Love Notes From My Father

At times, God speaks to me through hummingbirds.

Now, before anyone goes running off to report my suspect theological leanings to a member of my church's leadership or refers me to a mental health professional for evaluation, let me explain.

I can't imagine that God created hummingbirds for any reason other than that it simply pleased Him to do so, knowing that they would bring us joy.  I know hummingbirds pollinate flowers, and so they are useful;  there's probably also some science involved.  But I prefer to think that their primary mission is simply to bring us joy.

And because I know that we live in a world with devils filled that threatens to undo us, I sometimes let my heart be troubled.  And on more of those occasions than I can count, I've been prompted to look up just in time to catch a glimpse of a hummingbird.  It seems to me that hummingbirds are sent to cheer and encourage me whenever I most need to see them.  I consider them love notes from God.

This past week I had to take the beloved teenage son for the ASVAB (military qualification) exam, which felt a little like handing him over and granting permission for him to be led into clear and present danger.  My friend and guru (which I mean in the most respectful, presbyterian and reformed sense of the word imaginable) asked me how she could pray for me as I left to pick my son up from school. I asked her to pray that God would peel back the curtain ever-so-slightly to give me a glimpse of His presence with me along the way.

After leaving my friend, I stopped at a local nursery to pick up some plants for my window boxes, and guess what caught my eye just as it darted through an opening in the greenhouse?  Maybe it was a coincidence, or maybe I really am crazy.

Or, just maybe my heavenly Father really does love me and truly does answer prayer and sent me a love note to remind me as I was on my way to do something hard.

In continuing to count the gifts from my Father's hand, I open more love notes:





310. The hummingbird, sent as a love note from the hand of my heavenly Father to remind me, “Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.”

311. First draft of the senior project completed; the finish line in sight.

312. Getting to drive a car full of four of my favorite teenage guys to the music festival.

313. A day away from homework and tests and papers replaced by one filled with music.

314. Hearing the beloved teenage son shine as accompanist.

315. Mother-of-the-bride joy.

316. We are weak, but He is strong.

317. God is gracious, God is great, God is good; therefore, let not your hearts be troubled.

318. The prayers of many for miraculous healing; reason for hope.

319.  Window boxes filled with flowers.

320. Graduation parties.

321. Summer food: burgers and dogs and pasta and potato and Jello salads in abundance and shared with friends.

322. The light shining in the darkness in New Haven, CT, overcoming evil and transforming lives.

323. Lakeside lunch with the beloved Swede.

324. A perfect Sunday afternoon of floating in the pool with family and Ethel.

325.  Veterans and those who serve.

(My grandfather, Henry Fischer, who provided veterinary services to the cavalry in WWI)

326. Memorial Day parades.

327. Memories of Dad in uniform. (Gotta digitize this photo)

328. Those who tend the graves of loved ones and remember.

329.  A trophy and a smile.

When an Amaryllis Speaks

It’s not often that my plants speak to me.  Okay they never do or, at least, they never did until recently.

I’m pretty good at getting my amaryllis plants to bloom right at Christmastime.  I start looking for bulbs right after my daughter’s birthday in mid-October and then get them started around Veteran’s Day in early November.  One year I timed my planting perfectly so that my amaryllis bloomed beautiful and red early on Christmas morning.

This year, I searched and waited to find bulbs for sale.  None of my usual outlets had any available until well into November.  Then life happened, and time got away from me, and I was late in getting my plants started.  My bulb and my plant seemed to be on their own schedule, taking their own sweet time in sprouting and growing this year.

My amaryllis bloomed almost a month after Christmas, the same day Ann Voskamp’s book One Thousand Gifts arrived in my mailbox.  I had pre-ordered copies for myself and as gifts for some dear friends.  Because of the frequent and continuing snowstorms we’ve been enjoying (ahem) here in the northeast, my books seemed to take their own sweet time in arriving.  I tracked the slow progress of my packages as they made their way from warehouse to mailbox, frustrated by the days when snow prevented any delivery of mail at all.  When the books arrived on the same day my amaryllis bloomed, I thought it a happy coincidence as Ann’s book was my final Christmas gift to me and to friends.

I had no idea.

There has been much waiting in my family, in my household, throughout the past year.  We have been waiting to find out whether or not my son would be able to enlist in the Army.  I’ve not been in love with the idea of him enlisting—something having to do with sending my dear, beloved boy into harm’s way, I guess.  But.  I’d seen abundant evidence of God’s leading; His presence with us in the process of deciding the Army would be a good fit for him, so I yielded.  With more fear and trembling than faith I prayed those familiar words, “Your will be done.”

And then my son was disqualified from enlisting.

We were encouraged to appeal the decision, to seek a waiver.  We asked for letters from his doctor.  We waited.  We received letters.  The first was rejected.  We asked for another.  We waited some more.  My son felt trapped in a horrible holding pattern, wanting desperately to become independent and be on his own but having no place to go.

And I was as helpless to move his plans forward as I was to cause my amaryllis to bloom.

We knew we would have a decision shortly after Christmas and, once the decorations were all packed away, I began to panic.  I became more and more fearful that the answer would be no and that the answer would be final.  And I had no idea what my son would do then.

And I knew God had every right to say no.

This year, I’ve been working my way through Eugene Peterson’s devotional, The Message Remix:  Solo.  One morning at a low point of fear and panic, I read from Exodus 3 about God speaking to Moses from a burning bush.  Reverend Peterson, in his notes on the passage, encouraged me to pray asking God to reveal himself to me today in a fresh way, a way that he has never revealed himself before.  So I did.  I got on my knees and through my tears prayed that God would reveal himself as present and working good in my son’s life no matter what decision we received.

I got up off my knees and looked around.  Nothing.  No burning bush.  Not even a hummingbird, God’s usual messenger when I pray asking to see His presence with me.

I then picked up my copy of One Thousand Gifts and found my place in chapter five.  In that chapter, Ann Voskamp wrote of giving thanks, of finding grace in places of suffering.  She told the story of her son badly injuring his hand in a fan and of not knowing if he would lose fingers or even his entire hand.  She told of wrestling through the problem of seeing God as good, of being able to give thanks in hard places.  As the mother of a dear son whose hands coax beautiful music from piano keys, this was a difficult chapter to read.

Because sometimes our beloved children do lose fingers and hands and sometimes they lose their very lives in this dangerous and broken and fallen world.  And sometimes the answer is no when we’ve pinned all our future hopes and dreams on one particular path.  And I profess to believe in a good, loving, powerful, sovereign God who superintends all those things.

Thanksgiving, Ann reminds me, is the key to holding on to the goodness, to grasping the glimmers of grace in the hard places.  Her book chronicles her journey in counting a thousand gifts given by the hand of her heavenly Father, the practice of living eucharisteo.  Thanksgiving, she says, always precedes the miracle.

And then I read of her thousandth gift:

1000.  Resurrection bloom, an amaryllis, a gift a year in the coming.

The bulb had been a gift from her mother-in-law, received a year earlier.  It bloomed after cancer had claimed her mother-in-law’s life.   Ann saw the amaryllis and the timing of its bloom as a gift, trumpeting joy, reminding her that joy is always worth the wait.

And I knelt and wept and prayed again, and I gave thanks.  I gave thanks for the waiting.  I gave thanks for my son.  I gave thanks that his heavenly Father had seen him in the jungle on a remote island in the Philippines and placed his hand upon him, bringing him to our home.  I gave thanks that he was placed where he could touch a piano and coaxed beautiful music from it when his hands, whole and healthy and good, moved over the keys.  I gave thanks that because of the waiting he was able to give the gift of music to his sister at her wedding.  I gave thanks that he is here to use his beautiful hands to help shovel the snow that continues to fall and fall and fall.  I gave thanks for the snow because I know that it, too, is a gift from my Father’s hand and somehow, that makes it good.

I gave thanks for whatever decision we were about to receive because I knew that the decision would be God’s gift and that He is good, and because He is good He can only give good gifts.

I could give thanks for these things and believe them because God speaks to me and tells me that these things are true.  Sometimes He speaks through a burning bush.  And sometimes, through a blooming amaryllis.

And two days later, we received word:  my son is going to be a soldier.

Asking grace from emily and dear friends at imperfect prose as I tell my lengthy story:

What My Eyes Have Seen

When I first read Ann Voskamp’s post about naming the year I thought, “Huh.  That’s kind of interesting.  A little weird.  Not something I’d ever heard anyone talking about in any of the churches I’ve attended.  Ever.  But interesting.”

Then I thought, “I wonder how one even goes about naming a year?”

The idea of naming a year seemed strange until I kept bumping into the same single word:  See.  In my reading, in sermons, in hymns, in scripture, I kept coming across calls to lift up my eyes, to look, to be watchful, to behold, to turn my eyes upon Jesus.

To see.

For much of this past year, I have felt as though my family was stuck in a holding pattern.  My son’s plans for the future seem stalled; we’re not sure how or when certain details will be worked out.  He is frustrated.  I am impatient.  We’ve been called to walk by faith, not by sight.

…we do not know what to do but our eyes are on you… 2 Chronicles 20:12

Until this year, I routinely prayed for God’s presence with me and with those I love during periods of uncertainty, of hardship, of testing, of fear.  Somewhere along the way, I was reminded of these words, spoken by Jesus just before He returned to His Father:

…And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age.  Matthew 28:20

Jesus is always with me.  Always.  I just need to ask for eyes to see how and when.

As I’ve begun praying specifically for eyes to glimpse Christ’s presence with me, these are some of the things I’ve seen:

• Prior to dropping my son off for his military entrance exam, I stopped by a local nursery.  For a split second, a hummingbird hovered inside one of the greenhouses.  I’ve long considered hummingbirds as love notes from the hand of my Father, sent to bring me joy and remind me how much He loves me

• While at the recruiting station, I noticed another young man wearing a huge gold cross around his neck.  A friend wondered aloud whether or not the young man truly belonged to Jesus, whether or not the cross had meaning to him.  While I hope that he has faith, I’m confident that the cross around that young man’s neck was not there by accident.  My Father intended me to see it.

•  An expensive piece of cherry furniture in my home was damaged when dish washing detergent somehow got dripped across it.  It was an accident, of course.  It was also an opportunity for accusations of carelessness to be made, for anger and defensiveness to arise.  Fortunately, my husband was able to buff out the markings that had bleached the wood--the markings that formed the shape of a cross.

•  Twice, during two separate appointments in two different settings, when my anxiety level was sky-high, people with whom I was meeting revealed themselves as Christ-followers, people who belong to Jesus.

These are but a few examples of the things I’ve noticed once I began praying for God to open my eyes to His presence.  Now, maybe I’m reading too much into these circumstances, seeing what I want to see and interpreting events the way I want to interpret them.

Or maybe, just maybe, God really does answer prayer.  And maybe, just maybe, scripture speaks truth and Jesus is always, always with me.

Maybe finding a name for a year isn't so strange after all.

Linking with Ann, considering the spiritual practice of seeing:

New Life and Springs of Joy

Watching spring flowers open into bloom is always a joy but more so, I think, when the winter past has been especially brutal. Which this year's was. I've always been a fan of beautiful yards and gardens, but not so much the yard work and gardening. I'm sure there's a deep spiritual parallel in that sentence somewhere, but it escapes me at the moment.

Bonnie at Faith Barista has asked us to publish a photo journal reflecting things that speak of joy.Though I'm no better photographer than I am a gardener, here goes:

Because I'm not much of a gardener, I was happy to move into a house which had been landscaped beautifully by its previous owners. The year we moved in, everything had just begun to bloom. Watching flowers and bushes and trees follow one another into blossom was like listening to a beautiful symphony as each would rise and fall, giving way for the next to echo the theme of beauty.

Snow Fountain

One of my least favorite yard clean-up jobs is raking dead leaves and branches out from underneath this tree. Under the tree, next to the driveway is some kind of low growing pricker bush. To clean up that section, I have to get down on my knees and untangle matted down debris by hand. I always seems to feel a sense of urgency about getting this job done, however, because this tree's blossoms go by so quickly. It seems that its petals start to fall as soon as the branches have reached full bloom. Sometimes I get only a single day to enjoy this tree at its peak, and I don't want the joy of that day diminished by the knowledge that my least favorite job is still looming ahead of me.

Last night, I walked out into the yard just to take in and enjoy the sight of my tree in almost-near-full bloom and was surprised to see my first hummingbird of the season hovering within its branches. I've long considered hummingbirds as love notes sent from the hand of my Father, and I gave quiet thanks for this gift of joy. I saw the hummingbird again in the morning, hovering just outside the window to my front door. I walked out, intending to drink in more of the beauty of the snow fountain, and found this nestled in a branch near my front door:

Remind anyone else of a lovely book that has helped so many re-discover joy?

Surprise!

While doing my yard clean up, I took a pile of leaves, sticks, and debris to dump into the woods. There, I found these growing out of last year's leaf pile.I'd bought several mini-daffodils in late winter of last year just as soon as they showed up in the florist department of my grocery store. I placed them on the windowsills in my dining room, hoping to coax spring out of hiding. I must have pitched them into the woods after they'd finished blooming, and a year later they came back to surprise me.

Anyone know what this is?

This is one of the first plants that blooms in my yard each spring. Although I've lived in this house for seven years now, I still have no idea what it is. It's a low-growing ground covery kind of thing with waxy leaves. Each year I make sure to clean out this flower bed as soon as the weather starts getting nice so that I don't accidentally lop off the flowers with my rake. Any horticulturally gifted bloggers out there who care to help me solve my mystery?

Photo credit: The beloved Swede

While spring in New England is lush and green and filled with beautiful blossoming plants and trees, I find a deeper, quieter kind of joy in seeing desert plants grow and bloom. Being in dry wilderness places in my own life has helped open my eyes to find beauty in unlikelyinhospitable places. I find the promise of hope and joy in seeing plants nourished by streams in the desert.

Great Sand Dunes National Park

The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad; the desert shall rejoice and blossom like the crocus; it shall blossom abundantly and rejoice with singing...For waters break forth in the wilderness, and streams in the desert; the burning sand shall become a pool, and the thirsty ground springs of water...and the ransomed of the Lord shall return and come to Zion with singing; everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain gladness and joy, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.  Isaiah 35

Well Pleased With the Beloved

He sat next to me during worship, the young man who had been born in a remote island village on the other side of the globe. There, he hadn’t escaped the notice of the God who sees, the One who brought him into my home where he grew in my heart. In our home he learned to play music, first sitting on the piano bench at age four, and picking out notes from the hymns he’d heard in morning worship services.

We visited a church near Chicago, this young man and I, and the pastor spoke on these words:

In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And when he came up out of the water, immediately he saw the heavens being torn open and the Spirit descending on him like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, "You are my beloved Son; with you I am well pleased.” Mark 1:9-11, ESV

The pastor spoke to the longing we have, each of us, to hear those same words. We want to know we are beloved. We long to hear from those whom we love that, with us, they are well pleased. We want to be affirmed, to know that we are good at something; that our lives matter. These are natural desires and good ones. These are words we would expect to hear in a world where God’s shalom reigns, where His image bearers live in harmony.

But we don’t live in a world of shalom. Relationships, even loving ones, are broken; and we broken people disappoint and hurt one another. Parents and children, husbands and wives don’t always love well. We are more prone to express our displeasure than tell our loved ones, “With you I am well pleased.” Our voices sound strange notes. Dissonant chords echo in our homes.

The words, said the preacher, which God the Father spoke to His beloved Son are the same ones He speaks to all who belong to Him:

You are my beloved. With you I am well pleased.

Today. This minute. Not later, after you’ve cleaned up your act. Right now. You are my beloved child. I am well pleased with you. And when we are able, said the pastor, to grab ahold of how deeply God loves us, how well pleased He is with us, everything begins to change.

We walked forward together, the young man and I, and received the bread and the wine; the broken body and spilled blood of the beloved Son. Musicians played Holy, Holy, Holy in an arrangement which sounded like it could have been written by Vince Guaraldi; the man who composed the music for the Charlie Brown specials, the music my young man has been playing most of his life.

And, in the eating of the bread and the drinking of the wine, I tasted shalom; and sensed the dissonant chords resolving.

Linking with Michelle:

And with Jen and the sisterhood: