new.year.new.word.

Before morning coffee, I am typically bleary and incoherent.

That's why it was so unusual to have the following thought drop into my head, clear and fully-formed - as I woke on New Year's Day:

"May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him." (Romans 15:13a)

I've never been a New Year's fan. Maybe it's because we always went to visit friends on New Year's Day, where we had a buffet meal including ham (which I dislike) and watched football (which I don't understand).

In recent years, I've come to appreciate the day because I'm looking for a new word, a next word - from God. I have expectancy and anticipation - what will He do this year?

The clarity of the scripture verse stayed with me. What was the word God intended? Was it "filled"? Was it "overflow"? Neither rang true, and I could not share the word until God settled it for me.

This morning, I asked again - what is the word? Hope, I sensed in my spirit, confirmed with tears. Why tears?

For years, I struggled with depression, anxiety, pessimistic thoughts. If things were going well, I believed I had God's favor and love. If things didn't go well? Then God must be displeased with or disappointed in me. It was a flickering sort of faith, not fully founded on God's unchanging character.

The tears came from - well, hope. Hope that I will grow in knowledge and understanding of God's character. That I will have a confident expectation of the truth: God loves me and has a good plan for my life.

Wikipedia describes Christian hope this way:

"According to the Holman Bible Dictionary, hope is a "[t]rustful expectation, particularly with reference to the fulfillment of God's promises. Hope, is the anticipation of a favorable outcome under God's guidance[;]... the confidence that what God has done for us in the past guarantees our participation in what God will do in the future."

Romans 15:13 in its entirety is this:

"May the God of your hope so fill you with all joy and peace in believing [through the experience of your faith] that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound and be overflowing (bubbling over) with hope."

Amen.

the ache.the filling

I carried it with me today.

It's an ache... absence... exhaustion. I think maybe no one notices.

And what I carry makes me think that maybe -  just maybe - there are others like me who are missing someone they loved, someone who loved them.

The world didn't stop to acknowledge death, any more than the world stopped to celebrate birth. A time to be born, a time to die.

Don't get me wrong. I am grateful that he did not have one more hospital visit or a difficult choice (hospice)?  I'm thankful that he is with those he loved and those who loved him, and that he's gone ahead to heaven. It's just a little while in eternal terms before I'll see him again. But I miss him. My daddy. My dad.

So when this person is cranky with me or this person seems not to be listening, maybe I'll pause to wonder if that person is missing someone, too.

The beautiful gift in my sadness is this - perhaps my word for 2014 is filled. Perhaps the God of hope will fill me with all joy and peace as I trust in Him.

Perhaps the fruit of trust is being filled.

Filled.

With God Himself.

'bye.for.now.

(the eulogy I delivered 12-21-2013)

I am thankful. It has been my joy and honor to help my dad write the last chapter of his life. After all - he helped wrote so many, many chapters in my story. I'm not going to lie - it was hard and sad and beautiful and heartbreaking. 

I am thankful. Out of all the possible people God could have chosen to be my dad, He chose Chuck Zimmerman. God chose him to be the daddy who taught me to ride a bike, loved to jump out and yell "boo!" when it was time for him to put me to bed, and watched The Wonderful World of Disney with me on Sunday evenings while we ate popcorn. 

I had a recurring dream as a child - that I was upstairs in bed and someone bad was there. In the dream, as in life, I knew if I could just get to my daddy I would be safe. 

When I was sad or upset, Dad always tried to get me to laugh. I remember getting mad and saying, "It's NOT funny!" but I could never resist, and laughter always won. 

Dad was there for me. Ballet recitals, piano recitals, school choir concerts. I remember a track meet at Houseman Field - I looked up and surprise! He was in the stands. He never missed a graduation - even though it meant traveling to Norway because I spent my senior year as an exchange student. High school, college, graduate school - he was there. Several years ago, he was at mile 10 when I ran the Riverbank Run. This summer, he used some of his precious remaining strength to come and hear me give the message at my church in Kalamazoo.

I treasure the lunches Dad and I had as adults - he was a sounding board and wise counselor. And and then there was the trip to Chicago when I had to get my passport for a business trip. Didn't matter that I had successfully driven to Chicago by myself on a number of occasions - he insisted that he would go with me. I drove - Dad rode shotgun and told me about his childhood. Those are the moments that some might say are co-incidence, but I would call God incidents. 

Dad walked me down the aisle when I married Bruce. I remember leaning over and whispering, I'd better stop crying or people will think I'm not happy. The tears were happy tears - thankful for Dad's strong arm linked with mine, thankful that he was "giving me away" - but I have to say Dad didn't really get rid of me!

Call it chip off the old block or kindred spirits, my dad was the person who knew and understood me like no one else. (He jokingly offered my husband a retention bonus for our 10th anniversary). The courage of convictions - humor - love of family - not to mention black olives and Brussels sprouts - live on in this female body. 

I will miss the sound of his voice leading grace, Bless the Lord... I won't pick up the phone to hear him announce - "This is your fah-ther..." His tenor won't provide the harmony in the parental birthday serenade. Bruce and I carry on the tradition - we tried to top it this year with an original composition, Happy Birthday" sung to the tune of Stars and Stripes Forever, with Bruce doing the piccolo part. 

My dad leaves big shoes to fill. You all can read the list of his accomplishments in the obituary. But his biggest accomplishment is us - our family. The love of his life, my mom. My always younger brother, Bill. His beloved grandchildren, Noah and Ethan. The in-laws, Debbie and Bruce - he loved them as his own. 

My dad didn't preach often with words. He preached with actions. The book of James, Ch 2 describes how Dad lived -
14 What good is it, my brothers, if someone says he has faith, but does not have works? Can his faith save him?
15 If a brother or sister is without clothes and lacks daily food, 16 and one of you says to them, Go in peace, keep warm and eat well, but you don't give them what the body needs, what good is it?
17 In the same way, faith, if it doesn't have works, is dead by itself.
18 But someone will say, You have faith and I have works. Show me your faith without works, and I will show you faith from my works.

We didn't really talk about faith a lot. I saw it in his actions in the way he loved us and cared for people and served in so many organizations. But the first time I realized the incredible depth of his faith was at Christmas. With tears in his eyes and voice, he quoted this verse from O Little Town of Bethlehem- 

O Holy Child of Bethlehem

Descend to us we pray

Cast out our sin and enter in

Be born in us today. 

My dad carried a strong conviction of the sin we struggle with as human beings - and yet he held a deep gratitude for God's grace and forgiveness. He believed that Christ died for him - and that he would spend eternity in heaven because of it. I know that I will see him again in heaven - because I believe Christ died for me and has forgiven my sins. 

I doubt it's possible for me to leave bigger shoes than Dad's to fill - but I'm going to try. And I'll leave you with this question - what size shoes do you want to leave?

one.word

2013 was a hard year, but oh, so worth it.

Trust. That was my one word. (Psalm 112) God even gave me art.

I said good-bye to a company I loved because God made it ever-so-clear that the work environment was killing me. The despotic, disrespectful, dysfunctional director was not moving. I was.

I said hello to a smaller, family-owned company where I am treated with kindness, respect and professionalism. They welcomed me with a Harry and David Tower of Treats - it arrived on my last day with my former employer. They didn't know - but God did.

I said good-bye to another beloved companion, Dylan. He was a true snuggler.

And hello to Henry, the birthday kitty. So small that his eyes were still blue. He has grown into a 15-pound Hun.

I said good-bye to my wild and wonderful, wacky (and weedy) garden.

I said hello to a re-structured garden - one that better displays its beauty. Blooming Groovy!

I said hello to this little guy, our first grandchild.

I said good-bye to this guy, the one I've never lived without.

 

Trust settled me in this truth - "Be still, my soul - in every change, He faithful will remain."

On this day, 01/01/14 - I look forward to a new word and a new year.

Clear words dropped into my mind (unconsciously) when I woke this morning. "May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him..." (Romans 15:13)

Will you join me in the one-word adventure for 2014?

One word.

Be inspired.

Happy New Year!

Make Room

Last night at the Living Nativity, the innkeeper's words lodged in my heart. He said, "Always make room." At this time of year, with crowded schedules and crowded stores and crowded thoughts, who doesn't long for some "room" - room to think, breathe, rest?

There is miracle and mystery to the Christmas Story... A virgin birth. All powerful God, taking human form as a powerless infant. Angelic choirs singing Gloria to shepherds in a midnight field. A bright star guiding wise men on a two-year journey to find this miraculous child.

In this story -
We see God reaching out to the willing - a teenage girl who said, “Lord may it be done as You have said.” A young mother who pondered the very words of God spoken over her divine child.

We see God reaching out to the ordinary. Shepherds were in a lowly, lonely vocation. (Yet Jesus described Himself as a shepherd). The shepherds responded - "Let's go see this!"

We see God reaching out to the humble. The wise men were wise, but not too proud to go in search of Jesus, bringing gifts to the child who embodied the King of Kings.

As I look at my very ordinary life - am I willing, am I humble? Is there room in my heart to worship my Savior?

Mary—Elderly Woman (Light of my life, Light of the World)

I’m old now. I find that somewhat surprising; I wasn’t sure I’d survive Jesus’ death. The grief bent me double, and I thought I would never stop crying. “How does a body create so many tears?” I wondered. It just seemed like I’d shrivel up and blow away.

Since Jesus died, John has taken such good care of me; he has been like a true son to me. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of Jesus, my firstborn. He was and still is the light of my life. My vision has dimmed over the years, but He gives light to my heart and thoughts. He is, after all, as He said, the Light of the World.

He was the light of my life even before He was born. The Angel that told me about Him was so bright, completely illuminating my room. During the days of my pregnancy—and my concern that Joseph would divorce me—I thought back on that light and it reassured me that everything happening to me was from God.

On the night Jesus was born, there was a star, the brightest star I’d ever seen. It was like a pure beam that told me God was watching over us.

That star was a symbol of Jesus, the Light of the World. He would draw so many people to Himself during His life. First, the shepherds. The brightness of God’s glory had shone on them out in the field when God sent an angel to tell them about Jesus. The star guided the shepherds from the field to the dark and smelly stable. They told us the message of peace and goodwill toward men; the message that was wrapped up in Jesus.

The star directed the wise men on their long journey to visit us. Jesus was two or three years old by the time they actually found us. They brought gifts that seemed strange for a child; gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Spices used for burial? It was as if a shadow dimmed the light for a moment. I stored the memory, for that was my habit.

It was years later when Jesus said to the crowd, “I am the Light of the World. He who follows Me will not be walking in the dark, but will have the Light which is Life.” I’m not sure everyone understood it; the Pharisees told Him that His testimony of being Light was worthless! That it wasn’t valid!

I knew it was true that Jesus was the Light of the World because I saw it. He gave light to people who needed physical healing. He restored sight to the blind. He healed paralytics and lepers. He raised people from death itself. I remember the look of wonder on the faces of the people who saw for the very first time. I picture the jumping—dancing—whirling—and running of those who hadn’t been able to move. And unless you’ve seen it yourself, you can’t imagine the color and breath returning to those who lay still in death; or know the sound of joyous shouts replacing wails of mourning.

Jesus didn’t only give physical light. He gave it spiritually. He lit the way to the Father by the way He lived. People who looked at Him could see God—their blinders were removed! He illuminated truth, forgave sins, and removed spiritual chains.

Jesus. Light of my life. Light of the World. My Jesus.

Egypt

Sometimes we long for Egypt. Finding ourselves in a dry and desolate wilderness, we want to return to the familiar. 

It really wasn't so bad, we say. We had jobs and houses and food. Sure, we built bricks without straw and were beaten regularly, and there was that time when Pharaoh commanded all the male children to be killed, but it really wasn't so bad. 

Egypt really wasn't so bad, we say. Not in comparison to this rocky wasteland where we don't know our next step - and must depend completely on God to rain manna from heaven to feed us or bring water from a rock to quench our thirst. 

Thoughts of Egypt are death. We look back, and miss today. If we look ahead, it is in fear. Despite day after day after day of God's faithful provision, we question.  What if He stops? What if He forgets us? What if it is not enough?

The fact is - in Egypt, we wore chains. Heavy, unbearable, unbreakable chains. We have forgotten our hopelessness and cries of despair. We forget so easily that we asked God to deliver us from evil. We forget that He answered our prayer. 

Just over a year ago, I returned to Egypt. It was the only thing that made sense to me at the time. I prayed and sought godly counsel, and God opened the door.

I was not fully aware that it was a return to Egypt. It felt more like coming home. 

Building bricks without straw felt fine in the beginning because it was so good to be home. The stern taskmaster was glad to have me back, but the honeymoon ended quickly.  I rapidly tired from hauling heavy expectations (some his, some mine). I was frustrated by last-minute increases to quota (didn't he see that we had no straw, and that it took time to get the straw AND build the bricks? It takes a certain amount of straw to build a good and lasting brick.)

After a year, the taskmaster told me I wasn't doing a good job. He gave me a plan to improve my performance, adding tasks and increasing my responsibilities. He said it would help me focus. If I didn't get it all done, I would be killed. 

His perspective was the only one I saw, the only one that mattered. Others tried to tell me that it wasn't true. Pleasing the taskmaster, no matter how impossible, seemed like the only way to move on. 

God had a different plan. My mind was so scarred that I couldn't see how to start again. All I had was a mental picture, like a Coast Guard helicopter rescue, of myself harnessed to a long cable and lifted from a raging Lake Michigan. I accepted an offer to leave Egypt.

I find myself in the in-between, a wilderness of sorts. Will I stay there? Will I move into the land of Canaan? Will I, like Hagar, have my eyes opened to see the well next to me? Will I trust Him as The-God-Who-Sees-Me?

All I know is that God spoke to my heart and said, "Start from where you are." He is the God of Beginning-Again. He is the God of Unlimited Do-Overs.

And that is joy.