven’t sewn them back on but for an over 30-year-old rabbit, he looks pretty good.  (Clarification: Whisper was mine, Grocery Store my brother’s.  Whisper also lost her arms at various times but they did get sewn back on more often).  Those rabbits traveled a great many places with my brother and me.

And it wasn’t just stuffed animals that she made.  Up until I was about 16, I think my mom made almost every single dress and skirt I owned.  The rare, store-bought dress I owned was most likely given to me by someone else.  We’d go together to the fabric store and pour over patterns to pick which one Mom would make this time.  Then we’d go choose the fabric, matching colors and patterns and analyzing which would look best together.  We picked out fabric to make the boys shirts too.

But every Easter and Christmas, Mom would make me a special dress.  I marked years by my Easter and Christmas dresses.  One year my Christmas dress was cherry red with tiny white polka dots, white cuffs on the short, puffed sleeves, and a white peter pan collar edged with lace.  An Easter dress was a soft, dusty mauve with a coordinating collar.  There was a set of jumpers made for casual wear – one of those was rust and teal with tiny mushrooms in the plaid (yes, mushrooms).  There’s a box at Mom and Dad’s house that is full of fabric scraps from the dozens of dresses Mom made over the years.  I wouldn’t be surprised if we could still tell you what the dress looked like from the bits of cloth.

Somewhere in junior high or early high school, Mom decided that it was high time that I started making my own clothes.  We started with simple broomstick skirts – the kind that is made of three or four tiers of fabric gathered and bunched together (my brothers told me they looked like layer cakes when I twirled).  From there, I graduated to dresses and finer fabrics.  (I even made dresses for three of my friends one year so we could all match).

We didn’t just stop with what the patterns showed though.  Mom helped me understand how the pieces worked together so that we could adapt the pattern to make something new or to tailor it to fit us, not some imaginary version of us.  I have used those skills to design costumes for my brothers and friends that actually fit and look very little like the original pattern.  To this day, if something doesn’t fit right, I’m saying “Moooom – help!” and she has always been there for me.

Tune in Friday for part two

Musings on Music

Have you ever stopped to consider just how powerful music is?  Not even considering the lyrics, just instrumental aspect.  It really is incredible.

When I have music playing in my house, the majority of the time it is movie and video game soundtracks.  I’ve had the soundtrack for How to Train Your Dragon: The Hidden World playing on repeat in my car for the past week (really need to find my CDs for the other two movies so the whole story can cycle through) and it really brightens my drive to work.  Back during my undergrad days, The Return of the King soundtrack was my preferred study music.  It started slow but grew in intensity before calming once more toward the end making it perfect for me at the time.

We use music to set a tone and encourage a mood all the time.  We tend to favor music with a strong, fast beat and high intensity when working out.  We listen to slow, quiet music with a gentle rhythm when trying to relax (there’s one piece of music I’ve heard of that’s supposed to be so relaxing that people are advised against listening to it while driving because it is too easy to fall asleep).  Go on Spotify or Pandora or any other music streaming site and you’ll find playlists for love songs, workouts, happy days, sad days, seasonal, weather, and many, many more.

Think of your favorite movies or video games.  How much less intense would the fight sequences be if the background music was gone?  How cheesy would some of the romantic scenes be without the soundtrack?  There’s one sequence in Guardians of the Galaxy II that I find intensely disturbing because of the music*.  Change the music and the scene would be far less unnerving.

Some early Christian hymns were actually set to the tune of popular bar songs of the time.  A notable example is “A Mighty Fortress is Our God.”  These days, it tends to be sung so slowly it sounds more like a dirge than a triumphant shout.  (Imagine this song sung with the same glee as this medley!)  An inordinate number of Christian songs these days rely on only a small collection of notes and key changes.  Which makes it easier on the music leaders but can be a bit dull to listen to on repeat.  Or on a different tack, how about “Happy Birthday”?  Sing it fast and it’s kinda fun.  Slow down and you’re singing at their funeral instead.

Music has been, and still is, used for worship.  The Bible is full of times where people burst out in song because of something God has done.  For some religions, song is an intricate part of their ceremonies.  Sea shanties provided rhythm for work as well as entertainment.  Think of the Disney Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs “Heigh ho,heigh ho, it’s off to work we go!”  Or more recently, the opening song of Frozen when the ice harvesters are at work.  Ballet dancers look for smooth flowing songs with a clear beat for warm up exercises (can’t speak for other styles since I’ve only taken ballet).

So is there a point to this?  Sort of?  It’s more of an observation than anything else.  If your mood is down or you find yourself frustrated, try changing your music.  Or just put some on.  There’s a lot to choose from.

And really, be conscious of what you’re listening to.  Not just the lyrics (those can be super important too) but of the feel and tenor of the instrumental aspect.  

Happy listening!

*I’m referring to when Yondu, Rocket,and Groot break out of the ship.  It’s a slaughter scene set to upbeat, preppy, pop music which I found horrifying.  Death and slaughter is never something to be made light of.  I know Guardians takes very little seriously but that sequence went too far for me.

Precious Death

In the last 18 months, I have encountered death more times more closely than at any other time in my life.  In the spring of last year, my grandmother passed away.  A few months later, my grandfather followed her.  Scarcely a year ago, the mother of some of my students also died.  And then two weeks ago, a dear friend also went home.  And while I didn’t know him, one of my best friends lost a close friend as well.

Both my grandparents’ deaths and my students’ mom’s death we saw coming.  We had a chance to prepare.  My friend and my friend’s friend, not so much.  The whole week after my friend’s death I had a line from a song by Andrew Peterson running through my head:

“'Cause every death is a question mark
“At the end of the book of a beating heart”

(Andrew Peterson, “Come Back Soon”)

When death comes, no matter how expected, we cannot help but feel like something has ended that should not have.  Even more so when it is sudden and unexpected.  I find myself thinking of all the things I wanted to do with my friend and which I never will be able to do.  Why has her life ended before she’s lived it?  Why?

“There’s a grief that can’t be spoken,

There’s a pain goes on and on.

Empty chairs and empty tables,

Now my friends are dead and gone.”

(Les Miserables, “Empty Chairs and Empty Tables”)

Death aches.  I still search for words to speak of my friend’s death.  I know it must be a hundred times worse for her husband and parents and siblings.  How do you speak of a life that ended at their own hand?  How do you reconcile a faith in Christ that drove someone to pray with all their might for their siblings’ salvation with that same person’s suicide?  I don’t know.

When someone is married or a baby is born, we rejoice.  We recognize that life is precious.  What I think we forget sometimes is that death is precious too.  Psalm 116:15 says “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints” (NKJV).  Death entered the world through sin and is not part of perfection but God does not take it lightly.  The death of his saints is precious to him.

I read Psalm 116 sometime around my grandmother’s death last spring and that verse stuck with me.  With every new person who passed away, it came back to me.  After my friend’s suicide, I went back to the Psalm wondering if the context was martyrdom but it wasn’t.  It’s just David crying out to God for salvation in a difficult time and then declaring that the death of his saints is precious in God’s eyes.

Think on that.

The death of God’s children is precious.  It’s not wasted.  It’s not pointless.  It’s not meaningless.

It is precious

Valuable.  Costly.  Prized and priceless.  Not empty.  Not worthless.  Not hopeless.

Even now, I’m not sure exactly what I want to say.  Or how to say it.  But I think it comes down to this.  All life is precious.  But the death of His saints is also precious.  It isn’t meaningless.  No matter how it seems, the death of God’s children is not pointless.  Death is not part of perfection – one day it will be done away with – but God can redeem even that.

I don’t know how God will use the death of my friend for his glory.  But I know he can.  Maybe I’ll never know how he’ll use it.  I hope that it will draw her friends and family closer to God and to each other.  I know that my Redeemer lives and that he holds his children close.

We grieve when a loved one dies.  We grieve for what we lost with them.  We grieve for the pain that their dear ones are in.  But we do not grieve without hope.  Because of Jesus, we can have confidence that Death will be defeated forever.

Christ has died.

Christ is risen.

Christ will come again!

And when he comes, “…the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And thus we shall always be with the Lord.” (1 Thessalonians 4:16b-17)

Come back soon, Lord Jesus.

“So when this corruptible has put on incorruption, and this mortal has put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written: “Death is swallowed up in victory.”

'O Death, where is your sting?
O Hades, where is your victory?’

The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

1 Corinthians 15:54-57, NKJV

Valentine's Day and My Men

Here’s the thing: I’m single.  Always have been.  I’ve been asked out twice – once when I was 21, once the day before I turned 28.  I’ve been on one blind date my older brother set up and that was a couple of years ago.  I’m 30 now and I’ve never been in anything remotely resembling a romantic relationship.  And you know what?  I’m fine with that.  I really am.  But all that means that Valentine’s Day has never had any particular significance to me.  I laughed about it as a little girl when my Dad would sometimes get me a carnation and didn’t really think about it through most of my teens and twenties – it was just another day.

This year though, this year was different.  Chiefly, I think, because the majority of my friends are married now.  My Bible study small group is mostly young marrieds, all of my co-workers with whom I interact on a regular basis are married, half of my brothers are married,* people I have thought of as mere children are married or engaged, and my roommate is dating a solid guy.  So yeah, a lot more relationships around me than normal.  On Valentine’s Day, I came into work feeling somewhat wistful.  Not sad, just a pale sort of longing for something that wasn’t mine and wishing that someone thought of me as special enough to recognize.  I was cheered a bit when one of my girlfriends sent me a cheery “Happy Valentine’s Day!” text with all the roses and heart emoticons but the wistfulness remained.

Then it happened.

A long box brought in and set on my desk.

A flower box.

What?

For me?

Who would send me flowers?

Why would anyone send me flowers?

And I opened it.

There, inside, was a brightly colored bouquet of yellow, pink, peach, and orange roses.  And a vase.  And a note.

“Surprise!” it said.  “’I hope this makes your day a little brighter.  We love you!’  Taylor.”

My older brother who lives over eight hours away and has a wife and three kids of his own had sent me flowers.  Had taken the time to order flowers to have them arrive for me on Valentine’s Day.  They are gorgeous:

See?!?!

I was showing them off to my co-workers, sending pictures to my friends.  BEST BROTHER EVER!

But that wasn’t the end of the day.  Later, just after lunch, my youngest brother texted with an oops-we’re-to-late-to-take-you-to-lunch-aren’t-we? invitation.  My lunch hour was almost up so I had to decline but I invited him and the other youngest brother over for supper.  After a bout of silence at what I proposed for supper he came back with:

“Would you mind if we made something more delicious if we came over?”

And so my youngest two brothers (18 and 16 respectively) came over that evening and made French Bread Pizza for supper.  16-year-old fried the bacon himself and did a far better job of it than I have (I can cook a lot of things well but bacon isn’t one of them).

And they brought me more roses.

See?!?!

It has been a long time since anyone got me flowers for Valentine’s Day.  And I know I’ve never received two bouquets of roses!

AND my brothers cleaned up the supper mess too.

BEST BROTHERS EVER

BEST VALENTINE’S DAY EVER.

This Valentine’s Day has brought two things to my attention – strongly enough that I am reviving this long-quiet blog to tell you about it –

First, God is good.  He knew what my weary heart needed and provided ahead of time.  Yeah, Younger Brothers’ gifts were of that day.  Older brother?  He had to plan that out in advance.  Well in advance.  And I was not expecting anything of the Younger Brothers.  I was surprised with supper and thrilled that they brought flowers too.

I know God is good apart from His gifts.  It is part of who He is.  Integral to His character.   Even if nothing had happened on February 14, I would have known this.  But sometimes, it is so nice to experience God’s goodness.  I have, and I will, “praise Him in the storm” but let me not ever take His goodness for granted when the skies are clear.

Second, I am exceedingly blessed with the men in my life.  No, I’ve never had a boyfriend but when I live in a world where the women call their men “big children” and comment on how ill-equipped they are to take care of themselves, I find myself wondering what sort of men they have in their lives.  My men, are awesome.

-          My dad may be about as emotive as rock on a normal day (sorry, Dad) but he’s the one who’s first to start cleaning the kitchen after Mom has been cooking.  He’s always serving, always willing to help.  He took my car and got me new tires on his birthday.  He’d take it in for maintenance too if I asked him.  And he’s shown up to take care of my yard and other stuff too.  I love him.😄

-          I already told you about my older brother – he was my best friend growing up.  We’re pretty close in age so it isn’t that surprising.  While he’s not always patient with my much-slower thinking process, he does try.  And he thinks of the little things that are really big things – like flowers on Valentine’s Day. 😊

-          My nearest younger brother and I don’t always see eye-to-eye (he’s an extroverted, charismatic, people-person, I’m an introverted, dramatic, bookworm – I’d be more surprised if we did see eye-to-eye on everything!) but far be it from me to disparage him.  He’s a builder and a worker and makes some of the coolest things for his wife and kiddos.  I’m sure I tend to be as much of a puzzle to him as he is to me yet he tries and doesn’t let that get in the way of being my crazy little brother.😏

-          The middle brother has proven the best at getting me to work through the emotions that I really don’t understand (I’m not much better than my dad with emotional expression).  He’s tenderhearted and merciful.  But he doesn’t just comfort – he pulls you back to the Son light.  He does need to work on his cooking – but his improv meals were better than mine.  It’s been super sweet to watch him fall in love with his now-fiancée and see him taking care of her.😃

-          Second youngest brother is growing into a dapper, silver-tongued fellow.  He’s an excellent cook and specializes in baking.  And he’s a determined organizer.  I look forward to working alongside him in the next year after he graduates.  I can shift some of the marketing duties for the events I help lead off on him and let him be the face while I stay in the shadows I prefer.😋

-          Youngest brother is my cuddle-bug.  No, really.  He’s always been the most tactile of us – when he was little, the minute he finished eating he’d be crawling into someone’s lap.  Now he just wraps his arms around me in a giant hug.  It is very comforting.  And it is really nice that he’s not embarrassed to hug his big sister in front of his friends.  And he and 18-year-old actually want to hang out with me!😀

So, yeah.  I’m blessed.  I may never have had a boyfriend but my men are superb.  I hope that one day I get to add a husband and sons to this list of awesome men in my life but even if I don’t, I know that these are the kind of guys who are striving to, like King David of old, be “men after God’s own heart.”

May I be a woman who spurs them on to that goal.

*Of my five brothers – 2 are married, one is engaged, 2 are most definitely single.  So half are married.  😛

For Me and For You

I’ve been having trouble figuring out exactly what I want to say in this post.  I could blather on about how great my new job has been – I’m loving it, by the way – but that is only a small portion of what I want to convey.  I’ve talked it out with a few friends and tried several times to gather my thoughts enough to write a cohesive post.  We’ll see if I succeed this time.

I think the theme of what I’ve been learning over the past months is how good God is to me and how much His love is for me.  How He wants my good, not just to use me for others’ good.  I like for my life and the things I do to have a purpose so the thought that what I do and what I go through is so that I can encourage others has never bothered me.  I’m not sure it ever occurred to me – until recently – to consider that events are not merely meant to strengthen me to help others, but to build me up just because.

Just because God is love.

I’m not particularly good with emotions; love and loyalty go hand in hand for me but I’m not great at conveying it.  Nor am I good with expecting others to actively show me that they love me.  The knowledge is in my head but I still act like I have to go it alone and don’t consciously expect those who love me to show it.  I don’t expect someone else to actively seek my well-being without any other motives.  It sounds weird when I put it that way but it’s the best I know to express how I act.  It isn’t fair to my friends and family, I know, and I’m learning better.  I think that’s a little of why I hadn’t thought of God’s love being for me personally.

Since I lost my job and in the days and weeks that I was hurting and looking for a new job, God has been showing me how much He cares for me in a myriad of ways.  A friend who invited me to stay with her for four days – I had hoped for two at the most.  My Mom and Dad being steady rocks as I was floundering.  Another friend who I am used to encouraging turned the tables and was instead my encourager.  Yet another friend with whom I reconnected and who has played a role much like what I imagine an older sister would.  New friends from a Bible study group who I’ve barely known a month and yet are calling to find out if I’m coming to join them at volleyball.  Learning how to mow my own yard so I can feel that accomplishment.  A double rainbow more brilliant than any other and a myriad of other things less easy to put into words.

And the consolation that no, this trial that I am going through right now is not a good thing in and of itself – but good will come of it.

God’s love is as vast and powerful as an ocean.  It pulls you in, drags you deeper, and erodes the shifting sands of what you think is your foundation.  It is terrifying at times but glorious in its immensity.  We can never plumb the depths of His love.  Never.

Because God is love, He is not content to leave us as we are; He is unwilling to let us live as less than what He has planned.  And that often means trials, struggles, and general unpleasantness.  His love isn’t easy but it is rich.  And it is for you.

God’s love is for you.

He doesn’t put us through hard times, terrible times, only so He can use us later on.  We are not, I am not, merely a tool that He refines so that it will work better.  Not just a knife He sharpens to carve someone else into a beautiful design.  No.  I am His workmanship, His carefully made work of art, which He is constantly refining and tweaking and testing so that I will be something beautiful just because.  I may be a very useful something – like an elegant tea set – but the beauty is despite its functionality, not the cause of it.

It’s like when I make an Excel workbook for someone (don’t laugh, I really like building complex workbooks).  I don’t just make it functional for the person who needs it.  I’m tweaking the formatting, adjusting the column and row widths, adding extra flourish to the formulas just so the document is visually appealing.  It would be just as useful if it wasn’t brightly colored and used plain fonts instead of fancy ones.  But I add the extra pieces and I’m always working on it just because I enjoy it and I want the document to be pretty.  I want it to be lovely because the spreadsheet is, in a way, a reflection of me and I want it to be a good one.

I guess God is the same way.  The verse that says we are His work of art goes on to say that we are “created in Christ Jesus” (Ephesians 2:10).  In the beginning, man and woman alike were created in the image of God (Genesis 1:27).  And one day, those who have put their faith Jesus as their savior will see God as He is and “we shall be like him” because of it (1 John 3:2).  In 1 Corinthians 13, commonly known as the “love chapter” of the Bible, we see that we know God and ourselves only as a dim reflection, but someday, we’ll see God face to face (vs. 12).  Until the day comes when we are perfected before him, God is working on us so that we will be a beautiful reflection of Him and His love.

The mirror may be dim, but He’s polishing it clearer day-by-day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

“You turned the tables over
There in your father's temple
You cracked a whip and raised a shout
My daughter asked me why
I said, "Love is never simple
It draws 'em in and drives 'em out."

I saw you there but it was too late to change my course
And I collided with a beautiful immovable force
And so the stone that I rejected
It has become the Cornerstone”

From “The Cornerstone” by Andrew Peterson