Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Will never forget one Friday night in a Phoenix mall in the early 70s. All the concourses were dark, except for subtly illumined spans of bright colored Dacron, and shadows silently wondering among mammoth pinions interspersed, wingtip to wingtip in this mesmerizing sanctuary of the wind.
That night began my affinity with wings, an affinity that came to an end three months ago as chronicled in this last photo.
But one day I will, in the words of the Psalmist of Israel, “take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea” (Psalms 139:9).
Posted by Christian at 9:39 PM
Friday, December 19, 2014
“For thou didst form my inward parts: Thou didst cover me in my mother's womb. I will give thanks unto thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: Wonderful are thy works; And that my soul knoweth…. My frame was not hidden from thee, When I was made in secret, And curiously wrought in the lowest parts of the earth. Thine eyes did see mine unformed substance; And in thy book they were all written, Even the days that were ordained for me, When as yet there was none of them. How precious also are thy thoughts unto me, O God! How great is the sum of them! If I should count them, they are more in number than the sand: When I awake, I am still with thee” (Psalm 139:13-18).
Posted by Christian at 7:03 PM
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
Her world was a green meadow all full of flowers bejeweled with the morning dew, the abode of butterflies as evening hastens. Close by a little stream with beautiful blue-green mallard eggs in occasional clutches along the grassy banks. Sometimes she would sneak away with some "delicious" book and under a favorite tree spend a few minutes that she wished could stretch into uninterrupted hours. She loved rainy spring nights, as she lay close by her sister under the tin roofed porch they shared.
Marie shared many memories: of herself as a small child on a church pew almost ready to topple over; of a mother who told her about Jesus; of Christmas with only a stocking, apple, and an orange; of the classmate who, because of her ragged appearance, would not take her hand; of dances and an older sister, uncomfortable with walking dark streets alone, compelling her to go, and as her sister danced, little Marie, nowhere to be found, was fast asleep and warm among the coats; of her father awakening her in the coolness of predawn summer mornings, and the two of them with buckets in hand walking down an old railroad track together in search of wild berries; of the cold she and her sister endured on that little porch with only screens and blankets between them and winter; of the secret weapon, the Lord provided late one night as she walked home alone from the corner drug where she worked, a paper bag that left that someone, who lightly but intentionally brushed her dress in passing, stunned and covered in the chocolate malt intended for her mother.
And she described the bittersweet memory of her sister Dolly, a little girl so full of joy the neighbors called her "Sunshine." She was always ready to help. When mother ask, she was always willing to go. One day she came home from school all wet and cold and talking strange. "I reached up and touched the fingers of God." After she went to bed that night, things were never quite the same. Each day she grew more ill. Her desperate mother searched and bought the only doll that little house ever would know. And just before she went to sleep that one last time, my mother remembered her singing "Jingle Bells… Jingle Bells." A short time later all her things were burned, except for the little doll. Her mother put it in a drawer that was never "ever" to be opened! And my mother remembered her mother's unrestrained cry as that little body was laid to rest in a grave without a stone.
Marie grew up, married, and gave us life. I remember her so often gathering us together, opening the Bible, and smiling as she read. She loved us, but she knew her love was not enough. We would have to make His love our own. As the years progressed, time was not kind; her body was contorted with pain, but neither smile nor prayers were abated. She no longer had to remind us that "strength is made perfect in weakness." I moved away, but innumerable letters followed through the years. Each punctuated with a purloined thought or verse, and very spring she reminded me:
"The winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land" (Song 2:12).
Her joy was to commit a little of Scripture to memory each day, and recite or read to shut-ins, those in nursing homes, her children, grandchildren, husband and whoever else she had opportunity. She continually longed for everyone to share her joy.
Her concern for others never faltered, even with labored breath just minutes before her death, she looked at my brother, smiled, and said "it’s time for you to go."
It has only been a year or so since my mother reminisced about that little grave without a stone. That’s when I thought of the small piece of marble, beside the door, white and round and exquisitely engraved with the likeness of a dove, a remembrance lost to time, some other sadness, a child, a distant grave. I looked at it, I looked at her, she smiled and within the hour she was leading us to the place that only she would know. As I knelt and dug and embedded that likeness of a dove on that little unmarked grave, I can still remember her bittersweet smile. Someday I will see them hand in hand running through green meadows all full of flowers, bejeweled with morning dew, the abode of butterflies as evening hastens.
Marie was always listening, and she is listening still for that familiar voice, and the long clear clarion call of the trumpet when all who love Him will stand at attention as the dead come forth to meet Him in the air.
"For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him. For this we say unto you by the word of the Lord, that we which are alive and remain unto the coming of the Lord shall not prevent them which are asleep. For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first: Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord. Wherefore comfort one another with these words" (1Thessalonians 4: 14-18).
"Behold, I shew you a mystery; We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed" (1Corinthians 15:51-52).
Posted by Christian at 11:59 PM
Friday, October 10, 2014
The girl who would have been my aunt, came home from school one day all wet and cold and talking strange: “I reached and touched the fingers of God” she said. After going to sleep that night, things were not the same. As she grew more ill, her desperate mother searched and bought the only doll the little house would ever know.
And just before she went to sleep one last time, my mother remembered Dolly singing “Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells….” A short time later the house was quarantined and all her things were burned… except the little doll. Her mother put it in a drawer “never never” to be opened. And my mother could never forget her mother crying as the little body was laid to rest in a grave without a stone.
“For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain…. Nevertheless to abide in the flesh is more needful for you” (Philippians 1:24).
Posted by Christian at 10:01 AM