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.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Sunshine and Snowflakes
There's a secret and small part of me that began to breathe in Spain. It started to stretch and yawn to wake up from its slumber, but, for some strange reason it didn't quite shake sleep's hold.
It is not the forceful part of my heart, not the proud, not the pushy.
It is the delighting part, the part that dances, the part that plays. It is the part of me that sees delight and every snowflake and birdsong, the part of me that wakes anticipating the simple joys and small adventure of the unknown day.
And that part has been stifled-by practicality or circumstance, by lies or by categories -I'm not sure-but it has been missing for quite some time.
This is the part of me that dances in the rain and jumps in the car a moment's notice to find a field to stargaze. This is the part of me that whispers life to growing plants in the garden and laughs as pranks are well-played.
This part of me, she's full of mischief and play and the light and the peace of his goodness and faithfulness.
And I must learn to nurture her, to coax her from her resting place and into the moment, into the present, into the need for beauty realized here and now. And today, it starts with a fearless, honest cry and snowflakes falling on my upturned face.
It is not the forceful part of my heart, not the proud, not the pushy.
It is the delighting part, the part that dances, the part that plays. It is the part of me that sees delight and every snowflake and birdsong, the part of me that wakes anticipating the simple joys and small adventure of the unknown day.
And that part has been stifled-by practicality or circumstance, by lies or by categories -I'm not sure-but it has been missing for quite some time.
This is the part of me that dances in the rain and jumps in the car a moment's notice to find a field to stargaze. This is the part of me that whispers life to growing plants in the garden and laughs as pranks are well-played.
This part of me, she's full of mischief and play and the light and the peace of his goodness and faithfulness.
And I must learn to nurture her, to coax her from her resting place and into the moment, into the present, into the need for beauty realized here and now. And today, it starts with a fearless, honest cry and snowflakes falling on my upturned face.
Friday, August 23, 2013
Dad's Proud of You
Hello Dear Reader,
I want to share with you, tonight, a beautiful picture of the Father's love. A couple of weeks ago, my cousin posted a sweet video of his daughter. This adorable little one is working on learning her ABC's, and the video was documenting her latest version of the song. Her cheerful little voice pronounced the letters, one by one, and the video was charming. She forgot a few letters, as everyone tends to do when learning the song (there are, after all, 26 letters to remember!), but that's not at all what stands out at video's conclusion. You see her big smiling eyes and adorable little face.
Then comes the God-moment. As I finished watching the video, I looked over at the comments, and read one from her proud dad. The comment previous to his was expressing some sort of delight in the cuteness of the video, and his response was so simple, but so powerful, "She's mine!"
In that moment, God used my cousin and his little girl to show me a sweet, sweet picture of how He feels about each one of us. He looks at us, His children, and He is proud! He's bursting with joy over us!
We, like my cousin's little girl, don't always do everything perfectly. Sometimes we forget some of the letters in the song, but His delight isn't dependent upon our performance. He's proud because we're His. In some crazy way, we are God's kids, and He is a proud Dad.
So, Dear Reader, hear the Father saying about you, "She's mine," or "He's mine," with such pride and joy in His voice that it borders on ridiculous. He's crazy about you. He always will be.
"See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!" - 1 John 3:1
I want to share with you, tonight, a beautiful picture of the Father's love. A couple of weeks ago, my cousin posted a sweet video of his daughter. This adorable little one is working on learning her ABC's, and the video was documenting her latest version of the song. Her cheerful little voice pronounced the letters, one by one, and the video was charming. She forgot a few letters, as everyone tends to do when learning the song (there are, after all, 26 letters to remember!), but that's not at all what stands out at video's conclusion. You see her big smiling eyes and adorable little face.
Then comes the God-moment. As I finished watching the video, I looked over at the comments, and read one from her proud dad. The comment previous to his was expressing some sort of delight in the cuteness of the video, and his response was so simple, but so powerful, "She's mine!"
In that moment, God used my cousin and his little girl to show me a sweet, sweet picture of how He feels about each one of us. He looks at us, His children, and He is proud! He's bursting with joy over us!
We, like my cousin's little girl, don't always do everything perfectly. Sometimes we forget some of the letters in the song, but His delight isn't dependent upon our performance. He's proud because we're His. In some crazy way, we are God's kids, and He is a proud Dad.
So, Dear Reader, hear the Father saying about you, "She's mine," or "He's mine," with such pride and joy in His voice that it borders on ridiculous. He's crazy about you. He always will be.
"See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!" - 1 John 3:1
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Home Sweet Home
Hello Dear Reader!
I've been home for about a week now, and life has been
sweet. Here are a few of my favorite things this week:
 |
| Down to the bare minimum, mid-project. |
I found an old chair last fall. It caught my eye because it
was covered in a certain teal vinyl. Beautiful color, but ripped and stained.
So, yesterday I ripped into it and began the re-covering process. It was my
first re-upholstering job, but I've seen Cathy do it so many times that it went
pretty easily!
 |
| Finished Product. |
I
was out and about today in the nearby town of Fairmont, MN, and I came across
all sorts of lovely treasures:
 |
| Lovely Lacy Jacket, Clearanced. That's a win. |
 |
| Beautiful Cream Train Case. $5. |
 |
| A rainbow of books, ready for listing on Etsy this week. |
 |
| New books of stamps. Beautiful options at your local Post Office! ;) |
Everyday life is full of beautiful things; we've just got to keep our eyes open!
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Homeward Bound
Dear Reader,
I can hardly
believe it as I write this, but my time in Spain is drawing to a close. I have eight days left at Generation 42, and I am overwhelmed when I think back on all God
has taught me and done in me. Thank you, for being a part of this with
me.
When I came
to Spain, I anticipated learning a lot of practical skills, and I've definitely
done that. But, I've also encountered God in such a way that I've been changed
by Him, and that's one of the sweetest gifts I've ever been given. During
my time here in Spain, God has refined my vision and shown me that His plans
for me are incredibly accomplishable. I really, truly do believe that He is
able to do whatever He says He will do.
I've also
gained some direction for my time following Spain, and I've been given the
opportunity to assist some dear friends in the start of something I am
extremely passionate about: The local church. One of my fellow interns here at
Generation 42, Ryan Banko, has a vision to start a church community in the city
of Memphis, TN, so I will be moving to Memphis at the beginning of October to
help make this Kingdom Dream a reality. I believe that my vision for helping
women will flow out of the community that develops in Memphis, and I'm very excited
to see what God will do in this next season! I would LOVE it if you would
continue to pray along with me!
Here are
some specific requests:
-Eyes to see all that He has for me in my remaining time in Spain
-Safe travel for my luggage and I back to the USA
-God's Spirit to move as I lead a youth group mission trip the morning after I return!
-God's continued guidance and favor as we advance plans for planting a church in Memphis, TN in the fall
-Eyes to see all that He has for me in my remaining time in Spain
-Safe travel for my luggage and I back to the USA
-God's Spirit to move as I lead a youth group mission trip the morning after I return!
-God's continued guidance and favor as we advance plans for planting a church in Memphis, TN in the fall
Thank you,
thank you, thank you, thank you. I really can't say it enough. I can say with certainty that this season
of life has been one of the most impactful of my life, and I'm excited to share
more with each of you when I'm back in the USA (if you're one of my USA friends, that is)!
Love from
Spain,
Jenny
P.S. If you have any burning questions or comments, please feel free to get in touch via email or Facebook!
email: jenny.tokheim@gmail.com
P.P.S. Ryan blogged about this crazy-awesome church planting adventure awhile ago, too. Check his blog out here: http://thelionsfire.wordpress.com/2013/03/06/god-is-sending-me-to-to/
Thursday, May 16, 2013
May 16th, 2013: The Back of the House
Hello Dear Reader,
I've decided to write a bit about the place I'm living in, because my time here is quickly drawing to a close. The goal is a post per day with picture(s) and a bit of writing. I have been so incredibly blessed in this place, and I want to remember a few of the familiar things when my memories of them seem further away.
So, enjoy Mijas.
The tiles on the roof are full of moss, collecting dirt that blows down from the hill just behind our house. The white-washed walls are on the verge of needing to be repainted, but oh my, how friendly and familiar is this view, the the view of the back of the house. I have heard much life within these walls--joy, sorrow, confusion, and silliness. All of it has happened within the walls of this house we've named Bethel: House of God.
From the terrace I can hear the village. The church bells (both sets of them) chime every hour and half-hour, first one church, then the next several minutes later. They are unabashedly out of sync. Tonight there's a children's birthday party at the restaurant next door, and I can hear child-laughter and song intermingling with the call of near-dusk birdsong and the local dog population's nightly serenade. The village is a living thing. It has a heartbeat all its own.
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