For All the Saints, and My Daughter!

Sunday morning I sat in church, with my tissues safe inside my purse. It was All Saints Day, which really is a joyous occasion, but I knew I might be needing those tissues.

I had been telling my daughter how my sister and I love the hymn, For All the Saints. I told her how I get choked up when we sing it, thinking of our grandparents and other loved ones who now "in glory shine."   How it makes me cry, but really it is so very joyous! So I knew the tears would be threatening to surface as they do every year at this service. 

My, how my Heavenly Father loves to show me His greatness!  On that Sunday morning...in the front row...sitting next to my daughter...He chose to show me once again His infinitely wondrous joy, and how it is so much bigger and grander and amazing than I allow myself to realize.

That special morning was my daughter's first communion. We had been taking classes together with our pastor for a month (parents and children together), and she had been learning about the Lord's Supper.  She had been discovering what it meant for her, God's precious daughter, to come together with our congregation to share in this sacrament. She had been looking forward to this moment for two years, looking forward to being a part of this family of believers. It was special to her as an individual and also as a part of a bigger picture, Christ's church here on earth. 

During the Words of Institution, as the pastor was blessing the bread and wine, I saw my daughter open her hymnal to the front page, where there are special prayers to be said during different moments of the service.  I knew she was reading the prayer to be said before communion, and my heart gave a little squeeze of joy. 

Then she looked up at me and whispered, "I'm so happy." 

My heart shuddered with joy, and a little tear escaped.

As we were taking communion, the congregation began singing, For All the Saints. I heard our pastor speak her name as she took the wine. Christ's blood was shed for her, for me, and for every one of us. 

When we returned to our seats, I found I couldn't make my voice form a single word of the hymn. I reached for my tissues and hoped no one saw the tears on my face. I read the words in my head as the congregation sang, and each word meant something new. 

Oh blest communion, fellowship divine,

we feebly struggle, they in glory shine;

Yet all are one in thee, for all are thine.

Alleluia, Alleluia!

My daughter was a part of the communion of saints...all of them! My grandmother, my grandfathers, and all of those that have gone home to Heaven. They may not be here with us, but they are in everlasting communion in Heaven, rejoicing as we rejoice here on earth. She is a part of something so big, so grand and so amazing. I was filled with such joy, it was seeping out through my eyes. 

And I once again was so thankful of how God can show me His greatness, how I am 40 years old and I'm never going to stop being amazed and overwhelmed and overjoyed by Him.  How I am so thankful for this gift of my daughter (and my son two years before her, and my husband and I some 30 years ago, and my sister, and my brother in law, and my niece and nephew, and my parents and in-laws, and my cousins and aunts and uncles, and my grandparents...) who became a part of this big, grand, amazing, blest communion. His mercies will never cease. 

Amen, come Lord Jesus!

We Are the Church

Sunday morning. Wake up children.

"Brush your teeth!"
"He won't let me in the bathroom!"
"Find your socks!"
"None of my socks fit!"
"Where's my plaid shirt?"
"Its in the laundry."
"Help me with my hair!"
"Let's get in the car!"
"I'm hungry!"
"You can have a donut at church."
"I can't find my choir folder!"
("Hmmm, I think dad and I lost it...")
"Hurry to the choir room!"

Church begins. Calm. Quiet.

Prayers. Hymn. Old Testament reading.  Children rise to sing.

Tears. I'm fighting them off.

"I am the church."
"You are the church."
"We are the church together."
"All who follow Jesus, all around the world!"
"Yes, we're the church together!"

Heart swelling.  My children are a part of church.  This church.  God's church.  Elect and glorious. Not too small.  Not too young.  Important.  Valued.  Needed.  Loved.  Nurtured.  Nurturing. Disciples in training.  Disciples who teach me daily.

Sunday morning.
Praise God from whom all blessings flow!

Clinging to His Robe?

Progression of events:

Dizziness.
Discomfort.
Worry.
Obsession.
Panic.
WebMD.
Google searches.
Self-diagnosis.
Tumor.
Near death.
Anxiety.
Doctor visit.
Actual diagnosis:
Vertigo.

The above timeline refers to actual events that took place last February and March. Look closely at the progression again. Did you find the time I prayed about what was happening? How about the moment I turned everything over to God?

Now travel back in time further to last January.  Replace "Dizziness" with "stomach pain" and "vertigo" with "GERD." Same progression of events. Same startlingly lacking prayer and trust in God.

Of course, I did pray about these things. Late at night, when most of my pointless and damaging google searching was going on, my prayers turned a bit accusatory: "God, I know you're all powerful.  I've always had faith that you can do anything. So why aren't you making these things stop, hmmm?"

I wouldn't really say that is the most faithful kind of prayer.  But you see how I pointed out to God, that I was, in fact, quite faithful.  I let Him know (just in case He had forgotten) that I was His good and faithful servant. I believed in His power and miraculous blessings. So why wasn't He giving me what I wanted?

A few weeks ago our gospel reading was from Mark 5:21-43. Here, we read the story of Jairus and how Jesus brought his daughter back to life.  I've known this story my whole life, but the part of the story that resonated with me on this particular Sunday morning was about the woman who pushed her way through the crowd just so she could touch Jesus' robe.

Just one touch. That was enough for her.  She had the unabashedly profound faith in her heart where that would be enough. It was enough. Jesus said to her, "Daughter, your faith has made you well: go in peace, and be healed of your disease."

Looking back over my timeline, I don't see any moments where I had that kind of faith. I see myself trying to prove my faith, but I never just turned my moments over to my Savior. His very name says that he will save me and take care of me. But that wasn't quite enough for me, no, He needed to live up to my demands. Pronto.

This is an unfortunate pattern with me. It will always be an inner battle: letting my fear get in the way of my trust.  I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm not the only one who suffers from this "lack of trust" disease.

I have faith. I've believed in Christ forever, but that doesn't mean I always trust in Him. What I need to be is more like that woman, clinging to Jesus' robe. I need to cling to the promise that He will keep me safe and in His hands at all times.  I know he allowed unsavory things to happen to me, but He has delivered me thorough all of them. He allowed these things to happen for a reason, and I need to trust that I will someday understand why He chose these paths.

He will deliver me whatever may come my way. His way is the best path, and I need to trust that He's a little better at planning than I am, considering He can see past, present and future. His plan is surely better than anything I could map out for myself. He knows which way to direct me, where to guide me and how to bring me safely home.

Jesus, Savior, pilot me

over life's tempestuous sea;

unknown waves before me roll,

hiding rock and treach'rous shoal;

chart and compass come from thee:

Jesus, Savior, pilot me.

As a mother stills her child,

thou canst hush the ocean wild;

boist'rous waves obey thy will,

when thou say'st to them, "Be still!"

wondrous sov'reign of the sea,

Jesus, Savior, pilot me. 

When at last I near the shore,

and the fearful breakers roar,

'twixt me and the peaceful rest

then, while leaning on Thy breast

may I hear Thee say to me,

"Fear not, I will pilot Thee."

(by Edward Hopper, 1871...
and still beautiful today...)

The Most Spectacular Score

...and by score, I mean musical score.  G. Schirmer's Edition of The Messiah by G. F. Handel.  It is reprinted, of course, but the original copyright is 1912. Which is actually somewhat new, considering Handel debuted his masterpiece on April 13, 1742.

I love my score.  I mean, really love my score. Here is a snapshot of me and my score:

My score and I get up close and personal during the Christmas season. As you can see, I most thoroughly enjoy placing colorful tabs on all the major choruses. I scribble notes and anecdotes from clever and brilliant directors as they guide me through its measures. During
Advent, Christmas and Easter this bad boy feels the love.

But lately I've had it hanging around my computer table. I was singing the Air for soprano, How Beautiful are the Feet. It is so absolutely lovely, that I must include a link for your listening ears! I was carefully focusing on my technique as I sang along to the accompaniment. I was  diligently focusing on pitch, dynamics, tone, vowels, resonance, eeek! Like patting my head and rubbing my stomach at the same time, I have a difficult time bringing forth all these elements together to make a beautiful sound. If I concentrate on one, I forget another.  Its a work in progress which I may never complete, but I am in love with the process.

So here my score sits by my beloved Mac (he and I are on a first-name basis). The children are sleeping upstairs, the house is quiet, and I sit down to write. I glance over at my Messiah. Suddenly I know what to write about: the beautiful feet.

How beautiful are the feet of them 

that preach the gospel of peace, 

and bring glad tidings of good things!

This Air for Soprano is taken from Isaiah 52:7, "How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those that bring good news, who proclaim peace, who bring good tidings, who proclaim salvation, who say to Zion, "Your God reigns!"

I smile as I recall some of God's servants in my life who have embodied these words: these beautiful, humble people who have so greatly loved their Heavenly Father. I remember how my parents brought me to church to learn of my savior, how they taught me to pray, how they were the first ones to truly preach the gospel of peace to my listening ears. I remember my teachers at Trinity Lutheran School, and how they guided me on my first journeys through the bible. I remember my grandmother, who unabashedly preached the glad tidings, and who showed me the joy of loving Christ. I remember high school teachers, college professors, pastors and choir directors. I recall neighbors, friends, celebrities and strangers. How beautiful are the feet of them that preach the gospel of peace! 

I will never be able to see inside the brilliant mind of George Friedrich Handel. I will never know his intentions behind composing some of the most profoundly meaningful music for Christians.  But as I sing his words and music, I realize that he has preached the gospel of peace. He has brought glad tidings and proclaimed salvation. He has reminded me to be thankful for those who live their lives in order to bring others to Christ. He has reminded me that I, too, want to have beautiful feet! Beautiful feet that preach the gospel of Peace!

The Only Story I Will Ever Need...

The shades of day are tinted, like a cloud of salty sea.
The droplets not have shifted: Just a memory of Thee.

The splintered pain stands lonely on the mountain of the dead,
to cast is shadow solely over broken heart and head.

The day of blackness drowning, for misery to claim.
The longest hours are slipping through the night to twist the pain.

The cold of stone seems horrid, yet it draws to seek the end.
An answer cruelly questioned lies in wait for Heaven's mend.

Bleak morning deceives the eyes, which long to see the Son,
a gentle voice then breathes it, the words of hope begun:

"Alleluia!" Can you hear it? Soft echoes part the clouds,
The night now sunk beneath us, blessed heavenly light abounds!

Those words of joy now pounding, "To the SON be endless glory!"
The darkness now is conquered in the sweetest saving story!

Now that splintered pain is love: our saving Lord has mended all!
Alleluia, Lord, to you be praise, your beautiful name we call:

"Immanuel,
Our risen Lord,
Is with us one and all!"

The Luck 'O the Blessed?

Green clovers,
Green beer,
Green t-shirts,
Green river,
Green Kiss-Me-I'm-Irish sticker,
Green bow-tie,
Green, green, green.

All this green has got me thinking about another green: green with envy.  It doesn't take St. Patty's day to bring out the green in me.  Living here in the Land of Plenty, I find myself struck with the green disease way too frequently.

"My friends' houses are so much bigger than mine."
"Her wardrobe is amazing…and surely so expensive."
"They can afford so many extra curricular's for their kids."
"Wow, they are going on another vacation?"

…and all of these statements followed by feelings of, "I wish our family could have what their's has…"

I don't think I'm going out on a limb to say I'm probably not the only one who thinks like this from time to time.  I tend to compare my most meager possessions to others' largest ones.  I know that is not fair, and it isn't pleasing to God.

So this St. Patrick's Day, I am going to focus on less green and more thankfulness.   Maybe I can make this holiday good for something that really matters: a look at all my blessings.  I know I don't have my wonderful gifts from God because of mere LUCK. I have everything because of His love for me.  He knows what I need, when I need it.

So maybe we don't have a huge house...but I have three amazing children to cuddle in our little home.
So maybe I don't have those designer shoes...but I have children who are clothed in God's love.
So maybe we don't enroll in 10 different programs for our kids...but we have a church family that loves us unconditionally.
So maybe we can't go on that expensive vacation...but we have everlasting life waiting for us someday in Heaven.

On Being Young…A Letter to My Children

Dear amazing, special, and unique children of mine,

Jesus once told a parable about a vineyard owner who hired workers to work in his field.  Some were hired at sunrise, others at nine, then noon, then three and some even as late in the day as five o'clock.  In the evening, when the work day was over, the vineyard owner came to give everyone their pay: one denarius.  Yes, one denarius for every worker, even those that only worked for a few hours! Even one denarius for the workers who had worked fourteen or more hours!!  Is that fair?

You know, I am almost 40 years old. I have spent most of my 39+ years loving God and serving Him. You, my children, are only 8, 10 and 11 years old!!  God can't possibly love you as much as He loves me, right?  I mean, He MUST hand out more blessings to me because I have loved Him and praised Him and served Him for so long!  Your measly little years are nothing compared to mine!

NO WAY! God just doesn't work like that!

He is like the vineyard owner in the parable.  Each of those workers were equally valuable and special to the owner, so he paid them all the same.

Just because you have only been His child for eleven years doesn't mean He loves you less! In fact:

His love for you is overflowing,

His forgiveness is never-ending,

His grace is ALL YOU NEED,

His blessings are abundant,

His patience is endless,

and He will always guide you home to Him.

Celebrate what you are this very day...young! Every stage of your life was designed by God, and His designs are prefect!  With each year, you will find the new treasures He has planned for you.  But for today, you are exactly where God wants you to be, my amazing kiddos.  What a perfect love He has for you!

Love, 

Mom