Speaking Up

Always looking for something novel to do with Oliver and Charlie in the evenings when Michael is working, we decided to hop in the car and buy our cat Liesel some more food.  (Hey, I didn't say fancy, I said novel).  Liesel is, well, a little on the large side, so she's on a special diet food that we have to purchase at the vet's office.  This place is kind of like a hidden picture book, you know, where you have to really stare at the page to see what you're looking for.  There are several residential cats in their office, and the longer you stand at the front desk, the more you kitties you notice.  There's one laying on a computer keyboard, another on a radiator, another on a stack of papers.  There's even one that saunters around wearing a cloth diaper.  And then there are the birds, two parrots that reside inside the desk area.  The big green one, who we learned today is named Jake, sits in an open-air cage in the middle of all the action; and then there's a smaller one, Shadow, in an enclosed cage on their desk.  Oliver and Charlie were excited to go "see the animals."  The zoo might be closed at 6:45pm but our vet is open and thankfully provides just enough diversion to make the evening a little interesting.


We stood there making the cat food purchase as Shadow squaked, "sha-dow!" I explained to Oliver that some birds can actually say words.  His eyes became saucers.  "Yep," the vet tech said from behind the desk.  "Shadow can say his name, 'hello', 'goodbye', 'thank you', and 'good morning, ladies!'" Oliver was silent in wonder, and I admit that I was a little awestruck too.  Talking birds are seriously cool.  It made me think of the misnomer "bird brain." I can guarantee that Shadow is at least several feathers smarter than I am. 


As we walked out to the car, the boys took a few minutes to wave at Shadow through the window, Charlie saying "Bye!" and "Cheep-cheep," his adorable moniker for "bird." Another car pulled up, and several people exited carrying a small cat bed covered with blankets.  They slowly made their way to the door, and it was then that I noticed they had all been crying.  One of the men stopped to sob for a bit before he entered the office.  It was almost 7pm, when the office was scheduled to close; all of a sudden I realized these people were taking their pet to be put down.   I've had pets die before, but have never had to put one down, and understand it to be one of the most heart wrenching things to go through.  I whispered several prayers for them, and for the vet staff.  After putting the boys in their carseats, I couldn't bring myself to drive home just yet.  I felt like I needed to comfort these people in some way.


I eventually found a piece of paper that wasn't a wrapper or a Kleenex or the backing of a sticker, and began to write a note.  "I just wanted to let you know that I saw your grief, and I prayed for you. I'm sorry for your sadness. Sincer-"  my sentence was cut off by the sight of these people coming back out of the building.  They were all crying a little more.  I looked at my note.  It would be ridiculous to hand them a note.  Oh well, I thought with resignation.  I did pray for them.  But something kept me there, and all of a sudden it struck me that I was being ridiculous, and wrong, to write this note, see them in person and then just drive off.  If I wanted them to know that someone cared, that some one prayed for them, then they should know.  How I told them didn't matter.  But what would they think? I countered this thought with what's the worst that could happen? and stepped out of the car before my courage disappeared.


"Excuse me," I said to the group, as they were still standing in the parking lot.  " I just wanted you to know that I said some prayers for all of you; I'm so sorry, this is one of the hardest things..."


"Thank you," they all said in genuine chorus, "thank you very much."  They didn't look shocked; not even surprised.  Nobody threw anything at me or started a riot or challenged me on religious ethics. Well, how about that.


I wish I was more bold with my faith.  It's so important to be genuine in living out our faith as Christians.  We should be honest, loving, compassionate, forgiving.  Not perfect, but always working to live by example.  But I often use this "living by example" as an excuse to being more passive than I should be.  Driving away because I couldn't leave a note, for example.  I need to learn from that parrot and speak up, because, like that parrot, it's the smart thing to do.  It's the right thing to do.


Lord, forgive me when I feel like driving away so I don't have to speak out loud.  Help me to move past the fears I have of sharing my faith, and grant me the courage to speak up. Comfort that family who is hurting tonight in their loss, and strengthen the vet staff and replenish them after witnessing this sadness too. Amen.

That Great Story

I was dyeing Easter eggs with Oliver this afternoon when it occurred to me that I hadn't told him what our plans were for Easter Sunday.

"So Oliver, Easter is this Sunday, and we'll be going to Grandpa's church, and then-"

"Why?" he interrupted.

"Because-" and then it occurred to me that not only had I not told him what our plans were for Easter Sunday...I hadn't told him about Easter. 

"Oliver, do you know why we celebrate Easter?"

"Uh, no?"

Of course I told him all about Easter last year, but last year he was 3 1/2.  Kids understand things differently at age 4 than they did at age 3.  So I needed to tell him again.  And I was ashamed to think of how much we had already talked up the Easter baskets and the Angry Birds Easter eggs and the party we'd have, decorating our own cookies. All of these things...and nothing about the Gospel.

"Well, you know how Jesus loves us so, so much, right?" I began.

"Yep."

"He loves us so much, that he told us that He'd love us and forgive us even when we do bad things.  And He promises that if we love Him, we can live in heaven with Him forever!"

"Oh."

"So when Jesus was here on this earth, some people didn't believe him. They thought he was lying, and they decided to kill him," I said, explaining without gore but with the weight of the truth of how Jesus was nailed to the cross.

"Oh. Did it hurt Him?"

"Yes. It hurt Him very much."

"But I don't want Jesus to hurt. Did He cry?"

"Yes," I said as my own eyes started to tear up. "It hurt Him very much and He cried. It is very sad."

"And then the cross fell down and He died?"

"Well, no, after He died, they took the nails out, took His body down and put it in a tomb, which is like a cave. But here's what's amazing: three days after He died, He became alive again! He wanted to show everyone that He was telling the truth, and that people who loved Him won't die forever because He had power over dying. So then He went to heaven to get it ready for us.  And do you know why heaven is so amazing?"

"Why?"

"Because in heaven, we will never have any owies again.  No scraped knees, we won't get sick, we won't ever, ever hurt again.   We won't be sad, or angry; just happy, for forever.  We'll get to be with Jesus for forever.  And other people that love Jesus too? Will be in heaven with us.  We'll get to see people who already died in heaven.  Like, we'll see Dakota [our dog-in-law who died last year] and Gin [my friend who died this winter].  They'll be there waiting for us in heaven."

Oliver continued to put stickers on his Easter egg, then paused and said, "Mommy! Tell me that great story again."

And I did: over, and over, and over again.

This Easter, may you hear, reflect, and live this great story as if through the eyes of a child: trusting in its truth, amazed at its drama, and looking in expectant hope for what is coming.  He is risen. He is risen indeed!

Amen.

Waiting to Bloom

 "And He will wipe away every tear from their eyes; and there will no longer be any death; there will no longer be any mourning, or crying, or pain; the first things have passed away."

Revelation 21.4

My mom bought me flowers today.  "Pick some out for your party," she said, standing in front of the buckets of blooms at Trader Joe's. "Whatever you'd like."

I chose daffodils that had not yet opened.  I chose daffodils because they are yellow and happy, but also for practical purposes (and now officially in my mid-30's, I have resigned myself to being practical). They had not bloomed yet.  Placed in the fridge and looking similar to green onions, they can last for many days without opening.  Take them out of the fridge and plunk them into water, and they bloom into sunny frills.  I could take them out closer to the date of my birthday party next week, instead of allowing them to open and hoping they'd last until then. 

The daffodils are not the only things waiting on a happier time.  My friend Gin died three weeks ago tonight. I haven't wanted to celebrate anything, so I delayed the party.  I miss her, and I am sad.  To be honest, I've been bristling at inevitable utterings "she's in a better place," "she's not suffering anymore," or "her struggle is over." While I may roll my eyes at hearing them, it's not because they are cliché - as a Christian, these are very, very real truths to me.  But they haven't been sitting well with me lately because Gin declined and died very quickly.  She faced significant symptoms and pain with her cancer and chemotherapy side effects, but she didn't seem ready to leave this earth; not her husband, her kids, her passion for caring for others. She was able to go to school, bring babies into the world as a midwife, care for her family, cultivate meaningful friendships, and organize fundraising for other friends with cancer, right up until she died.  And so in this way, it doesn't seem that her death was a welcome relief from her disease.

God's Word teaches that He will wipe away every tear from our eyes, and that with Him there will be no more suffering.  And I do rejoice in this truth for Gin.  No more treatments, pain, worry, fatigue, scans, any of that.  But I have still been feeling unsettled, and truthfully, angry, that she has died at age 36.  Alongside countless others that loved her, I have cried, and cried, and cried.  Not a day goes by when she's not on my mind.  Grief is hard work.  It is exhausting and painful. I know this because I am a hospice nurse, but I also know this because I loved her. 

It has started to occur to me this week, through this pain, that Gin has been promised a heaven with no more tears and pain...but it has also been promised to me, and all who love Jesus as their savior.  You don't have to have cancer to feel pain.  The tears God Himself will wipe away are also the tears of disappointment, anger, sadness, and grief that each one of us feels.  We can rejoice for Gin, who has bloomed into life, like my daffodils will be doing next week.  And through our tears, we can rejoice in our own hope of heaven, where pain even this deep will be no more.