the whole way home

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Linking up once again with Lisa-Jo Baker for Five-Minute Friday.

The challenge?  Write for five minutes on the word view.

 

the viewImage

from the rear view mirror

is always the clearest

 

hindsight

and terrain gone by

overcome and conquered

 

but the windshield

the windshield is rather foggy

and i can’t always see my way

 

with limited visibility

i squint to discern what is ahead

 

i ask You to show me more,

but You say,

no.

 

You say

 

trust.

 

i ask you to show me what lies beyond

that hill on this bumpy gravel path

 

Image

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

but You say

follow the narrow road

 

i ask You to show me

where we are going

 

and You say

to the Celestial City

just like Christian

in Pilgrim’s Progress

 

just follow the narrow road

 

and You steer my car

and lead me

the whole way

 

home.

 

 

lean on Him

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The following article was recently posted on iBelieve.com:

I heaved open the double doors to the aging gymnasium, grateful for a heated shelter from the snowy Saturday afternoon – and even more grateful for two hours of free roller-skating at the local gym to get the cabin-fever-winter-jiggles out of my three kids.

We had been to the free skating twice before, so they knew the drill.  Coats off, hats off, shoes off, skates on.  I hunched over to help them click the straps of their skates firmly in place, and they were off.

Sort of.

As ‘off’ as one can be, with two left feet and four wheels on each.

I smiled as they wobbled and lunged and arched and leaned and flailed their way around the perimeter of the room.  The space was small, and the wooden floor crowded, but the kids didn’t care.  They were skating, and they were having fun.

On previous occasions, I had skated with them, and inevitably, one (or more) of them would end up holding my hand (translation: pulling my arm out of my socket) as we glided along (translation: desperately tried not to fall).

On this particular Saturday, however, I opted to sit on the sidelines.

Big mistake.

Without my masterful skill and expertise to rely on, they were left to their own devices.

Yep, you guessed it.  In no time, all three of them had joined hands.

Recipe for disaster.

I cringed in helpless dismay as I watched the precarious six-armed chain contort into all imaginable shapes and angles.  I may have squeezed my eyes shut once or twice.

I definitely stopped counting the number of times they landed in a mangled heap, dropping like dominoes, one by one.  Too many times, the mound teetered on catastrophic proportions as innocent passersby joined their shenanigans by adding limbs and torsos to the pile.

In those two hours of sideline agony, the obvious became clear:

We ought not lean on those who are bound to fall. 

This truth leads to its logical conclusion: In life, all of mankind is fallible.  No matter how hard we try, not a single one of us is perfect, nor will we ever be, in this life.

Therefore, there is only one option:  We have no choice but to lean wholly on the One who will never fall, never fail, never forsake.

Read the rest of the article on iBelieve.com by clicking here.

this is my song

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It’s Five-Minute Friday time with Lisa-Jo Baker.  This week’s writing prompt is: song.

Join us with your own five minutes of free, unedited writing by clicking here.

Image

We had congregated in a large room of my home church, waiting for the rest of the mourners to be seated before we entered as a procession of grieving relatives.

It was the day I had been dreading more than any other – the day we buried my mom.

Just before we rose to shuffle toward the sanctuary, the pastor said, “Okay.  It’s time to go.  Let’s go in there and sing these songs with gusto.  She would’ve wanted it that way.”

It sounded like a good idea, except for the swollen knot that had taken up residence in the back of my throat.

We filed into the church, down the long aisle that I had once walked as a bride on a much happier day.

Standing in the front row, the music began.  The tears flowed, and the God of my mother, the God that she had passed on to me through her prayers and steadfast faith, was worshipped.

And much to my surprise, I sang.

I lifted my tear-stained face to the wooden cross that was mounted above, closed my blurred, tired eyes, and I sang:

“This is my story, this is my song, praising my Savior, all the day long.”

May it be so.

togetherness

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I let my eyes slowly scan the oval perimeter of faces that lined our new living room walls – sister, cousins, aunt, uncle, significant others.  My heart swelled with gratitude to be in that room … together.

After a decade in a foreign country, I was finally home.  Ten years of hearing about birthday celebrations, Thanksgiving dinners, graduation parties, all via the cyber-grapevine.

Now, we are here.

Together.

And I am grateful.

Yet, there are gaps in our circle.  Conspicuous by their absence were three women who should’ve been there.  Three women who were painfully absent.  Three women who shaped and molded each of us present in different depths and capacities, yet defined us all the same.

We share in the loss.  We share in the ache.

The grief and longing and memories bind us even closer, the thread of the past knitting us into something new, even as my sister rubs shoulders with her niece, each with crochet needle and yarn in hand.

I listen to the laughter that permeates the air, and glimpse the wistful, nostalgic  expressions as ‘remember when’ stories are shared.

Together we laugh.

Together we mourn.

Together we remember.

Together, we are family.

Together we live … in the after.

 

comfort

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It’s Five-Minute Friday time … link up your own five minutes with Lisa-Jo Baker here.

This week’s word:

Comfort.

***

Comfort.

We crave it like a slab of dark chocolate.

We sip it slowly like a cup of hot chai.

We wrap ourselves in it like a handmade quilt.

We long for it.

We pursue it.

We offer it.

We buy it.

We sell it.

We have built ourselves a kingdom of it, and we’ve crowned ourselves kings and queens of the kingdom of comfort.

Yet all of our pursuits are in vain, and all of our attempts to grasp it elusive, until we find the true source of comfort – the Creator of it, the Giver of it.

For He alone is the “God of all comfort,” and as Augustine once said, “Our hearts are restless until they find their rest in Him.”