I did not grow up observing Ash Wednesday.  Even as a child in a mainline Protestant denomination, I had only a fleeting awareness of the significance of the days leading up to Resurrection Sunday. When my new middle school friend, a Catholic, wore the cross of ashes on her forehead to remind her of her mortality and her need for repentance, it marked me as well:

I will be ashes someday.  That is a given.  There is no drawing of the first breath without knowing there will be a last breath.  That awareness changes everything in between.

Salvation from the ash heap is only through the sacrifice and gracious gift of the Risen Savior.   I cannot save myself.

The party may be over, but there is plenty left to celebrate.    This is only the beginning.

Psalm 51:1

Have mercy on me, O God,
according to your unfailing love;

I’m not sure what it would be like to be “unfailing” as I fail regularly, in large and small ways, daily.  The promise of mercy for my failings and flaws, because of the Lord’s love that never fails is of immeasurable comfort. No matter how I may mess up,  there is His merciful and healing balm offered up freely to restore me.  It is certain, it can be trusted, it will always be there.  When I fail, He will not.

Our pastor has just finished a very illuminating evening study of Paul’s Epistle to the Colossians, which ends with a few concise words in 4:18, the final verse.

I, Paul, write this greeting in my own hand. Remember my chains. Grace be with you.

The Apostle shares remarkable humanity with his Christian brothers and sisters in these words that deserve deeper exploration over the next several days.  What initially caught my attention was the interesting contrast between the last line of the letter compared to the opening line in verse at the very beginning of the letter:

Grace and peace to you from God our Father.

What is the difference here in the greeting “Grace and peace to you” at the beginning and “Grace be with you” at the end?

The following explanation is proposed by Dr. John Piper (www.desiringgod.org)  in his book Future Grace:

“Paul has in mind that the letter itself is a channel of God’s grace to the readers. Grace is about to flow ‘from God’ through Paul’s writing to the Christians. So he says, ‘Grace to you.’ That is, grace is now active and is about to flow from God through my inspired writing to you as you read – ‘grace [be] to you.’ But as the end of the letter approaches, Paul realizes that the reading is almost finished and the question rises, ‘What becomes of the grace that has been flowing to the readers through the reading of the inspired letter?’ He answers with a blessing at the end of every letter: ‘Grace [be] with you.’ With you as you put the letter away and leave the church. With you as you go home to deal with a sick child and an unaffectionate spouse. With you as you go to work and face the temptations of anger and dishonesty and lust. With you as you muster courage to speak up for Christ over lunch. . . . [Thus] we learn that grace is ready to flow to us every time we take up the inspired Scriptures to read them. And we learn that grace will abide with us when we lay the Bible down and go about our daily living” (Future Grace, 66-67).

This is what it is like each Sunday, as I enter Wiser Lake Chapel, and am filled with the Word from Pastor Bert’s inspired teaching.  The spirit flows from our Pastor’s study of the Word, to accompany each of us as we go about our week.  Grace to, and then with us.

Just as Paul intended for his brothers and sisters.  We are deeply blessed.

Psalm 51:1

Have mercy on me, O God,
according to your unfailing love;
according to your great compassion
blot out my transgressions.

Every day, as the sun goes down,  I’m reminded how often I messed up that day, in big and small ways.  My mistakes seem illuminated, weighing down my heart, and impossible to forget.   Yet, as I pray like the Psalmist for mercy, there follows a peacefulness at the end of the day, as my errors are blotted out, covered over by the descent of the night.   The slate, one more time, is wiped clean.

I remember, once again, as the morning dawns, there is renewal, there is cleansing brightness, a promise provided within each new day.  I am given another chance to get it right.

My Sin Is Always Before Me

Psalm 51

² Wash away all my iniquity
and cleanse me from my sin.

³ For I know my transgressions,
and my sin is always before me.

Sometimes I wish I could just be tipped upside down and washed when I’ve gotten myself completely covered with muck–muddy hands, dirty feet, smudged face, soiled soul.  I look in the mirror and can see everything that desperately needs spiritual soap–now.  It is right there for me to see but I act helpless to do anything about it.

Maybe tomorrow…

Usually people are pretty effective at hiding the problems in their lives, even from themselves.   In the work I do, it isn’t so easy to conceal.  Patients come to detox because they have hit bottom in every way,  so they are forced to confront the troubles that brought them there.   I’ve cared for people who have sold themselves, sold others, abandoned spouses as well as their own children, murdered others and have tried to murder themselves.   They come in so grimy, it is hard to see their skin.   They cry out for cleansing, for forgiveness, for healing.  Sometimes they submit to that wash cycle, and sometimes the scrubbing that is the detox process is just too physically hard and painful despite all my effort to ease it. They can’t handle it and leave before they are clean.

Maybe tomorrow. I grieve when that happens.

Not once must I forget that their sin, ever so much more obvious,  is no greater than mine–we are all tainted goods.  Our only hope is the Lord holding onto us tightly, tipping us upside down in the holy waters and making sure we’re scrubbed until we shine.

Not tomorrow.

Today.

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Psalm 51:4a

Against you, you only, have I sinned
and done what is evil in your sight

Sin is not a subject of polite conversation in modern society.  After all, we are an open minded, tolerant, nonjudgmental people…aren’t we?  One person’s sin is another person’s “God-given” right to experience pleasure, right?  What is right and wrong becomes relative,  diluted, and rendered meaningless.  What really matters is that we have forgotten that sin is not about others, it is about breaking our covenant with God.

John Piper of www.desiringgod.org says it this way:

“Sin, by definition in the Bible, is not wronging another person. It is assaulting the glory of God, rebelling against God. Sin, by definition, is a vertical phenomenon. What makes sin sin is its Godwardness. That’s why the world doesn’t understand how serious hell is, because they don’t understand how serious sin is. And they don’t understand how serious sin is because the only way the world thinks about sin is in terms of “You hurt me and I hurt you, and that shouldn’t be.” And that’s true: we shouldn’t hurt each other. But they don’t even bring God into the picture, and that’s where sin becomes sin.”

The bite of the forbidden apple was not the sin.  The sin was the rebellion against God, dismissing His command to obedience; man and woman wanting to be God when only God can be God.

He is God, and we are not.

 

Psalm 51: 5

Surely I was sinful at birth,
sinful from the time my mother conceived me.

I had a hard time accepting this notion of Total Depravity when I first started attending Reformed Churches with my husband-to-be thirty years ago.  After all, I grew up Methodist, which is a nice comfortable squishy denomination that truly believes the best of people, that people have great intentions even if they are imperfect in execution, that sweet little babies are…well… sweet little babies.   But the Calvinists were clear: we are born in sin, it is and always has been part of our nature since we chose to not live in harmony in obedience to God.   Non posse non peccare says Augustine — not able to not sin.  I really wasn’t buying it.

Then I became a mother.

Now, our children are truly stellar on the well-behaved scale, and compared to what some parents deal with, very easy to raise.  But it was clear to me very early on that at a very young age, babies have agendas that are completely self-centered over anyone else’s interest and they expect the world to change to adapt to their whims and wants, not the other way around.  It takes hard consistent guidance as a parent to help a child grow to become a compassionate adult who acknowledges their sin, rather than reveling in it.

We owe it to our children to address the sin that is part of every fiber of their being.  Only then can they truly understand the meaning of being set free of that dark prison, through a debt graciously selflessly paid on our behalf.

So much of Psalm 51 is about being cleansed and transformed.  This is understandable given the nature of King David’s heinous acts of infidelity and murder.  It must have felt like the blood would never leave his hands and that he would be marked with sin forever.

But part of penitence is expressing deep regret, overwhelmed with the guilty sorrow of having done wrong, very wrong, and wanting to do whatever it takes to feel right with God again.  So this verse resonates with anyone who has erred in both large and small ways, having laid awake at night thinking about it, weeping in remorse, crying out with contrition.

Lent is the reminder that we have renewal at hand.  It is coming.  Our hearts will be light again, loving and full of joy.

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Lent is a time to contemplate who Christ’s enemies really are.  It is tempting to read the story of his trial, crucifixion and suffering and point the finger at Romans and Jews.  To the Pharisees, He was perceived as heretical to their rigid orderly obsession with the law.  To the Romans He was an inconvenient itinerant rabbi who tended to attract crowds of the common people–an undesirable thing in the law and order world.

The reality is Jesus’ enemies were those that professed to love Him the most but then turned away when loving Jesus meant suffering with Him.  The betrayals that take place, resulting in His arrest and death,  are not by those who hated Jesus.   Jesus told His betrayers the truth about who they were, what was in their hearts, shining His light on their weakness, illuminating their sin even before they committed it.  He does the same with us.  We cannot hide from His light illuminating the dark corners of our heart.

We must face the fact that we continue to betray Him to this day, usually in small ways that we hope are insignificant or hidden because, after all, we are Christians, we pray, we go to church.

We do no less than what Peter did, three times.   We deny knowing Him when it is inconvenient to admit it.

We are no less selfish than Judas, selling out for silver when what is being asked of us is to give up the material things of this world we hold dear.

We are no less cowardly than the throngs crying “Crucify Him!” when only days before we were  lauding him as the King of Kings and Lord of Lords, going along with the crowd as it feels risky to stand out, stand apart, be utterly alone in our devotion to Him rather than live out our love affair with the world.

So with friends like us…

We have some serious explaining to do.  Amazing that He knows our hearts even before we try.

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From The Confessions of Saint Augustine:

“The Maker of man was made man, that the Ruler of the stars might suck at the breast; that the Bread might be hungered; the Fountain, thirst; the Light, sleep; the Way, be wearied by the journey; the Truth, be accused by false witnesses; the Judge of the living and the dead, be judged by a mortal judge; the Chastener, be chastised with whips; the Vine, be crowned with thorns; the Foundation, be hung upon the tree; Strength, be made weak; Health, be wounded; life, die.  To suffer these and suchlike things, undeserved things, that He might free the undeserving, for neither did He deserve any evil, who for our sakes endured so many evils, nor were we deserving of anything good, we who through Him received such good.”

Romans 5:2b-3

And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance;

At seventeen years old, I thought I had things figured out.  I had graduated at the top of my class, was heading off to a “big name” college, and felt confident about who I was becoming.  I had attended church all my life but my commitment to my faith was actually waning rather than strengthening.

In anticipation of college tuition bills, I took a summer job at a local nursing home for $1.25 an hour as a nurses’ aide.  My training was two days following a more experienced aide on her rounds of feeding, pottying, dressing and undressing, and bathing her elderly patients.  Then I was assigned patients of my own and during a typical shift I carried a load of 13 patients.  It didn’t take long for me to learn the rhythm of caretaking, and I enjoyed the work and my patients.

One woman in particular remains vivid in my memory 38 years later.  Betty was in her 80’s, bedridden with a painful bone disease that had crippled her for a decade or more.  She was unable to do any of her own self care but her mind remained sharp and her eyes bright.  Her hearty greeting cheered me when I’d come in her room several times a shift to turn her in her bed to prevent pressure sores on her hips and shoulders.  The simple act of turning her in her bed was an ordeal beyond imagining.  I would prepare her for the turn by cushioning her little body with pads and pillows, but no matter how careful I was, her bones would crackle and crunch like Rice Crispies cereal with every movement.  Tears would flow from her eyes and she’d always call out “Oh Oh Oh Oh” during the process but then once settled in her new position, she’d look up at me and say “thank you, dear, for making that so much easier for me.”  I would nearly weep in gratitude at her graciousness in her suffering.

Before I’d leave the room, Betty would grab my hand and ask when I would be returning.  Then she’d  say “I rejoice in the hope of the glory of the Lord” and she would murmur a prayer to herself.

As difficult as each “turning” was for both of us, I started to look forward to it.  I knew she prayed not only for herself, but I knew she prayed for me as well.  I felt her blessing each time I walked into her room knowing she was waiting for me.

One evening I came to work and was told Betty was running a high fever, and struggling to breathe.  She was being given oxygen and was having difficulty taking fluids.  The nurse I worked under thought she was likely to pass away on my shift and asked that I check her more frequently than my usual routine.

As I approached her bed, Betty reached out and held my hand.  She was still alert but very weak.  She looked me in the eye and said “Do you know our Lord?  He is coming for me today.”   I could think of nothing more to say than “I know He is coming.  You have waited for Him a long time.”   I returned to her room as often as I could and found her becoming less responsive, yet still breathing, sometimes short shallow breaths and sometimes long and deep.  Near the end of my shift, as morning was dawning, when I entered the room, I knew He had come.

She lay silent and relaxed for the first time since I had met her.  Her little body, so tight with pain only hours before, seemed at ease.  It was my job to prepare her for the mortuary workers who would come for her shortly.  Her body still warm to touch, I washed and dried her skin and brushed her hair and wrapped her in a fresh sheet, wondering at how I could now turn her with no pain and no tears.  I could see a trace of a smile at the corners of her mouth.  I knew then the Lord had lifted her soul from her imprisonment and He had rewarded her perseverance.

I rejoice in the hope of the glory of the Lord, thanks to Betty.  She showed me what it means to watch for the morning when He will come.  Immobile in bed, crippled and wracked with pain, her perseverance led to loving a young teenager uncertain in her faith.  Betty had brought the Lord home to me and she went home to Him.

Romans 5: 3b-4

We know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character;

When I first wrote this story and published it on my blog, I heard from members of Minnie’s family and learned that her youngest daughter was still living, now over 100 years old.  It was a joy to receive copies of newspaper articles from the time of the Coloma shipwreck, outlining Minnie’s brave trek to notify rescuers.  I hope to expand this story in the future, now that I have more information about the character of this remarkable woman, wife and mother.  EPG

Minnie Paterson rocked, nursing her infant son. She sat near the south window of the lighthouse living quarters, and studied the rain streaming down in rivulets. Wind gusts rattled the window. A lighthouse keeper’s home was constantly buffeted by wind, but this early winter storm picked up urgency throughout the night. Now with first light, Minnie looked out at driving rain blowing sideways, barely able to make out the rugged rocks below. The Pacific Ocean was anything but; the mist hung gray, melding horizon into sea, with flashes of white foam in crashing waves against the rocky cliffs of Cape Beale.

Whenever storms came, it seemed the Paterson family lived at the edge of civilization. Yet these storms were the reason she and Tom and their five children lived on the rugged west coast of Vancouver Island, in isolation at the southern edge of Barkley Sound. Tom’s job was to keep the foghorn blaring and the light glowing above the treacherous rocks, to guide sea vessels away from certain peril. The storms sometimes were too powerful even with the lighthouse as a beacon of warning. In January 1906, the ship Valencia had wrecked off the coast and only a few survivors had managed to make their way to shore, staggering up the rocky trail to the lighthouse where she warmed them by the stove and fed them until rescuers could come.

Eleven months later, Minnie was setting about getting breakfast ready when her husband came down the stairs in a rush from the upper room where he tended the light.

“Mother, it’s a ship! I just now see it. It is battered by the waves, its sails in tatters! I can see a man waving a distress signal from the deck. It will surely run aground against the rocks—I must telegraph the village to send out rescuers.”

Minnie went to the window again but could see nothing in the mist. Surely this could not be another Valencia disaster! Tom went to the telegraph in the corner of the room and tapped out the urgent message to the fishing village of Bamfield, five miles away inside Barkley Sound. He sat impatiently waiting for a reply, drumming his fingers on the desk. After ten minutes, he sent the message again with no response.

“The lines are down. I’m certain of it. The fallen trees pull them down in this wind. We’ll be unable to summon the rescuers. This ship is doomed, just like the Valencia. There is no way we can reach them in this weather and they can’t come ashore here in lifeboats. They’ll crash on the rocks…”

Seeing the helplessness Tom felt, Minnie knew immediately what she must do. He could not leave his post—it was a condition of his job. She would have to run the five miles for help, through the forest. She kissed Tom and the children goodbye, donned a cap and sweater, and as her feet did not fit in her boots, she put on her husband’s slippers. She ran down the long stairway down the hill taking their dog as a precaution to help warn her of bears on the trails.

Minnie first had to cross through a tideland inlet with water waist deep. She quickly stripped from the waist down, held her pants and slippers over her head and crossed through the icy water, her dog swimming alongside. Shivering on the other side, she quickly dressed, and started down the narrow winding forest trail, scrambling over large fallen trees blocking the way. She waded through deep mud, and crossed rocky beaches where wild waves drenched her. At times the tide was so high she crawled on her hands and knees through underbrush so as not to be swept away by the storm.

After four hours, she reached a home along the trail and with a friend, launched a rowboat to go on to Bamfield. The two women notified the anchored ship Quadra, which set out immediately for Cape Beale. Within an hour, the Quadra had reached the Coloma which was taking on water fast, and drifting close to the rocks on shore.

Minnie walked the long way back home that night, clothing tattered, muscles cramping, exhausted and chilled. Her breasts overflowing, she gratefully fed her baby, unaware for days that her efforts rescued the crew of the Coloma. Tragically, her health compromised, she died in 1911 of tuberculosis, forever a heroine to remember.

Source material: Bruce Scott’s Barkley Sound and oral history from Bamfield residents
Author’s note:
I wrote this for a writing challenge on the theme of “Canada”. This is a story Dan and I were told while staying in Bamfield on our honeymoon, and on a bright September day we walked the trail to the Cape Beale lighthouse, a most challenging and beautiful part of the world. The trail was so difficult, I was sure I was not going to make it, so how Minnie persevered in a December storm, in the dark, is beyond imagining. Her bravery captured me and I honor her sacrifice with this rendering of her story. EPG

Romans 5:3-4:  “we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.”

 

I was eight years old in June 1963 when the Readers’ Digest arrived in the mail inside its little brown paper wrapper. As usual, I sat down in my favorite overstuffed chair with my skinny legs dangling over the side arm and started at the beginning,  reading the jokes, the short articles and stories on harrowing adventures and rescues, pets that had been lost and found their way home, and then toward the back came to the book excerpt: “The Triumph of Janis Babson” by Lawrence Elliott.

Something about the little girl’s picture at the start of the story captured me right away–she had such friendly eyes with a sunny smile that partially hid buck teeth.  This Canadian child, Janis Babson, was diagnosed with leukemia when she was only ten, and despite all efforts to stop the illness, she died in 1961.  The story was written about her determination to donate her eyes after her death, and her courage facing death was astounding.  Being nearly the same age, I was captivated and petrified at the story, amazed at Janis’ straight forward approach to her death, her family’s incredible support of her wishes, and especially her final moments, when (as I recall 47 years later) she sat upright in her hospital bed and exclaimed “Mama, Papa, I see the angels coming!”  And then she was gone.  I cried buckets of tears, reading and rereading that death scene.  My mom finally had to take the magazine away from me and shooed me outside to go run off my grief.  How could I run and play when Janis no longer could?  It was a devastating realization that a child my age could get sick and die, and that God allowed it to happen.

Yet this story was more than just a tear jerker for the readers.  Janis’ final wish was granted –those eyes that had seen the angels were donated after her death so that they would help another person see.  Janis  had hoped never to be forgotten.  Amazingly, she influenced thousands of people who read her story to consider and commit to organ donation, most of whom remember her vividly through that book excerpt in Readers’ Digest.  I know I could not sleep the night after I read her story and determined to do something significant with my life, no matter how long or short it was.  Her story influenced my eventual decision to become a physician.  She made me think about death at a very young age as that little girl’s tragic story could have been mine and I was certain I could never have been so brave and so confident in my dying moments.

She did suffer with her disease, and despite that, she persevered with a unique sense of purpose and mission for one so young.  As a ten year old, she developed character that some people never develop in a much longer lifetime.  Her faith and her deep respect for the gift she was capable of giving through her death brought hope and light to scores of people who still remember her to this day.

Out of the recesses of my memory, I recalled Janis’ story a few months ago when I learned of a local child who had been diagnosed with a serious cancer.  I could not recall Janis’ name, but in googling “Readers’  Digest girl cancer story”,  by the miracle of the internet I rediscovered her name, the name of the book and a discussion forum that included posts of people in their mid-fifties, like me,  who had been incredibly inspired by Janis when they read this same story as a child.  A number were inspired to become health care providers like myself and some became professionals in working with organ donation.

Janis and family, may you know the gift you gave so many people through your courage in suffering, your perseverance, your character and the resulting hope in the glory of the Lord–the angels are coming!

We do remember you!

My Soul Thirsts

Psalm 42: 1-2

As the deer pants for streams of water,
so my soul pants for you, O God.

My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.
When can I go and meet with God?

On any given day, at some point, I start thirsting.  Not for water, which, living in the northwest,  I’m fortunate to have close by at almost any moment.  Not for alcohol, which puts me to sleep and makes me too fuzzy to function after a couple of swallows.  Not for milk which was all I ever drank growing up on a farm with three Guernsey cows that produced more than a family of five could possible consume in a day.

No, I’m ashamed to admit I thirst for a Starbucks mocha.  With whip.   With little hesitation, I will indulge my thirst.  No, I didn’t give it up for Lent.  I acknowledge it is not truly thirst I am feeling but only a desire. I’m not panting and dehydrated.  This is a want rather than a need.  I will not die without my mocha.

It just feels as if I might.

If only I could thirst daily for God with the same visceral fervor and singlemindedness!   If I could dive into His word daily and savor it like I do my mocha, I would be much less fluffy in stature, and much more solid in faith.

This psalm reminds me of my constant thirstiness and how no mocha, no glass of water, indeed nothing of this earth will truly slake it.  I must wait to meet the Lord to know what it feels like to no longer want, and then all needs are fulfilled.

“You have made us for Yourself, and we cannot find rest until we find it in You.”   St. Augustine

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Genesis 3:11

And (God) said: ‘who told you that you were naked?”
Those fig leaves really don’t cover up much.  It must have felt pretty ridiculous to be hiding in the bushes while God walked in the cool of  the day in the Garden looking for Adam and Eve.

Hide our nakedness from the Creator who formed and designed the body parts we are trying futilely to cover?  Hide our thoughts and deeds from the God who knows our hearts and minds better than we ourselves do?  We are still naked in every aspect of our beings, completely and utterly uncovered and transparent, especially when it comes to our sin.

So who told us we were naked?  Who instilled shame in our bodies, when we are designed in the image, in the likeness of God who loved us enough to walk with us in the Garden?

It was not God who did this.  He was not ashamed of what He had made.

In our fall, in our terrible disobedience, we could no longer bear (or bare) to stand naked before God.   So in our place,  God, in His ultimate love for us, became our  Savior hanging naked, exposed, and humiliated instead.

“The essence of sin is man substituting himself for God, while the essence of salvation is God substituting himself  for man. Man asserts himself against God and puts himself where only God deserves to be; God sacrifices himself for man and puts himself where only man deserves to be.  Man claims prerogatives that belong to God alone; God accepts penalties which belong to man alone.”   John Stott

Psalm 51:7

Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean;
wash me, and I will be whiter than snow.

It was a bright December day, she remembered, a great day for a snow shoeing trek near Artist’s Point, eat lunch, then head home.  All three college students wound their way slowly around the base of Table Mountain, enjoying a final day together before parting for the long Christmas break.

The avalanche came without warning; a sudden low rumble, then building to a roar, and the ground was moving beneath them, rolling them over and over helplessly in a wave of white that carried them down the slope.  It swooshed over top of them, everything awash in white.  There was no way to know up from down, and when finally coming to rest, the white became black, still, and suffocating.

Remembering her avalanche survival course, she waved her arms in front of her as hard as she could, creating a small open pocket beneath her face as she found herself bent forward, hunched into a folded crouched position.  There was a sense of light coming through the snow above her, but nothing but black below.  She tried to force her way up through the snow, to push her way out but it weighted her down like concrete blocks.  There was no moving from the small space that contained her.

She realized she was trapped and began to panic.  She tried to shout but her voice too was entombed in snow.

So she began to pray.   She prayed for her safety, for calmness, for a rescue, she prayed for her two friends, she prayed for her parents.  She remembered relaxing as she spoke to God, sensing Him in the darkness with her, knowing He was the only one to know where she was at that moment. He had found her.

Growing colder, she was unable to feel her feet or hands any longer.  She was fading; she tried to stay awake by praying harder, but it was no use.

_________

Sometime later she felt herself being pulled into the light, heard excited voices shouting, and then she was being carried on a stretcher.  In the ambulance, on the way to the hospital, she began to talk to her rescuers as they warmed her with blankets, and once her skin softened, they put warm intravenous fluids in her veins.  By the time she arrived in the emergency room, her face had some color, though her feet were blue, her toes white and completely numb.

It wasn’t until later that she was clear enough to ask about her friends.   One was the reason she had been rescued.  He had fought his way through his snow covering and thereby freeing himself, had gone for help.  With the help of dogs, she had been found.  Her third friend was still missing.

As she mentioned to a nurse what a close call she had, being buried under two feet of heavy snow for several minutes, and surviving relatively unscathed,  the nurse stopped what she was doing and looked at her oddly.

“Don’t you know?  You were buried for almost 24 hours before they found you! It’s amazing you are alive at all and look at you, barely a mark on you, only a little frostbite!”

A miracle whiter than snow.

based on a true story of avalanche survival near Mount Baker by two WWU students.  The third student perished.

Psalm 51:8

Let me hear joy and gladness;
let the bones you have crushed rejoice.

I’ve worked in many medical settings, and have seen lots of illnesses and injuries over 30+ years of doctoring.  Despite all that experience, I really don’t do well with badly broken bones.  Basic wrists and fingers and ankles are no problem but open compound and comminuted fractures (i.e. “crushed bones”) are downright terrifying.  It appears to me they can never be pieced back together.   Even looking at the xrays makes me cringe.  I avoided doing a surgical orthopedic rotation during my training because I knew I’d have issues with the saws and the smells involved in fixing bad fractures.  And witnessing the pain is unforgettable.

Crush injuries hurt– there are few things that hurt more. It is very difficult to imagine those injured bones (or their owner) rejoicing about anything.   This psalm makes explicit the extreme pain David was experiencing in his guilt and separation from God.    To realize such profound relief from that pain must have been miraculous, and well worth rejoicing.

Two years ago on April 1,  my 87 year old mother shattered her lower femur trying to stand up after getting down on her hands and knees to retrieve a pill that had dropped to the floor and rolled under her desk.  The pain was overwhelming until the paramedics managed to immobilize her leg in an air cast for transport to the ER.  As long as her leg wasn’t moved, she was quite comfortable– in fact overjoyed to see me in the middle of a workday when I arrived at the hospital.  She was so chatty that when she was asked by the ER doctor “how did this happen?” she launched into a long description of just how she had dropped the pill, where it had rolled, and what pill it was, what color it was, why she was taking it, etc etc.  I started to get antsy, knowing how busy he was and said, with just a *wee bit* of irritation, “Mom, he doesn’t need to know all that.  Just tell him what happened when you tried to stand up.”   That did it.  Now it wasn’t just her leg that hurt, it was her feelings too, including her own sense of responsibility for what had happened, and the tears started to flow.  The ER doc shot me a sideways glance that clearly said “now look what you’ve done” and then took my Mom’s hand tenderly,  looking her straight in the eye and said, “That’s all right, these things happen despite our best intentions—you go right ahead and tell me the whole story, right from the beginning…”

So she did, completely reaffirmed and feeling absolved of her guilt that she had somehow done this to herself.   Having been shown compassion and a healing grace from a total stranger, she never really complained about the pain in her leg again.  Then it was my turn to feel guilty.

Although her leg was fixed and she did eventually take a few steps with assistance, she never again lived independently, and as happens so often with older people with fractures, she died only eight months later.  The bones heal but the spirit doesn’t.   That day really was the beginning of the end for her, and in my heart, I knew that was likely to be the case.  My irritation was for what I suspected was coming, and for what I knew it meant for her, but mostly for me.

What I had forgotten in that moment of selfishness and what I will not forget again:

Even the most horrendous pain can be relieved by grace.  And the crushed will stand, and walk, and smile again.

Psalm 51:11

Do not cast me from your presence
or take your Holy Spirit from me.

Usually tucked away in one of my pockets of my lab coat at work, or in my jean pocket at home, or in a pocket of my purse is one of several small smooth stones that I keep.  I prefer them a bit flat, with a nice depression that is perfect for my thumb to nestle in as I hold the stone in my pocket.  It is a reassuring feeling to hold onto something that is so solid, so ancient and which traveled many miles,  bumped and ground to a silky smoothness just to end up in my pocket.  These are stones that I spend time harvesting at my favorite southwestern Vancouver Island shore, where the newly named “Salish Sea”  pours out from Puget Sound through the Straits of Juan de Fuca to the Pacific.  I probably should be declaring them at the border when we return home, but I’m never sure how to put a value on a ziplock bag of perfect “holding” stones.  I think the border guard would likely confiscate them and I’d have a lot of explaining to do.

Ostensibly I’m picking up these rocks to try my hand at skipping them on the surface of the water.  That is only my excuse.  But I’m a miserable skipper, yielding rarely more than four skips per stone.  I guess I might be more aptly called a “stoner”.   I actually can’t bear to let the best ones go, perhaps never to be heard from again.   They would truly be lost forever.  To cast them away, to actually feel them leave my hand, is a painful act.

I suspect God feels that same anguish at letting go of one of His children.  We are not flung away for His entertainment (how many skips can this one make?), nor are we thrown away in anger.  We are cast away from God’s hand when we could have chosen to cling to Him when we needed Him most.  We too often let go when He urges us to stay.   He wants us firm and solid in His hand, having been sanded and ground to a fine sheen by the bumps and bruises of life.   He snugly holds us,  His thumb nestled in the depression of our soul.

Tucked away in God’s pocket forever.

Psalm 51: 7

Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean;  wash me.

It had to have been mortifying.  The Master, with a towel wrapped around His waist like a slave,  kneeling to wash His disciples’ dirty smelly feet covered with the dust of Jerusalem.  Though Peter protested, he was rebuked to submit, to comprehend the symbolism of the act.

It was this reversal that carried Him to the cross, the ultimate cleansing coming not just from His hands, but from His wounds, from His suffering, from His blood.

So He continues to wash off our everyday grime and gently, tenderly wipes us clean, knowing, realizing we will only get soiled again.

What wondrous love is this?

Isaiah 53:6

We all, like sheep, have gone astray, each of us has turned to his own way; and the LORD has laid on him the iniquity of us all.

I am privileged to be learning Handel’s Messiah with a group of really wonderful folks in my small town, readying ourselves for our twice yearly performances.   The “All We Like Sheep”  chorus is one of the most challenging of all, simply because the melody lines intertwine in seemingly random fashion, as if our choir were sixty some individual sheep running amok, each in a different direction.    Sheep are skilled  at ignoring boundaries, running over anything in their way, doubling back and retracing their steps and giving in to whim rather than doing what is right and orderly.

It is brilliantly organized musical chaos, as only Handel can create, until the final Adagio, like a shepherd of sorts,  brings all the voices together in one powerful final lament:  the Lord lifts from us the burden of our depravity and takes it upon Himself in the ultimate sacrifice.  We are absolved, sheared of our heavy burden, though unworthy as only a herd of dumb sheep can be.

We are sheep in desperate need of a Shepherd who knows what it is to be the Paschal Lamb.   Worthy is that Lamb.

The Prayer of St. Teresa of Avila (1515-1582)
 

Let nothing disturb you, nothing frighten you, all things are passing.  God never changes.  Patience obtains all things.  Whoever has God lacks nothing.  God is enough.

These words were sung last night to a packed church by the Dordt College Choir (my husband and son’s alma mater) now on their spring tour.  It was a touching and beautiful evening of wonderful choral music by a group of students who clearly care deeply about sharing their faith, led by a talented and dedicated conductor who grew up in our town of Lynden, Dr. Ben Kornelis.

As the University where I work winds down to the end of a tough and wearing winter quarter this week, it struck me how hazardous being a college student is these days.   This quarter we had one completed suicide and five additional serious attempts.  A disturbing New York Times article today highlights the cluster of suicides of students at Cornell University in upstate New York.

This is a generation with seemingly little grounding in the preciousness of life, with less spiritual foundation for hope and inner peace, with broken and fragmented family support when the inevitable rough days happen.  These young adults give themselves up to their desperation and some tell me the pain of living is simply not worth sustaining, no matter how temporary the misery it may be.

The words of St. Teresa are a reminder of God’s constancy always, through all things.  Like the helix nebula dubbed “The Eye of God”, He patiently watches over us, never changing, lacking nothing, being sufficient for all our needs.  Do not be afraid.  Do not despair.  He is here.

Psalm 51: 17

The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit;
a broken and contrite heart…

When we are at our most tender and vulnerable, hurting and barely able to breathe–that is when we gift ourselves to God, and He welcomes us with open arms, knowing the sacrifice we make.   He was once just like us.

No longer burnt offerings, nor money, but He asks for a sacrifice of us, broken and yielding, ready for healing, begging for wholeness.  He becomes our glue to shore up our shattered pieces.

An old Shaker hymn says it better than I:

I will bow and be simple,
I will bow and be free,
I will bow and be humble,
Yea, bow like the willow tree.

I will bow, this is the token,
I will wear the easy yoke,
I will bow and will be broken,
Yea, I'll fall upon the rock.

Luke 32: 15

this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.

There is a unique aspect to the “Prodigal” story that is not always apparent on first reading/hearing.  It is, on the surface, a warm and tender story of a loving father welcoming his wayward son back to the fold after squandering all, and realizing his life would be better working as one of his father’s servants than literally wallowing in a pig sty.  Instead,  his father greets him home with utter joy, bringing him the best of all he possesses to celebrate.   It is the ultimate story of grace and forgiveness.

It is told by Jesus in the context of a warning to the Pharisees and keepers of the Jewish law.  It is actually a parable far more about the older brother–the obedient  “nose to the grindstone”  guy– who is resentful and angry that his father lavishes such special attention on the younger brother returned home from a life of sin.   The father “pleads” with his older son to participate in the celebration, reminding him:  “You are always with me and everything I have is yours, but we had to celebrate and be glad because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.”  We don’t know what the older brother decided to do, and whether he could ever get over his resentment of his brother and his anger at his father.  Jesus leaves that part of the story open-ended, just as our own decisions are open-ended.

It is clear what we must do.   We cannot have expectations for what we feel is owed us because of our “good” behavior, our hard work, or our obedient nature.  We deserve nothing.

Yet our Father hears our righteous anger, sees our self-absorbed resentment and instead entreats us, with all the power of His love,
“You are always with me; everything I have is yours.”

What can be greater than that?   As we are lost in our selfish judgment, He reminds us how firmly He holds us.  We are meant to be found resting, living, breathing in Him.

And so, it is not only the prodigal who is lives again.

“So it is ourselves that we must spread under Christ’s feet, not coats or lifeless branches or shoots of trees, matter which wastes away and delights the eye only for a few brief hours.  But we have clothed ourselves with Christ’s grace, with the whole Christ–’for as many of you as were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ’—so let us spread ourselves like coats under his feet.”   –8th century bishop Andrew of Crete

It would have been a spectacle of waving branches stripped from trees and coats being spread in the dirt of the road to Jerusalem.  But it was only spectacle.  Within a few days, it was all forgotten as another reversal takes place: the King of Glory himself was stripped of His clothing and hung upon a tree.

Andrew of Crete points us to the words of Apostle Paul in Galatians:  we must spread ourselves, clothed in His grace, over the dust, under His feet.  We become indistinguishable from the dust, indistinguishable from one from another, as His soles leave permanent footprints on our souls.

Galatians 3:27-28

…all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ.  There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.

“The grinding power of the plain words of the Gospel story is like the power of millstones; and those who read them…will feel as if rocks had been rolled upon them.”

G.K. Chesterton  in The Everlasting Man

The observance of Lent is a downward trajectory, heavy laden.   The betrayal and denial by His closest friends during that final week in Jerusalem only amplifies His suffering and the sacrifice He was prepared to offer, even when forsaken.  Lent is a disconsolate descent into sadness, sliding into the overwhelming reality of the stone being rolled in place to seal a tomb. That moment effectively cuts man off from God, and it is as if we too are crushed, our breath and life forced from us, by that very stone.  There is nothing darker than a sealed tomb, other than the knowledge of eternal separation from God.

From the vantage point under the stone, there is no way to comprehend the eventual lifting of the impossible weight of sin, the ascent into an unbearable lightness of new life.  As hard shelled kernels ground to remove our useless hull, we will never be the same again.

Nor should we ever wish to be.

“Looking at Stars” by Jane Kenyon from Let Evening Come
 

The God of curved space, the dry
God, is not going to help us, but the son
whose blood splattered
the hem of his mother’s robe.

Jane Kenyon, whose work I’ve only recently discovered, wrote much of her spiritual poetry in her forties while dying of leukemia.   This brief poem illustrates her (and humanity’s) need for a bleeding God who lived and died among us, splattering beyond his mother’s robe.  Our help, our only comfort, our desperate need is for God who understands our suffering by dwelling on earth, not just in the heavens.

His blood, shed and shared so graciously and willingly, is on our hands, and pumps everlasting within our hearts.

Luke 19:40

“I tell you,” he replied, “if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out.”

The songs from the swamp were faintly detectable in the distance about six weeks ago.  In the middle of winter, due to unduly mild temperatures, the frog chorus had begun in the wetlands surrounding our farm.  It was almost disorienting, along with the daffodils budding in late January and lawns needing mowing in February.  An early March cold snap sent the frogs back into the mud and the evening concerts ceased briefly.  Then suddenly today, along with the sun,  they are back, this time closing in right next to our bedroom window, populating the small fish pond in our front yard.  With voices so numerous, strong and insistent, it feels as though a New York City of Pacific Chorus Frogs moved in next door, and our family is seated in the balcony of Carnegie Hall.  They seem to be directed by an unseen conductor, as their voices rise and fall together and then cut off suddenly with a slice of the baton, plunging into uncomfortable silence at the slightest provocation, as if holding an extended resting fermata for minutes on end.

The frogs’ repertoire is limited but their wind power,  stamina and ability to project their voices impressive.   They are most tenacious at making their presence known to any other peeper within a mile radius. Then when the coyotes are chorusing in the field out back, just a hundred yards away from our other bedroom window, yip-yip-yelping their song at the moon, we are serenaded by the sopranos and altos of the farm’s wild fauna.  There is an occasional percussive beat of a barn owl’s click as he flies overhead, and the intermittent tenor hoohooooo’s back and forth between mates perched in trees around the house.   Add in the deep bass huh-huh-huh-huh of our stallion’s nicker as he talks with our mares through the barn wall, and it makes for a fine evening concert indeed.

Everyone’s welcome to attend the next performance at our farm. Admission is free as long as you are willing to help clean barn the next day.

As a relatively new member of a small town choral society, I am discovering choirs of all sorts are joyous groups, a collection of individuals perhaps as disparate as the creatures on our farm, joining together to create a woven musical tapestry.  The Lenten portion of Handel’s Messiah is a challenging work that our group will perform later this week, prior to the beginning of Holy Week, as our faith community prepares for Easter.  As a novice singer,  I am learning to find the right notes, stay on key, pronounce the words correctly, turn the pages at the right time, watch the conductor, know when to start and when to be silent, when to stand up and sit down in unison, and most natural to me, how to actually show the emotion of the words.

If there would be a command to silence, if we are told to keep quiet, if we are somehow prevented from singing this amazing choral work, or even if there is not a cacophony of sounds out our bedroom window every spring evening, I have no doubt the stones themselves would cry out.    It is that important to sing praises loud and clearly, whether it be a choral society, a peeper chorus, a coyote concert or the hosannas shouted during His ride into Jerusalem.

Everyone’s welcome to attend.  Admission is free.  No barn cleaning necessary.  Instead be prepared for washing of your feet and cleansing of the heart.

John 12:35

Then Jesus told them: You are going to have the light just a little while longer. Walk while you have the light, before darkness overtakes you. The man who walks in the dark does not know where he is going.

Many older people when stressed with illness, while hospitalized or disrupted from their routine, will become disoriented, even confused in the evening, unable to sleep, or be at ease.  It is referred to as “sundowning” by the care providers who must try to keep an older patient safe, calm and oriented to time and place.  It isn’t at all clear what is happening in the brain as the sun goes down, but over the years of watching this happen in my patients, I think it is a very primal fear response to loss of light.  We don’t know where we are in the dark and feel lost.  We don’t know what is out there that may hurt us.

Jesus knew the dangers of the night, both as God and as man.  As the Light of the World, soon to hang from the cross as the sky blackened and the sun was covered over, His illumination will dim and die.  At that moment, man is plunged into darkness like none ever known before.  This is extreme  “sundowning” where all hope is lost, and we can so easily lose our way.

Yet if we stay rooted to the spot, and not leave the cross, we may find comfort in our troubled state, and can put down our heavy burden and rest. We can celebrate the arrival of brilliant light in our lives. Instead of darkness overcoming us, our lives are covered in the glory and grace of Resurrection Day.

The Son settled among us.  Darkness can no longer overtake us, even at death.  The Light will illuminate the path we are meant to take.

“No matter how deep our darkness, He is deeper still.”  Corrie ten Boom in The Hiding Place
 

 

“I could never myself believe in God, if it were not for the cross… In the real world of pain, how could one worship a God who was immune to it? I have entered many Buddhist temples in different Asian countries and stood respectfully before the statue of Buddha, his legs crossed, arms folded, eyes closed, the ghost of a smile playing round his mouth, a remote look on his face, detached from the agonies of the world.

But each time after a while I have to turn away. And in imagination I have turned instead to that lonely, twisted, tortured figure on the cross, nails through hands and feet, back lacerated, limbs wrenched, brow bleeding from thorn-pricks, mouth dry and intolerably thirsty, plunged in Godforsaken darkness.

That is the God for me! He laid aside His immunity to pain. He entered our world of flesh and blood, tears and death. He suffered for us. Our sufferings become more manageable in light of His.”

—John Stott, The Cross of Christ

It is interesting to read of Pastor Stott’s turning toward the image of the crucified Christ, away from the smiling but detached Buddha.  As I did not grow up with images of the crucified Christ, I find it very difficult to see paintings, statues, or watch movies depicting the Crucifixion.  I want to turn away in discomfort at the agony portrayed. It is too overwhelming to behold.

But I must turn back and face Him. I cannot look away in horror.

He is not detached.  He is completely and unutterably attached to me–by His grace–by His will–by His giving of Himself–indeed by the nails themselves.   That is my God hanging there.

John 21:12

Jesus said to them, “Come and have breakfast.” None of the disciples dared ask him, “Who are you?” They knew it was the Lord.

After Resurrection Day, Jesus appeared to His followers on several occasions, but was not always immediately recognizable.  The trigger for discerning who He is seems sometimes to be connected to sharing a meal.

This makes entire sense after His Last Supper with the disciples before His death.  He makes it clear how He wants to be remembered, through a symbolic meal of bread and wine.   So when He returns, when He eats together with others, they know they are in the presence of the Lord.

In one instance, when the disciples have had a night of no success catching fish, He directs them to drop their nets yet again and suddenly there are more fish than they can handle.  This is capped by His invitation: “Come and have breakfast”.    He then feeds them, both figuratively and literally.

Accepting the invitation is all that is asked of us.  Who doesn’t want to have breakfast cooked for them?

So come and eat.  Be filled.  And never be hungry again.

Mark 14:8-9

She did what she could. She poured perfume on my body beforehand to prepare for my burial. I tell you the truth, wherever the gospel is preached throughout the world, what she has done will also be told, in memory of her.

We wonder if our actions on this earth are pleasing to God, though we believe our faith, rather than good works, is the key to salvation.   Jesus’ response to Mary’s anointing of His feet the day before He enters Jerusalem is provocative.  However, this story parallels the passion of the coming week:

Mary acts out of faith even when she confronts a painful reality–she acknowledges Jesus’ predictions of His death and burial–she believes what His disciples refused to hear.

Jesus prays a few days later to have the reality of suffering lifted from Him, but in obedience, He perseveres out of faith and love for the Father.

Mary acts out of her steadfast love for the Master–she is showing single-minded devotion in the face of criticism from the disciples.

Jesus, on the cross,  shows forgiveness and love even to the men who deride and execute Him.

Mary acts out of significant personal sacrifice–pouring costly perfume worth a full year’s wages–showing her commitment to Christ.

Jesus willingly gives the ultimate sacrifice of Himself–there is no higher price to pay.

Mary responds to His need–she recognizes that this moment is her opportunity to anoint the living Christ, and His response clearly shows He is deeply moved by her action.

Jesus, as man Himself, recognizes humanity’s need to be saved, and places Himself in our place. We must respond, incredulous,  with gratitude.

Jesus tells Mary (and us),  in response to the disciples’ rebukes, that it is her action that will be told and remembered.   She did what she could at that moment to ease His distress at what He would soon confront.  She did what she could for Him–humbly, beautifully, simply, sacrificially–and He is so grateful that He Himself washes the feet of His disciples a few days later in an act of devotion and servanthood.

And today we remember her as the harbinger of His passion, just as He said we would.