A friend died the week before last.
His funeral was a week ago today. I was far away, and I couldn't go to the funeral, couldn't participate in the communal grief, and that was difficult.
My sister described grief so accurately in an email this week. I'm so thankful that she always tries to meet me where I am, no matter what kind of crazy place that may be:
"Grief is a mess. A necessity. A hold you by your ankles upside down for awhile kinda thing. It kinda messes up the functioning of normal life because it's a response to a great rip in life. There's a space no longer occupied. And the soul hasn't adjusted to it yet."
I've done a lot of crying. A lot of remembering + praising Jesus for the beautiful life and heart that still lives--lives with Jesus where he belongs, lives at home.
And still there is sadness, sorrow, the deep sort that ambushes you.
Tonight, when grief snuck up on me, I was spraying a pan to make some banana bread. For some reason, a familiar baking pan--one of my mom's old ones--caught me so off guard in the midst of all the unfamiliarity and isolated feeling that goes along with grieving. I burst into tears- and I picked up a pen...
...because somewhere in this torrent of tears, there is something holy. Just as Jesus wept for his friend, so I weep for mine. And just as Jesus' friend lived again, so does mine.
These days my song is sorrow and victory, death and life abundant, tears mixed with the Conqueror's joy.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Monday, February 3, 2014
Green Tea & Sugar Cookies.
Let me take you back in time, back to the making of me.
Come in, come in, step inside the breezeway; we're going in for a cup of tea. It will be green. If you're like me, like I was then, anyway, you'll pour copious amounts of milk and stir in spoonfuls of sugar. It will be sweet.
It will be almost as sweet as that cookie perched on the edge of your saucer. The little granules of sugar brush off so easily, don't they? The cookie is still quite chilly--partially frozen because she pulled a bag of these sugar cookies out of the deep-freeze just for you. She's always doing that.
Who is she?
Look across the table; she's the beautiful one. The one with peace written in every line of her face. She's the one who will look at you with understanding and love, who will hear your childlike story with as much attention as she would give to the most important of guests. She's the one who poured your tea, who will watch your cup empty and fill it again. She will listen to your stories, but she will also tell some.
She will tell you story after story of a world you are too young to know. She will speak of winter-time sleigh rides, of struggle, and of deep and true love. She will remind you who you are with her stories, where you came from, and from whom.
She will tell you the hard truth. Her stories won't be sugar-coated like her cookies.
And all the while, she will have that flash of merriment in her eyes, that dance of light that tells you she has a beautiful, exciting secret she'd like to let you in on.
And you won't even realize it, but she will.
She tells you gradually, carefully, in her own way.
She shows you her photo albums. She tells you the stories for each black and white picture. You soak in her stories. A family, woven around this little part of the world. Hearts, bound together and broken, sometimes both.
Every story of hardship ends with this phrase, "Ah well...whatever." And every story of joy ends with a chuckle that makes her small frame dance with amusement.
And through it all, His mercy. Times are bad, but never desperate. Sorrow comes, but joy somehow remains. And all the while, that refrain she loves to play for you on the old organ in the corner of the living room rings more and more true, "What a friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and griefs to bear, what a privilege to carry, everything to God in prayer."
And amidst all the moments remembered, from bubble-blowing at the kitchen sink, to being persistently and gleefully beaten at scrabble, to mending the old toys from attic with that super-sticky white tape, there's one small thing that always sticks in my mind and heart.
When we bowed our heads to pray--over a meal or over afternoon tea--after the "Amen" had been said in unison, she would always linger, eyes closed, head, bowed. She was in the secret place with her dearest friend just then. In the pause, there was such holiness, such volumes were spoken by a moment of silence before her God and Friend.
And so, she taught us the secret, the source of the merriment in her eyes. She taught many of us. The secret was Jesus.
Her infinitely sweet and precious friend was Jesus.
And yesterday, on this beautiful woman's birthday, I drank a cup of green tea, this time without milk or sugar, and I thanked my sweet and precious friend, my Jesus, for the life of a woman that changed the course of mine, with sugar cookies, laughter, and the presence of her dearest Friend.
Come in, come in, step inside the breezeway; we're going in for a cup of tea. It will be green. If you're like me, like I was then, anyway, you'll pour copious amounts of milk and stir in spoonfuls of sugar. It will be sweet.
It will be almost as sweet as that cookie perched on the edge of your saucer. The little granules of sugar brush off so easily, don't they? The cookie is still quite chilly--partially frozen because she pulled a bag of these sugar cookies out of the deep-freeze just for you. She's always doing that.
Who is she?
Look across the table; she's the beautiful one. The one with peace written in every line of her face. She's the one who will look at you with understanding and love, who will hear your childlike story with as much attention as she would give to the most important of guests. She's the one who poured your tea, who will watch your cup empty and fill it again. She will listen to your stories, but she will also tell some.
She will tell you story after story of a world you are too young to know. She will speak of winter-time sleigh rides, of struggle, and of deep and true love. She will remind you who you are with her stories, where you came from, and from whom.
She will tell you the hard truth. Her stories won't be sugar-coated like her cookies.
And all the while, she will have that flash of merriment in her eyes, that dance of light that tells you she has a beautiful, exciting secret she'd like to let you in on.
And you won't even realize it, but she will.
She tells you gradually, carefully, in her own way.
She shows you her photo albums. She tells you the stories for each black and white picture. You soak in her stories. A family, woven around this little part of the world. Hearts, bound together and broken, sometimes both.
Every story of hardship ends with this phrase, "Ah well...whatever." And every story of joy ends with a chuckle that makes her small frame dance with amusement.
And through it all, His mercy. Times are bad, but never desperate. Sorrow comes, but joy somehow remains. And all the while, that refrain she loves to play for you on the old organ in the corner of the living room rings more and more true, "What a friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and griefs to bear, what a privilege to carry, everything to God in prayer."
And amidst all the moments remembered, from bubble-blowing at the kitchen sink, to being persistently and gleefully beaten at scrabble, to mending the old toys from attic with that super-sticky white tape, there's one small thing that always sticks in my mind and heart.
When we bowed our heads to pray--over a meal or over afternoon tea--after the "Amen" had been said in unison, she would always linger, eyes closed, head, bowed. She was in the secret place with her dearest friend just then. In the pause, there was such holiness, such volumes were spoken by a moment of silence before her God and Friend.
And so, she taught us the secret, the source of the merriment in her eyes. She taught many of us. The secret was Jesus.
Her infinitely sweet and precious friend was Jesus.
And yesterday, on this beautiful woman's birthday, I drank a cup of green tea, this time without milk or sugar, and I thanked my sweet and precious friend, my Jesus, for the life of a woman that changed the course of mine, with sugar cookies, laughter, and the presence of her dearest Friend.
Happy Birthday, Great-Grandma Pedersen. We love you.
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