I don't know it yet but I just kissed you goodbye for the last time. The path of our life together ended in a heartbeat. Tomorrow's memories, snuggled in the comfort of my mind, will never come to fruition. I can't see them but they are dissolving like sand in the waves of destiny.
Watching you walk away, I think about the million things I have to do before you return. I will look back on this moment and wonder which one of them seemed so important, that I didn't stand outside and wave goodbye as you drove away, into a future neither of us ever imagined possible.
Death is like invisible ink on the blank paper of each day. Stare at its message every day and see nothing, until suddenly the words take shape on the page and bells toll in the distance. You will hear them and not ask, and it will be over before I can even part my lips in protest.
I don't know it yet, but I'm about to find out who my friends are. Cards and letters will flood my mailbox and Hallmark will get the chance to say it one more time, much better than you could. Flowers will decorate my living room, displaying their beauty in a glorious cascade of color, until they fade and wilt. Severed from the nourishment of their life-giving plant, they cannot survive. I will stare at them for weeks, dead in their vases, before I throw them away and weep to think of how innocent they seem.
Strangers will tell me how sorry they are for my loss, and then walk away into their own lives, never knowing how much you meant to me or that I don't think I can go on without you.
About a million or so times, I will wish I had found a reason to keep you home today. Even if I couldn't change destiny, holding you for one more day would have been a precious gift to treasure. I will cry until I have no tears and wonder if I'm capable of surviving the numbness creeping across my broken heart.
My entire world just ended. I will survive because God's loving arms will hold me up, when I can't bear to stand alone and His comfort will sustain me through this terrible trial. I just don't know it yet.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Alone, Or Not.
(A biographical true story)
Thirty seconds on the phone, and my heart was pounding. "What do you mean you're in town?" I gasped through the static to my older son. Repositioning my cell phone, I listened to his response. It was simple. Both teenage sons, thinking the other was babysitting, had left my nine-year-old daughter home alone. Alone, all day, on a farm, with the nearest neighbor a half-mile away, and a major winter storm building on the radar.
With my new off-the-farm job, our family had been forced to make adjustments, and this was a minor hiccup, or so both sons assured me, as I called back and forth between them to see who could get back home quicker.
My shift didn't end for another eight hours. Add the pending snow storm to the equation, and the only 4WD in our possession being parked outside my work, and you might understand my concern.
After arranging for one son to come pick up the 4WD and return to the farm, I placed a call to my daughter. Four rings and the voice-mail kicked in. I tried again. This time, I heard someone pick up.
"Hi, honey," I said. A distinct click in my ear was the only response. The call had disconnected.
This was not like my daughter. I tried again, and this time received the busy signal. I swallowed hard, trying to ignore the panic needling my stomach. We have a call-waiting feature, and never receive a busy signal unless something has gone wrong with the line.
My overactive writer's imagination jumped into hyper-drive. I pictured one scenario after another, involving an injured child; child molesters, serial killers -- if you can imagine it, I probably was.
I called my son, Sam. "Are you on your way?"
"Just leaving my girlfriend's house," he replied.
"Hurry!" I shouted down the line, wondering if my next call should be to the police.
Instead I dialed home, and this time my daughter, Amber, answered.
"Are you okay? Is anybody else there? Sam is on his way to get you," I said, before pausing to take a breath.
"I'm fine. Why is Sam coming to get me?" Amber asked.
"Because I don't want you home alone. He's going to take you back to town to stay with him at his girlfriend's house. She's babysitting her little sister today, too."
With that information relayed and a promise she'd call when Sam arrived, I was finally able to get back to what I should have been doing all along -- working.
That night, in the barn, doing chores together, I hugged my daughter and said, "I'm so sorry you were left home alone. I hope you weren't too scared."
She shook her head and smiled. "Well, Mom. I wasn't alone."
"How do you figure?" I asked.
She looked at me with a puzzled glance, and responded in the slow, serious voice of someone explaining something very obvious to a person who needs help to understand.
"God was with me. He kept me company. He says, I will never leave you or forsake you. He is always with me." Giving me another hug, she added, "Safe in His arms, Mom, remember?"
She was quoting from one of her favorite songs, Safe, by Phil Wickham. I love that song.
My eyes filled with tears, and I held her tight. "Of course, honey. Silly me."
As she skipped back to the house through the drifting snow, I looked up at the sky, whispered, "Thank you," and felt His presence and love surround me.
How could I have forgotten in all those calls, to call on the One who loves us more than we can ever comprehend? My daughter, while trying to answer my call earlier that day, had become confused on which button she needed to press to receive the call waiting, but she wasn't confused when it came to the most important thing of all: her faith in God.
Oh, for the faith of a child.
Thirty seconds on the phone, and my heart was pounding. "What do you mean you're in town?" I gasped through the static to my older son. Repositioning my cell phone, I listened to his response. It was simple. Both teenage sons, thinking the other was babysitting, had left my nine-year-old daughter home alone. Alone, all day, on a farm, with the nearest neighbor a half-mile away, and a major winter storm building on the radar.
With my new off-the-farm job, our family had been forced to make adjustments, and this was a minor hiccup, or so both sons assured me, as I called back and forth between them to see who could get back home quicker.
My shift didn't end for another eight hours. Add the pending snow storm to the equation, and the only 4WD in our possession being parked outside my work, and you might understand my concern.
After arranging for one son to come pick up the 4WD and return to the farm, I placed a call to my daughter. Four rings and the voice-mail kicked in. I tried again. This time, I heard someone pick up.
"Hi, honey," I said. A distinct click in my ear was the only response. The call had disconnected.
This was not like my daughter. I tried again, and this time received the busy signal. I swallowed hard, trying to ignore the panic needling my stomach. We have a call-waiting feature, and never receive a busy signal unless something has gone wrong with the line.
My overactive writer's imagination jumped into hyper-drive. I pictured one scenario after another, involving an injured child; child molesters, serial killers -- if you can imagine it, I probably was.
I called my son, Sam. "Are you on your way?"
"Just leaving my girlfriend's house," he replied.
"Hurry!" I shouted down the line, wondering if my next call should be to the police.
Instead I dialed home, and this time my daughter, Amber, answered.
"Are you okay? Is anybody else there? Sam is on his way to get you," I said, before pausing to take a breath.
"I'm fine. Why is Sam coming to get me?" Amber asked.
"Because I don't want you home alone. He's going to take you back to town to stay with him at his girlfriend's house. She's babysitting her little sister today, too."
With that information relayed and a promise she'd call when Sam arrived, I was finally able to get back to what I should have been doing all along -- working.
That night, in the barn, doing chores together, I hugged my daughter and said, "I'm so sorry you were left home alone. I hope you weren't too scared."
She shook her head and smiled. "Well, Mom. I wasn't alone."
"How do you figure?" I asked.
She looked at me with a puzzled glance, and responded in the slow, serious voice of someone explaining something very obvious to a person who needs help to understand.
"God was with me. He kept me company. He says, I will never leave you or forsake you. He is always with me." Giving me another hug, she added, "Safe in His arms, Mom, remember?"
She was quoting from one of her favorite songs, Safe, by Phil Wickham. I love that song.
My eyes filled with tears, and I held her tight. "Of course, honey. Silly me."
As she skipped back to the house through the drifting snow, I looked up at the sky, whispered, "Thank you," and felt His presence and love surround me.
How could I have forgotten in all those calls, to call on the One who loves us more than we can ever comprehend? My daughter, while trying to answer my call earlier that day, had become confused on which button she needed to press to receive the call waiting, but she wasn't confused when it came to the most important thing of all: her faith in God.
Oh, for the faith of a child.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
He Is
Sitting in my office, I heard the sound of angel's wings rustling behind me.
I turned in time to see my Father, God, touch the angel's cheek with the gentleness of a spring breeze. I watched in amazement -- how He loves all of His creations. The angel lifted his head, smiled and flew out through the open window.
God stepped forward and rested His hand on my shoulder. "You look sad, child."
I brushed at my tears, and smiled, as if I could fool Him. "Sorry, Father. I almost forgot You were here. It's just that, well, life has been so messed up this week." I swallowed hard, thinking of the funeral I'd just attended. "Why do people drink and drive? My poor, dear friend has lost her husband, and those children have lost their daddy. Life just isn't fair."
"Don't cry, child. He is with me."
"I know, God, but it's so hard being the ones left behind down here."
"That's why I came."
"Will you help her feel better? Will you heal her heart, Lord?"
"I will."
"I know she must feel so alone, Father."
"I am holding her right now. I love her so much."
"It's so hard for us to understand Your purpose, sometimes, Father, but how can we feel so alone? How do I ever forget You are right here holding me too?"
God just smiled, and the warmth of His love wrapped around me like the softest quilt of down on a cold winter's dawn.
I clicked the mouse, bringing 'You Tube' onto the screen.
"Listen, Father. This is the latest song by your son, Mark Schultz. It's called "He Is." Isn't it beautiful?"
"My son honors Me."
I blinked away fresh tears as His hand came to rest on my shoulder. I leaned my head against His glorious robe.
"I'll go visit her, Father. I'll tell her how much You love her. If only we could see heaven, perhaps it would be easier to bear the pain of waiting."
"Look with your heart, child. Can you see heaven's souls now?"
The music streaming from my computer was dwarfed by the appearance of thousands of souls, and a myriad of angels, all singing the beatiful truth of the lyrics along with God's child, Mark. . . 'He is, He was, He always will be . . . He lives, He loves, He's always with me; even when it feels like there is no-one holding me . . . be still, my soul, He is . . .*
He understands your pain, He loves you, and He will never leave or forsake you. He is God.
* Lyrics by Mark Schultz.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i1dElIkD3hU
I turned in time to see my Father, God, touch the angel's cheek with the gentleness of a spring breeze. I watched in amazement -- how He loves all of His creations. The angel lifted his head, smiled and flew out through the open window.
God stepped forward and rested His hand on my shoulder. "You look sad, child."
I brushed at my tears, and smiled, as if I could fool Him. "Sorry, Father. I almost forgot You were here. It's just that, well, life has been so messed up this week." I swallowed hard, thinking of the funeral I'd just attended. "Why do people drink and drive? My poor, dear friend has lost her husband, and those children have lost their daddy. Life just isn't fair."
"Don't cry, child. He is with me."
"I know, God, but it's so hard being the ones left behind down here."
"That's why I came."
"Will you help her feel better? Will you heal her heart, Lord?"
"I will."
"I know she must feel so alone, Father."
"I am holding her right now. I love her so much."
"It's so hard for us to understand Your purpose, sometimes, Father, but how can we feel so alone? How do I ever forget You are right here holding me too?"
God just smiled, and the warmth of His love wrapped around me like the softest quilt of down on a cold winter's dawn.
I clicked the mouse, bringing 'You Tube' onto the screen.
"Listen, Father. This is the latest song by your son, Mark Schultz. It's called "He Is." Isn't it beautiful?"
"My son honors Me."
I blinked away fresh tears as His hand came to rest on my shoulder. I leaned my head against His glorious robe.
"I'll go visit her, Father. I'll tell her how much You love her. If only we could see heaven, perhaps it would be easier to bear the pain of waiting."
"Look with your heart, child. Can you see heaven's souls now?"
The music streaming from my computer was dwarfed by the appearance of thousands of souls, and a myriad of angels, all singing the beatiful truth of the lyrics along with God's child, Mark. . . 'He is, He was, He always will be . . . He lives, He loves, He's always with me; even when it feels like there is no-one holding me . . . be still, my soul, He is . . .*
He understands your pain, He loves you, and He will never leave or forsake you. He is God.
* Lyrics by Mark Schultz.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i1dElIkD3hU
Monday, November 2, 2009
Lost At Sea (Part Two)*
*** This is the second half of Lucy's story. The first half is posted immediately before this blog entry, titled Lost At Sea Part One, and should be read before this one. My apologies for the spacing issues -- I am transcribing this from my FanStory portfolio.
Lost At Sea (Part Two)
The day Lucy threw her heart away, I was walking along the shore, tossing stranded starfish back into the receding waters by my home. I knew she'd be back. The ocean calls to those who confide in her.
I met her by the sand dunes. When she saw me standing there, holding the bottle containing her message, she started to cry. Now a young woman, she'd never trusted anyone in her life, but a few gentle words were all it took for her to realize I meant her no harm. The sun dipped behind the horizon and still she stayed, listening to the ocean's song and tasting the salt in the air. The stars came out over our heads. When I pointed out my house, she smiled and said it looked beautiful.
"Not compared to you," I said. I knew she didn't believe me, but every word was true.
Once we became friends, we often spent time together at the beach but never on the stormy days. When it clouded over, the cold, green ocean water reminded her too much of her cold and lonely childhood. She spoke of the days when she would wander the empty streets of a nearby, abandoned part of town looking for someone to play with. Once, she found a lost dog, but most of the time, she sat and talked to the pine trees swaying in the breeze by the empty buildings. If the door was locked when she returned, she crawled in the doghouse in the backyard and slept until her mother decided to let her in.
It broke my heart knowing she suffered for two days with a broken leg, because no one believed she couldn't walk on it. We talked of how her reprieve came, all those years ago, gift-wrapped as a rare childhood disease. Although the emotional abuse continued, a child being taken to a hospital and physical therapy several times a week cannot be beaten without alerting authorities to that child's plight.
How does a child exist in the face of such severe emotional pain?
God gave Lucy three gifts to help her survive her childhood.
One was a strong will to survive along with the ability to escape emotionally to far away places. He sent people into her life who loved her, and gave her new hope when it seemed too hard to go on.
The second gift seemed inexplicable; she felt others' pain, sometimes even more so than her own, which helped her understand. With understanding came forgiveness and Lucy didn't have to waste her time being angry about the past. When Lucy forgave her abusers, it set her heart free.
The third gift brought the greatest healing, for when she writes, she helps others find their way to a place of comfort, light and love.
In our relationship, she found the love and acceptance she'd longed for all her life. I still have that bottle sitting in my house, with the note asking, "How could anyone ever love me?"
Underneath her desperation, I wrote, "How could I not?"
To this day, I love her more than she will ever be able to comprehend. Healing doesn't happen overnight and Lucy still needs reassurance to help her understand her own worth.
Sometimes we laugh together.
Other times we cry.
Tonight, as I shared this story with you, she looked up at me with tears in her eyes and said, "Jesus, I'd be lost without You. Please don't leave me."
I wrapped my arms around My little girl and whispered, "Precious child, whom I love. I will never abandon you. Your heart is safe with Me for all eternity."
That is Lucy's story, my friends. Would you like to hear yours? Come rest in My arms and I will comfort you.
All my love,
Jesus
Lost At Sea (Part Two)
The day Lucy threw her heart away, I was walking along the shore, tossing stranded starfish back into the receding waters by my home. I knew she'd be back. The ocean calls to those who confide in her.
I met her by the sand dunes. When she saw me standing there, holding the bottle containing her message, she started to cry. Now a young woman, she'd never trusted anyone in her life, but a few gentle words were all it took for her to realize I meant her no harm. The sun dipped behind the horizon and still she stayed, listening to the ocean's song and tasting the salt in the air. The stars came out over our heads. When I pointed out my house, she smiled and said it looked beautiful.
"Not compared to you," I said. I knew she didn't believe me, but every word was true.
Once we became friends, we often spent time together at the beach but never on the stormy days. When it clouded over, the cold, green ocean water reminded her too much of her cold and lonely childhood. She spoke of the days when she would wander the empty streets of a nearby, abandoned part of town looking for someone to play with. Once, she found a lost dog, but most of the time, she sat and talked to the pine trees swaying in the breeze by the empty buildings. If the door was locked when she returned, she crawled in the doghouse in the backyard and slept until her mother decided to let her in.
It broke my heart knowing she suffered for two days with a broken leg, because no one believed she couldn't walk on it. We talked of how her reprieve came, all those years ago, gift-wrapped as a rare childhood disease. Although the emotional abuse continued, a child being taken to a hospital and physical therapy several times a week cannot be beaten without alerting authorities to that child's plight.
How does a child exist in the face of such severe emotional pain?
God gave Lucy three gifts to help her survive her childhood.
One was a strong will to survive along with the ability to escape emotionally to far away places. He sent people into her life who loved her, and gave her new hope when it seemed too hard to go on.
The second gift seemed inexplicable; she felt others' pain, sometimes even more so than her own, which helped her understand. With understanding came forgiveness and Lucy didn't have to waste her time being angry about the past. When Lucy forgave her abusers, it set her heart free.
The third gift brought the greatest healing, for when she writes, she helps others find their way to a place of comfort, light and love.
In our relationship, she found the love and acceptance she'd longed for all her life. I still have that bottle sitting in my house, with the note asking, "How could anyone ever love me?"
Underneath her desperation, I wrote, "How could I not?"
To this day, I love her more than she will ever be able to comprehend. Healing doesn't happen overnight and Lucy still needs reassurance to help her understand her own worth.
Sometimes we laugh together.
Other times we cry.
Tonight, as I shared this story with you, she looked up at me with tears in her eyes and said, "Jesus, I'd be lost without You. Please don't leave me."
I wrapped my arms around My little girl and whispered, "Precious child, whom I love. I will never abandon you. Your heart is safe with Me for all eternity."
That is Lucy's story, my friends. Would you like to hear yours? Come rest in My arms and I will comfort you.
All my love,
Jesus
Lost At Sea (Part One)
Her father shook her. "Did you hear me? If you don't stop crying, I'll give you something to cry about!"
The look in his eyes set off warning sirens in her head. She wanted to run for cover, but it was too late. From the corner of her eye, she saw her three-year-old baby brother, his eyes transfixed with terror. Don't worry, baby. I won't tell him who really did it.
When her father's temper unleashed, it reminded her of the rain's driving fury when it pounded the tin roof of their house. He would beat her until, his energy spent, he stopped as suddenly as he'd started.
"Stop crying. That's an order."
Ten-year-old Lucy sucked in her breath, teeth clenched over her lower lip. Boiling tears spilled down her cheeks.
She screamed as his hand connected with her raw buttocks again and again. Summoning a strength she didn't know she owned, she managed to swallow her emotions and stand silent before him, her bare body covered in weeping welts and bruises. No one ever noticed them hidden beneath her clothes.
When he finished punishing her for her brother's crime of eating a piece of fruit he'd been saving, she crawled into bed and buried her face in the pillow, allowing the softest of sobs to escape. Every day, it seemed she was in trouble for something. In time, the pain subsided to a dull ache, and she drifted off to sleep, praying to the God she'd heard about in church to please help her not to be so naughty anymore.
Her father's hand touched her shoulder. Instantly awake, her body stiffened.
"I'm sorry. Can we be friends now?"
"Yes." She'd learned the hard way not to say anything else.
"Good," he said, leaving the room.
They would both pretend nothing happened and life would smolder on.
She fared no better with her mother. Lucy's entire existence, or so it seemed to her child's mind, was for the sole purpose of making them unhappy. Each day when she woke, she promised herself she wouldn't arouse their anger, but it seemed useless. She was always in trouble no matter how hard she tried to be good.
Later that week, she went to the kitchen.
"Mom, am I adopted?"
"No, of course not. Why do you ask?"
"I just wondered," Lucy replied. If I was, maybe someone out there loves me. Maybe they'll come back for me one day, she thought.
"Change your clothes. You look like a tramp."
Lucy sighed. "But Jodi gave me this blouse for my birthday."
"Well, it looks ridiculous on you." Her mother burst into tears. "I don't know why I can't have pretty daughters like all my friends. Why did I get stuck with you? It's my birthday today and you don't even care!"
"Yes, I do!" Lucy said, thinking of all the time she'd spent picking out a beautiful birthday card in the shape of a heart for her mom, with ribbons and lace all over it. "I love you, Mom." She recalled the joyous feeling she'd experienced in finding this perfect card. Mom will love it. It's so pretty. It cost every penny of her allowance to buy it.
"Get out of my sight."
Lucy hung her head and walked to her bedroom to change. She spent a lot of time playing with her imaginary friends out in the lane behind their house, but that day she knew better than to go outside. Tiptoeing back into the family room, she sat down next to her brother. He was watching 'Little House on the Prairie.'
I wonder what it's like to have a dad who actually hugs you. Her heart ached when she watched Michael Landon embracing his on-screen daughter.
"Lucy!" Her mother's voice drowned out the television.
Jumping to her feet, Lucy hurried back through the dining room into the kitchen. Her shoulders sagged when she saw the birthday card in her mother's hands. With her father gone on a business trip, her mother's rage seemed inescapable.
"You don't love me!" her mother shrieked. "Why did you give me this card? You are a trouble maker and you've ruined my day." Holding the card as far away from her body as she could reach, she tore it up.
Lucy sank to the ground, and picked up the pieces of the card. Sobbing, she clutched the pink lace and cardboard to her chest, as tears stained the printed words. Her mother's voice still echoed in the distance as Lucy escaped into her own unfeeling emptiness.
The heart card was ruined. Lucy never forgot she'd been branded worthless.
She kept those pieces hidden away in a drawer for years.
When Lucy grew up, she gathered them up and put them in a bottle along with some tears and a note that said, "How could anyone ever love me?"
Corking the bottle, she walked down to the ocean and threw her heart away.
Author's Note: Please don't despair. This isn't the end of Lucy's story. Part Two will be posted in a moment.
The look in his eyes set off warning sirens in her head. She wanted to run for cover, but it was too late. From the corner of her eye, she saw her three-year-old baby brother, his eyes transfixed with terror. Don't worry, baby. I won't tell him who really did it.
When her father's temper unleashed, it reminded her of the rain's driving fury when it pounded the tin roof of their house. He would beat her until, his energy spent, he stopped as suddenly as he'd started.
"Stop crying. That's an order."
Ten-year-old Lucy sucked in her breath, teeth clenched over her lower lip. Boiling tears spilled down her cheeks.
She screamed as his hand connected with her raw buttocks again and again. Summoning a strength she didn't know she owned, she managed to swallow her emotions and stand silent before him, her bare body covered in weeping welts and bruises. No one ever noticed them hidden beneath her clothes.
When he finished punishing her for her brother's crime of eating a piece of fruit he'd been saving, she crawled into bed and buried her face in the pillow, allowing the softest of sobs to escape. Every day, it seemed she was in trouble for something. In time, the pain subsided to a dull ache, and she drifted off to sleep, praying to the God she'd heard about in church to please help her not to be so naughty anymore.
Her father's hand touched her shoulder. Instantly awake, her body stiffened.
"I'm sorry. Can we be friends now?"
"Yes." She'd learned the hard way not to say anything else.
"Good," he said, leaving the room.
They would both pretend nothing happened and life would smolder on.
She fared no better with her mother. Lucy's entire existence, or so it seemed to her child's mind, was for the sole purpose of making them unhappy. Each day when she woke, she promised herself she wouldn't arouse their anger, but it seemed useless. She was always in trouble no matter how hard she tried to be good.
Later that week, she went to the kitchen.
"Mom, am I adopted?"
"No, of course not. Why do you ask?"
"I just wondered," Lucy replied. If I was, maybe someone out there loves me. Maybe they'll come back for me one day, she thought.
"Change your clothes. You look like a tramp."
Lucy sighed. "But Jodi gave me this blouse for my birthday."
"Well, it looks ridiculous on you." Her mother burst into tears. "I don't know why I can't have pretty daughters like all my friends. Why did I get stuck with you? It's my birthday today and you don't even care!"
"Yes, I do!" Lucy said, thinking of all the time she'd spent picking out a beautiful birthday card in the shape of a heart for her mom, with ribbons and lace all over it. "I love you, Mom." She recalled the joyous feeling she'd experienced in finding this perfect card. Mom will love it. It's so pretty. It cost every penny of her allowance to buy it.
"Get out of my sight."
Lucy hung her head and walked to her bedroom to change. She spent a lot of time playing with her imaginary friends out in the lane behind their house, but that day she knew better than to go outside. Tiptoeing back into the family room, she sat down next to her brother. He was watching 'Little House on the Prairie.'
I wonder what it's like to have a dad who actually hugs you. Her heart ached when she watched Michael Landon embracing his on-screen daughter.
"Lucy!" Her mother's voice drowned out the television.
Jumping to her feet, Lucy hurried back through the dining room into the kitchen. Her shoulders sagged when she saw the birthday card in her mother's hands. With her father gone on a business trip, her mother's rage seemed inescapable.
"You don't love me!" her mother shrieked. "Why did you give me this card? You are a trouble maker and you've ruined my day." Holding the card as far away from her body as she could reach, she tore it up.
Lucy sank to the ground, and picked up the pieces of the card. Sobbing, she clutched the pink lace and cardboard to her chest, as tears stained the printed words. Her mother's voice still echoed in the distance as Lucy escaped into her own unfeeling emptiness.
The heart card was ruined. Lucy never forgot she'd been branded worthless.
She kept those pieces hidden away in a drawer for years.
When Lucy grew up, she gathered them up and put them in a bottle along with some tears and a note that said, "How could anyone ever love me?"
Corking the bottle, she walked down to the ocean and threw her heart away.
Author's Note: Please don't despair. This isn't the end of Lucy's story. Part Two will be posted in a moment.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
There Will Be A Day
(There will be a day . . .)
He strains against his wife's hands, trying to force the shotgun into his own mouth. She pleads with him. "I didn't mean it. I don't wish you were dead. Please don't do this to us. Don't do it to your children." He collapses to the floor sobbing, tossing the gun to one side.His wife tries to hold him. "Go away," he screams. "Leave me alone."
Snatching the weapon, she runs from the shed and hides the gun before she calls 911. He needs help and she doesn't have a choice. Not any more.
(with no more tears . . . )
She stands by the jetty's edge, letting the salt sting her face as the wind whips her clothes. Waves lap the barnacled legs of the wooden structure. "Does anyone care?"
"I do," a gentle voice replies.
She feels a hand on her shoulder.
"I care very much. Please, step back from the edge. I love you.This is never the answer."
Wiping her face with both hands, she turns around to face the stranger.No one is there."I'm going crazy," she shouts across the water.
"No, dear one. I have sent someone who understands. Go home. Let him help you."
She runs from the beach and gets in her car. The radio is playing her favorite song. She picks up the ultrasound picture and stares at her baby's unborn face.
(no more pain . . . )
Ignoring the knock on his door, he sits alone, staring into blackness. A thousand thoughts assail him. With clenched teeth and fists, he beats the walls. Empty bottles litter the floor like the discarded hope he refuses to hold on to. Hunger gnaws his stomach, but food will not stay down.
"Go away," he says to the persistent voices in his head and at the door.
His soul wanders lost within his heart, crying out for help, but he fears letting go of the pain. Pain is the only friend he has left.
(and no more fears . . . )
She stares at the television news report as they announce the death of another soldier.
"Why, God?"
Her thoughts wing through the night sky. She stands by her son's side as he paces across the desert sands, shouldering his rifle. "Please stay safe," she whispers to the image in her mind. "I want you to come home -- alive."
She thinks of the family who received news of their son's death in Iraq this morning. Her hands shake as she opens up her Bible and wonders what her husband said to them when he turned up on their doorstep in his military best.
"How would I ever cope?" she asks the book in front of her.
(There will be a day, when the burdens of this place . . . )
Looking more like a skin stretched over bones to dry, a three-year-old reaches into the black pot, and scoops out a handful of pasty gruel. Her older sister watches from the corner of the dirt-floored hut.
Their mother has been gone for five days now and she knows they will never see her again.
"Come, little one." Picking up the younger child, she hoists her over one bony hip and walks out into the hot African sun. Flies swarm at the child's mouth and eyes, desperate for stolen nourishment.
She heads down the worn path, toward a village three days walk away, knowing they may die trying to reach it."No matter. We will die if we stay here."
(will be no more . . . )
Arm in arm, the couple watch their adult sons and daughters gather around the nursing home bedroom. Unseen by their beloved children, they hover above the room, as a bright light grows stronger. The woman turns to face it.
"Oh, Jesus. It is really You? Is it our time?"
They laugh and run into His arms. The children stay behind to wait in hope and live their own lives.
(we'll see Jesus face to face . . . )
The writer sits at her computer, searching her heart for the right thing to say to her friend. She whispers to the screen, knowing he is sitting out there, alone, somewhere.
"God loves you so much. Please listen to the song. I know it will bless your heart and bring you hope. He's picking up the pieces of your life right now and restoring your wounded heart. Hold on, just hold on to Jesus."
(and until that day, we'll hold on to You always . . . . )
Author Notes:
All bold type are lyrics by Jeremy Camp, for the song, 'There Will Be A Day' I hope you will take the opportunity to copy and paste this address into your browser and watch Jeremy Camp's You-Tube video of his amazing song, "There Will Be A Day" on my website: http://www.rainbowgatefarm.com/JanilousCorner.html
The lyrics to Jeremy Camp's inspired song are:
"I try to hold on to this world with everything I have
But I feel the weight of what it brings, and the hurt that trys to grab
The many trials that seem to never end, His word declares this truth,
that we will enter in this rest with wonders anew
But I hold on to this hope and the promise that He brings
That there will be a place with no more suffering
(Chorus) There will be a day with no more tears, no more pain, and no more fears
There will be a day when the burdens of this place,
will be no more, we'll see Jesus face to face
But until that day, we'll hold on to you always
I know the journey seems so long
You feel you're walking on your own
But there has never been a step
Where you've walked out all alone
(Chorus)
Troubled soul don't lose your heart
Cause joy and peace he brings
And the beauty that's in store
Outweighs the hurt of life's sting
I can't wait until that day where the very one I've lived for always
will wipe away the sorrow that I've faced
To touch the scars that rescued me from a life of shame and misery
this is why, this is why I sing. . . (Chorus)
This song was written by Jeremy Camp. All rights reserved.
Revelation 21:3-4 (New Living Translation) 3 I heard a loud shout from the throne, saying, "Look, God's home is now among his people! He will live with them, and they will be his people. God himself will be with them.[a] 4 He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever.
haiku poetry
Here are my latest haiku poems.
Haiku is written without capitalization, using a 3/5/3 or 5/7/5 syllable count. I have used the latter in these two poems:
haiku (gold-leaf gilded sky)
gold-leaf gilded sky
shimmers above scented pines
Heaven's reflection
haiku (emerald waters)
emerald waters
coursing down mountain creek beds
many become one
If you would like to view these poems with the photos that inspired them you can see them together at these addresses:
Gold-Leaf Gilded Sky
http://fanstory.com/displaystory.jsp?id=248802
Emerald Waters
http://fanstory.com/displaystory.jsp?id=249069
Haiku is written without capitalization, using a 3/5/3 or 5/7/5 syllable count. I have used the latter in these two poems:
haiku (gold-leaf gilded sky)
gold-leaf gilded sky
shimmers above scented pines
Heaven's reflection
haiku (emerald waters)
emerald waters
coursing down mountain creek beds
many become one
If you would like to view these poems with the photos that inspired them you can see them together at these addresses:
Gold-Leaf Gilded Sky
http://fanstory.com/displaystory.jsp?id=248802
Emerald Waters
http://fanstory.com/displaystory.jsp?id=249069
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