don’t cry because it’s over . . .

one last playdate

I’ve been pretty emotional lately.  Candyce, Steven and Jubalee are headed to Egypt today,  for a three-month outreach.  Juba will be walking (and won’t recognize me) when we see them again.  And it looks like Danielle, Krispin and Ramona will be moving to the other side of the country come fall.  I can’t even bring myself to think about life without grandbabies.

But life moves along.  My oldest daughter, Lindsay, posted a picture of Smith Rock on Facebook recently.  It brought back lots of great memories of mother/daughter hikes in Central Oregon (not to mention the delicious Blizzard runs each time we survived Misery Ridge).  I always assumed there would be many more hikes with my daughter.  But as I looked at that picture, I realized that those days may be over.  Lindsay is married and her life is filled to the brim.

Linds and Nich at Smith Rock

That thought actually caused me to tear up for a moment, but then I decided I’d rather be grateful for those precious times than sad that they are over.  My decision was summed up by a Dr. Seuss quote I read recently:  ”Don’t cry because it’s over.  Smile because it happened.”

Yes, the times they are a’changing.  And with awe and wonder I watch my daughters’ lives unfold and display God’s handiwork.  Little wildflower seeds, being scattered by His holy wind.  I cannot follow, but I can watch and pray and skype and love from where I’m planted.

wildflowers

And even as I wipe a tear from my eye, I smile . . .

just add babies . . .

When I was a kid, there were these chalky little tablet things called fizzies.  You just added water and POW!  The liquid in your mug turned blue or red or purple, making little bubbles that tickled your throat with each sugary gulp.  A party in your tummy every time!

That’s kind of how I feel about grandbabies.  Just add babies to any event–and it’s a party!

Here are pictures from some recent celebrations:

Ramona trying to cheer Jubalee up at the park on Mother’s Day. Juba was bummed that the fountains weren’t working.

Ramona, proposing her “plan B”

The playground was too crowded, so back to pondering we go . . .

 

I thought the “grammie-kissing contest” was a brilliant idea!

 

Jubalee, protesting the judges’ decision

nothin’ like a pink swimsuit and a hot day to brighten the mood!

 

Ramona didn’t want to muss up her hair, so watched from the sidelines

 

Juba, contemplating the secrets of the universe . . .

Heaven’s gate

Had another hiking dream last night.  Unlike my recent nightmares about having alzheimers (which have stopped since I started doing crossword puzzles and taking coconut oil), I am sad to awaken from these bittersweet dreams, where I can never find my favorite trail.

In all the dreams, I am preparing for a special hike.   I can visualize the familiar path, especially the steep, treacherous stretch that leads to a narrow pass, up above treeline.   The view from there  is breath-taking, but there’s one more hill to climb to reach the top.  I’ve never made it to the summit–but it is my heart’s desire.

The memory of this trail captures all my senses.   I ache to feel the sun on my skin, smell the wildflowers, hear the wind rustling through the trees.  But most of all I long to recapture the sheer joy I felt as each step took me closer to the top.  The allure of this trail seems supernatural.

There’s always one slight problem, however.  I can’t remember where the trail starts!

Last night, however,  the dream had an interesting twist.   I had a map and knew the trailhead was called  Heaven’s Gate.  I tried to show other hikers how to get there, but was unable to read the map.  So they took my map and trekked happily toward my mysterious trail . . . leaving me behind once again in the lowlands.

I awoke from the dream, feeling the familiar ache for a place I’ve never been.  It surprised me to feel  those same pangs during worship this morning, as my heart longed for my eternal home.  I wept as I thought about my fellow travelers who reached the summit before me.  I prayed for my dear friends who stand waiting at the pass.  Only God knows if it’s their time to climb that final hill or turn back and finish their work down below.

So, I have mixed feelings about the trail dream now.  I am rather intrigued by the path’s name–and relieved that I couldn’t read the map.   But the sweet memory of the trail is tucked deeply into heart, and I will greet it like an old friend when God bids me go. . .

the Naming

Ramona and friends

Well, the Ramona baby finally gave me a name.  She’s flat-out refused to call me grammie–or anything else but “mama”–from day one.   When we’d play “who’s that?”, she’d promptly name every person in the room but me!  When it was my turn to be identified, Ramona would just smile coyly and remain silent, which crushed my little grammie heart . . .

She even knows the chickens names, for Pete’s sake!

But I could tell Ramona has been trying to figure out what to call me.   She finally dropped the “mama” down to “ma” and tried that for a few days.  Then suddenly, I was “mammie”.     I wouldn’t normally associate a scrawny, bespectacled white woman with that name, but I decided I could rock it.

But Ramona wasn’t so sure.  And yesterday, “mammie” evolved into “mimi,” and I wondered if this new name would stick.  But when Ramona toddled up to kiss me goodbye, patted my chest and said “Mimi,” I knew I’d arrived.

She even knows the chickens' names!

Before Ramona was ever born, I pondered what I should call myself.  I even put out a plea on Facebook for help in finding a suitable grandma-ish name.  One of my wise and wonderful friends told me that the grandbaby would name me–and how fun to realize that has been the case.

At first, I wondered where “mimi” came from, since it’s not a name I’ve ever used for myself .  But last night it dawned on me, as I thought about her patting my chest and saying “mimi” –that she’s really saying “Me-me”.  It’s from a song I sing to her all the time:

Jesus love the little ones like me, me, me (as I pat my chest)

Jesus loves the little ones like me, me, me,

Little ones like me, they sat upon His knee

Jesus loves the little ones like me, me, me!

me-me and Ramona!

 

So, move over grammie . . . me-me’s come to town!

 

 

 

the light at the end of the tunnel

I struggled with Easter this year.  The usual greeting, “He is risen–He is risen, indeed!”  felt about as hollow as a half-eaten easter bunny. My brain acknowledged the glorious truth of Christ’s death and resurrection, but this year my heart didn’t get the memo.

Praise Jesus, He is risen the tomb is empty, but the grave still awaits us mortals here below.  This past week, two lovely women I know received death sentences from their doctors.  Without divine intervention, their days on earth are running out.  One was diagnosed on Monday with the bizarre  Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease and given only weeks to live.  Her first symptoms appeared less than a month ago . . .

Then on Tuesday, a dear friend found out she has stage four pancreatic cancer.  When I asked her what “stage four” meant, she somberly replied:  ”That means terminal.”  This amazing woman beat breast cancer a few years ago, and was stunned to learn that the deadly cells regrouped and invaded her body again.

Can I just say that cancer sucks?

So, I struggled through worship yesterday, trying to focus on our hope of heaven but weighed down by the pain of my friends here on earth.   Yes, Jesus lives!  But if Death has lost its sting, why does it still hurt so much?

But as we sang the following song, the Lord opened the eyes of my heart and let me see the grave from His vantage point.  It wasn’t a dark, dead-end cave waiting to swallow us up–it is just a short passageway into His glorious presence.  For Christ followers, death ushers us in to the magnificent wedding feast of the Risen Lamb!  And  that changes everything . . .

I see you there hanging on a tree

You bled and then you died and then you rose again for me

Now you are sitting on Your heavenly throne

Soon we will be coming home!

When we arrive at eternity’s shore

Where death is just a memory and tears are no more

We’ll enter in as the wedding bells ring 

Your bride will come together and we’ll sing

You’re beautiful, You’re beautiful, You’re beautiful   (Phil Wickham, Beautiful)

Jesus is beautiful, and because of His death on the cross, the grave is not the final resting place for those who follow Him.  It is a portal to eternity, illuminated by His glorious love.

I am praying for miraculous healing for my two friends, but even if God intervenes, they will still die someday.  We are all terminal, to quote my doctor friend.  But with Jesus, we can walk through the valley of the shadow of death–we don’t have to set up camp there.

And He promises to walk with us until we are safely home and seated at His banquet table . . .

dumb clucks

dumb clucks

(I will leave it to the reader to decide who best fits the title of this blog–my chickens or me!)

As usual, the real world–with its joys, sorrows and mundanities–rushes up to smack me in the face after an amazing trip abroad.  The first punch was the stench of $500 worth of grass-fed, organic beef gone bad because a circuit blew and the freezer in the garage shut off (thanks to Candyce and Steven who cleaned it up before we got home!).  Then my little red miata refused to start.  And my chickens started to fly the coop . . .

That last item might not seem like a huge deal in the big scheme of things, but it really bugged me.  I love my chickens, but they have been more destructive, more expensive and more time-consuming that I ever could have anticipated (can you hear my husband shouting “Amen!” to that?)

I read dozens of books on chicken keeping before I purchased my day-old fuzzballs almost a year ago–I don’t recall one of those describing how thrashed your yard would look in only a few months, how their poop takes off the paint on your deck, or how they’re too dumb to figure out how to use the ramp up to the second story of their coop–but smart enough to manage to fly over the eight-foot barrier around their run!

And while the books I read did mention predators, they didn’t stress that the ONE NIGHT you leave the coop unlocked is the night the raccoon will sneak in and murder your favorite hen.  Nor did the books inform me that the killer raccoon will avoid the trap you set out for several months–waiting until you leave the country to actually waddle into the trap and take the moldy bait, permanently scarring your house-sitters as they have to figure out how to deal with a very annoyed critter.  (and a big thank-you to Danielle, Krispin and Adam for “rehoming” Rocky).

Anyway, during the three weeks we were away, two of my chickens–Chief and Lacy–figured out how to fly the coop.  Every morning,  those two fugitives wreak havoc in the backyard, while poor, plump Squiddy squawks pitifully back in the pen.  Because we are planning to lay fresh sod this week–and gardening season is right around the corner, my chooks free-ranging, seek-and-destroy days are over.  So sorry, girls!

So yesterday I watched a video on YouTube about how to clip your chicken’s wings.  It looked easy enough–you just clip the outer feathers on one wing–and voila’, your chickens are grounded.  So I grabbed chief and and Lacy and snipped away their freedom.  I was quite pleased with myself until I remembered that they roost on the second story of their coop.  My silly hens never figured out how to climb up the ramp from the run on the bottom to the roost up top.  They just flew up . . .

Oops. When I went out to tuck them in last night, Lacy had managed to get to her roost (I’d put a make-shift ramp against the coop to make access easier), but Chief was huddled miserably in the rain.  She meekly let me scoop her up and I locked them safely in for the night, but now I am wondering how much more work I just made for myself!

There really should be a “Chickens for Dummies” book–maybe I will have to write it myself!

free range no more!

a prayer for Sulima

little beggar girl

Our last day in India, we flew from the Darjeeling region back to Delhi.  We had a few hours to shop and dine and clean up at our hotel before heading to the airport at midnight (I am still working on forgiving whoever put together our travel itinerary).  Ann and I were thrilled to have one last chance to shop in India, since we hadn’t really had time to buy gifts for folks back home.

Fortunately, Delhi had a huge market, with stalls selling everything from silk scarves to shoes to gaudy jewelry.  I picked up a few scarves and a really cute outfit for one of the grandbabies and was ready to call it a night, when a darling Indian girl dashed up to me, displaying dozens of cheap, beaded necklaces hanging off her skinny brown arm.

“I sell you ten for ten rupees,” she said, beaming.  ”And for you, a gift!”  She took one of the necklaces and draped it over my neck before I could reply.

“Really?  Just ten rupees?”  I asked, surprised.  I think that’s the equivalent of about 50 cents.

“Yes!” she nodded eagerly, brightening even more as I rummaged in my purse for the paltry sum.

“How old are you, sweetie?” I asked, as she handed me the necklaces.  ”And what is your name?
“I am Sulima,” she replied.  ”And I am nine.”  Even with her unkempt hair and dirty blue dress, Sulima was radiant.  Impulsively, I reached out and hugged her–and she reached up and kissed my cheek!

“Sulima, God loves you and has amazing plans for your life–remember that, OK?”

Before she could answer, a man–who’d evidently been watching our interaction–walked in-between us and cuffed Sulima’s face.  She flashed one last smile at me and scurried off to sell her wares.  I would have bought all of her bracelets, but I knew she would never see the money.  She is just one of the thousands of street children, who have been kidnapped or sold into forced labor, or worse.   I walked away grieved that there wasn’t more I could do for this child

When we got home from India, I divided up the necklaces and gave them to my daughters, telling them about Sulima.  ”Pray for her when you wear them,” I requested.  ”Pray that God will show her His plan for her life.”

I met Jesus through an encounter with a stranger–a young man who told me that Jesus loved me and had good plans  for my life.  That simple truth transformed me . . . and I know it can bring hope to Sulima.

So, I’m inviting you all to pray for this precious child, too.  Share this post, pass Sulima’s story on to your friends.  Wouldn’t it be awesome to surround this little child in prayer, lifting her up to the Father as the Spirit leads?

I may never cross paths with beautiful Sulima on this planet, but I believe her story is written in the Lamb’s book of Life and we will meet again  . . .