Knowing God has transformed my life in every way. Throughout my lifetime as a follower of Jesus I have realized that the more I know Him, the more I love Him. And that has grown in me a passionate pursuit to know and love Him more. As I have traveled around the country and across the globe over the last several years, most often to lead worship for various women’s ministries, I have noticed a common theme: women are longing for a deeper and more meaningful connection to God and each other.
Deeper Well has been born out of my desire to help women find that longing met in a deep and life-changing relationship with Jesus Christ.
The Bible tells the beautiful story of the Woman at the Well, where we get to listen in on a conversation Jesus has with the Samaritan woman. She was lost and longing. Excluded. Coming to the well in the heat of the day because she was an outcast in her community. Returning day after day, she was thirsty for what eluded her. And Jesus said to her at the well that day, “Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst.” (John 4:13). I have come to clearly see that in the attempt to fill my deepest places of longing and seemingly unquenchable thirst, what the world offers has never satisfied me. But what Jesus gives me is always more than enough. It is now the deepest longing of my heart to be filled with the living water Jesus gives. To be satisfied in Him alone.
For many years now I have chosen to stay close to Him through prayer, worship, keeping His written word hidden in my heart and staying in close relationship with others on this same journey. And much like a well, what started as a trickle has become a deep reservoir of life-giving water. A well that doesn't run dry. He continually pours His unlimited love, grace and truth into my life and He is with me in every season. It changes me and it changes others. I think of it as the digging of a deeper well; all of His character and goodness being poured into the depths of who I am so that I become more and more like Him until I finally see Him face to face.
I want my life to be filled to the depths and overflowing with the living water He gives, no matter the season and no matter the circumstance. I want that for you, too.
Join me in the digging of a deeper well.
Deeper Well has been born out of my desire to help women find that longing met in a deep and life-changing relationship with Jesus Christ.
The Bible tells the beautiful story of the Woman at the Well, where we get to listen in on a conversation Jesus has with the Samaritan woman. She was lost and longing. Excluded. Coming to the well in the heat of the day because she was an outcast in her community. Returning day after day, she was thirsty for what eluded her. And Jesus said to her at the well that day, “Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst.” (John 4:13). I have come to clearly see that in the attempt to fill my deepest places of longing and seemingly unquenchable thirst, what the world offers has never satisfied me. But what Jesus gives me is always more than enough. It is now the deepest longing of my heart to be filled with the living water Jesus gives. To be satisfied in Him alone.
For many years now I have chosen to stay close to Him through prayer, worship, keeping His written word hidden in my heart and staying in close relationship with others on this same journey. And much like a well, what started as a trickle has become a deep reservoir of life-giving water. A well that doesn't run dry. He continually pours His unlimited love, grace and truth into my life and He is with me in every season. It changes me and it changes others. I think of it as the digging of a deeper well; all of His character and goodness being poured into the depths of who I am so that I become more and more like Him until I finally see Him face to face.
I want my life to be filled to the depths and overflowing with the living water He gives, no matter the season and no matter the circumstance. I want that for you, too.
Join me in the digging of a deeper well.
FULL CIRCLE
Full Circle
10/1/2022
When I was fifteen I went to camp with a local youth group from my hometown. There are several things I remember about that week—water skiing on the beautiful lake where the camp is situated, the chapel times, the boy I had a crush on, the evening campfires where we sang and made commitments to the Lord, the evening games and laughing late into the night with my good friends that slept in the bunks around me.
But there is one thing I remember most clearly about that week. I was falling in love with Jesus in those years, and He was drawing me to Himself through music. I had always loved to sing, but after I met Jesus, music became purposeful in my heart and life. I loved playing and singing all the popular songs of the day, but when I sang to or about Jesus, something in my heart came alive. Which is why, at that camp when I was fifteen, I would get up before the sun and make my way over to the little upright piano in the empty chapel and play and sing all the worship songs I could think of. And I would wander down to the bank of the lake where I would journal pages and pages and sing simple, made up songs of praise that expressed the thoughts and prayers and longings of my teenage heart.
So here I am nearly 45 years later, at that same beautiful camp, leading worship for 250 women who have come here to meet with Jesus. This morning we sang “Rain came and wind blew, but my house was built on You.” (Taken from Jesus' parable in Matthew 7 about the house built on the rock). I can look back over the last four decades and recall some frighteningly strong winds--circumstances that threatened to blow me over for good. But all those years ago, as a young girl, I began to “build my house” on the foundation of Jesus, planting His Word in my heart and learning to know and trust God’s character. My roots have gone deep through these many years. He has never failed to be who He says He would always be, especially in the hardest of times: Savior, healer, provider, the faithful and present God, light and life and hope and holder of all my tears. Joy-giver to my melancholy soul.
It’s like coming full circle, this weekend. I am completely overcome with gratitude for a life of walking with Jesus through every season. If you have a longing at your core that is beyond what this world can satisfy, Jesus is the answer. And if you used to walk with Him and you’ve walked away, His forgiveness is free and final and it’s never too late to start over. He is the lover of your soul. He’s the only firm foundation. There is life that never ends, beyond this temporary world and all its shaking. What joy it is to walk with Him on solid, unshakeable ground, now and forever.
But there is one thing I remember most clearly about that week. I was falling in love with Jesus in those years, and He was drawing me to Himself through music. I had always loved to sing, but after I met Jesus, music became purposeful in my heart and life. I loved playing and singing all the popular songs of the day, but when I sang to or about Jesus, something in my heart came alive. Which is why, at that camp when I was fifteen, I would get up before the sun and make my way over to the little upright piano in the empty chapel and play and sing all the worship songs I could think of. And I would wander down to the bank of the lake where I would journal pages and pages and sing simple, made up songs of praise that expressed the thoughts and prayers and longings of my teenage heart.
So here I am nearly 45 years later, at that same beautiful camp, leading worship for 250 women who have come here to meet with Jesus. This morning we sang “Rain came and wind blew, but my house was built on You.” (Taken from Jesus' parable in Matthew 7 about the house built on the rock). I can look back over the last four decades and recall some frighteningly strong winds--circumstances that threatened to blow me over for good. But all those years ago, as a young girl, I began to “build my house” on the foundation of Jesus, planting His Word in my heart and learning to know and trust God’s character. My roots have gone deep through these many years. He has never failed to be who He says He would always be, especially in the hardest of times: Savior, healer, provider, the faithful and present God, light and life and hope and holder of all my tears. Joy-giver to my melancholy soul.
It’s like coming full circle, this weekend. I am completely overcome with gratitude for a life of walking with Jesus through every season. If you have a longing at your core that is beyond what this world can satisfy, Jesus is the answer. And if you used to walk with Him and you’ve walked away, His forgiveness is free and final and it’s never too late to start over. He is the lover of your soul. He’s the only firm foundation. There is life that never ends, beyond this temporary world and all its shaking. What joy it is to walk with Him on solid, unshakeable ground, now and forever.
SEASON OF GRATITUDE
Season of Gratitude
4/1/2018
There are some seasons in life that leave an indelible mark; seasons we will never forget.
It was the end of summer. I had just finished a six month stretch of back to back weekends of travel to lead worship for various conferences and churches, along with the daily revolving front door of students I love and all the usual responsibilities of home and family. I was tired. This particular season, for many reasons, had no free days, little rest and zero margin.
The previous month, the end of this long season, I was at the coast leading worship for three weeks. This was a treasured time of worship with good friends and deep, daily teaching from the Bible--God clearly knew what was to come. As I headed home, I was looking forward to a month of rest and time with my husband and son before the fall schedule started up. I was especially looking forward to an extended visit with my mom at her relatively new home in a retirement village in a town four hours south, her first time living away from family and lifelong friends.
My mom and I have always been very close, in proximity as well as relationship. The best of friends, a million good memories of doing life together from childhood through current day, always part of each other's lives. Maybe our closeness was perpetuated by the fact that it was just the two of us at home when I entered high school and throughout my college years, after my sister moved out and my dad had long since descended into the depths of alcoholism and left us for another woman. I saw my mom, with dreams shattered, work hard to hold herself and us together, get a job and be both mom and dad through those years. It was mostly just her and me.
A few days before I was to head south to see her, she got sick. The doctor scheduled tests and I headed down early. We went to the hospital together for her MRI. The results were immediate and showed multiple tumors spread throughout her brain. Thus began the journey no one wants to walk. I called my husband and then my sister. We cried and we prayed. That day we drove north to my home in the Portland area. She never returned to her home. We began further testing to find a clear diagnosis. MRI scans, CT scans, blood work, biopsies -- every day, sometimes multiple times a day. It was stage IV, tumors in her brain spread from her lungs. She never smoked. My dad did. The doctors said she had months to live, statistics said five or six. Maybe Easter if she defied the odds.
She said no to chemo -- she felt strongly that she didn’t want to suffer from treatment in the end when the end was so clearly in sight. She looked to my sister and I for decisions. Decisions about the end of her life -- really important decisions she just couldn't make. There were too many tumors to individually target, so we took the oncologist's advice and chose whole brain radiation, every day for three weeks. They said this would give her more time. She'd lose her hair and get really tired for a bit, but then have an upswing of energy and some good weeks, maybe even months. So it began.
My sister began the process of retiring early from her career job in Dallas, where she had just been transferred, so she could live with us near Mom in her last months. Together we moved her into a beautiful assisted living facility five minutes from my home. We set up her apartment and it was lovely. She cried when she walked in the first time, she felt so at home. She was surrounded by everything she loved, pictures and memories and flowers and family.
Mom had been surrounded by negative voices where she lived down south. In the dining room she was fed a daily diet of complaints and gossip and negativity from her table mates, mostly lonely and unhappy people. She had become somewhat lonely and unhappy and now she was dying. One day when I was sitting on the floor of her living room, unpacking a box of her things, I found a little spiral bound journal with the title My Grateful Book on the front. It was empty. I thought, "Jesus, we need You more than ever. Especially in this we need to be reminded of all we have to be grateful for. Lord, please show us how to be grateful." So starting in that moment, every time I was there to visit or pick her up for an appointment or share a meal, I began to ask her what she was grateful for that day. And then I would write it down.
It was the end of summer. I had just finished a six month stretch of back to back weekends of travel to lead worship for various conferences and churches, along with the daily revolving front door of students I love and all the usual responsibilities of home and family. I was tired. This particular season, for many reasons, had no free days, little rest and zero margin.
The previous month, the end of this long season, I was at the coast leading worship for three weeks. This was a treasured time of worship with good friends and deep, daily teaching from the Bible--God clearly knew what was to come. As I headed home, I was looking forward to a month of rest and time with my husband and son before the fall schedule started up. I was especially looking forward to an extended visit with my mom at her relatively new home in a retirement village in a town four hours south, her first time living away from family and lifelong friends.
My mom and I have always been very close, in proximity as well as relationship. The best of friends, a million good memories of doing life together from childhood through current day, always part of each other's lives. Maybe our closeness was perpetuated by the fact that it was just the two of us at home when I entered high school and throughout my college years, after my sister moved out and my dad had long since descended into the depths of alcoholism and left us for another woman. I saw my mom, with dreams shattered, work hard to hold herself and us together, get a job and be both mom and dad through those years. It was mostly just her and me.
A few days before I was to head south to see her, she got sick. The doctor scheduled tests and I headed down early. We went to the hospital together for her MRI. The results were immediate and showed multiple tumors spread throughout her brain. Thus began the journey no one wants to walk. I called my husband and then my sister. We cried and we prayed. That day we drove north to my home in the Portland area. She never returned to her home. We began further testing to find a clear diagnosis. MRI scans, CT scans, blood work, biopsies -- every day, sometimes multiple times a day. It was stage IV, tumors in her brain spread from her lungs. She never smoked. My dad did. The doctors said she had months to live, statistics said five or six. Maybe Easter if she defied the odds.
She said no to chemo -- she felt strongly that she didn’t want to suffer from treatment in the end when the end was so clearly in sight. She looked to my sister and I for decisions. Decisions about the end of her life -- really important decisions she just couldn't make. There were too many tumors to individually target, so we took the oncologist's advice and chose whole brain radiation, every day for three weeks. They said this would give her more time. She'd lose her hair and get really tired for a bit, but then have an upswing of energy and some good weeks, maybe even months. So it began.
My sister began the process of retiring early from her career job in Dallas, where she had just been transferred, so she could live with us near Mom in her last months. Together we moved her into a beautiful assisted living facility five minutes from my home. We set up her apartment and it was lovely. She cried when she walked in the first time, she felt so at home. She was surrounded by everything she loved, pictures and memories and flowers and family.
Mom had been surrounded by negative voices where she lived down south. In the dining room she was fed a daily diet of complaints and gossip and negativity from her table mates, mostly lonely and unhappy people. She had become somewhat lonely and unhappy and now she was dying. One day when I was sitting on the floor of her living room, unpacking a box of her things, I found a little spiral bound journal with the title My Grateful Book on the front. It was empty. I thought, "Jesus, we need You more than ever. Especially in this we need to be reminded of all we have to be grateful for. Lord, please show us how to be grateful." So starting in that moment, every time I was there to visit or pick her up for an appointment or share a meal, I began to ask her what she was grateful for that day. And then I would write it down.
"Lord, please show us how to be grateful."
At first it was the food: Lunch was so good today. And the weather: I'm really happy this is the time of year I moved into this place instead of winter. It's so nice out. And her family: I'm grateful for my girls. What would I do without you? I could never go through this alone. Then the doctors: I'm grateful for the kind doctors and nurses -- aren't they nice? And her caregivers where she lived: Helpful, friendly people to help me. Cards in the mail. Friends that came by to visit her, hug her. Her cute hats as her hair fell out. Her bed: I don't know what you did to make my bed so comfortable, but I just sleep so well! Always and again, her family: There's not even a word to express how thankful I am for my family. And this: No matter how hard the years were with Dad and I, he always set money aside so I would be taken care of in my old age.
We filled pages as her thoughts turned toward thankfulness. The first few pages were paragraphs, as gratitude poured out for all of the good things she was so thankful for. Some days I didn't even have to ask, she would just start reciting her gratitude. I'm thankful for the 90 years I've had and that the good part has over-shadowed the bad. So I'm just forgetting it. Days passed. One week, then two, then three. She got tired. She would sleep more than she was awake. Things got harder. I'm a blessed woman in many ways. It was hard to sit up, to get up, to do the simplest of things. To drink. To eat. To walk. Then one by one she could no longer do any of them. The entries grew shorter and much more simple: There couldn't be a nicer situation than this chair. And then The sunshine. My daughters. My grandkids. The sunshine (I said that). Then just a word or two: It's so comfortable. And You are so good to me.
My sister arrived, and her husband. Then the two grandchildren, the joy of Mom's life. My husband was there, always. We were all there together and she was so grateful. Quiet and personal shared moments. We remembered. We held her hand. We cried. We prayed and sang.
And the last two entries in her journal, just six short weeks after I found it and a couple of days before she closed her eyes and fell asleep that final time:
Thank you.
Thank you.
I think I cried an ocean of tears, all the time and everywhere, such deep grief, days and nights full of sorrow and the dread of what was to come. To watch her suffer. To stay present. Then to live in the new normal of life without my mother and friend.
And then came another strange paradox: deep darkness and at the same time the many moments of joy that burst in out of nowhere, gratitude to God for all of His kindness to Mom and to us, even in this thing. The strength to get up and make the choice, again each day, to love and serve her with joy, to be there with her, to walk her to Jesus with gratitude, fully present. And now that she is gone, to choose to grieve with hope.
There is no explanation for how this is possible in the darkness of this world, except to know that this is where Jesus meets us. This is where we discover that gratitude is a choice, and when we make that choice, joy and strength follows—joy and strength found no other way but looking to Him right there in the middle of the hard place. And when we are grateful and aware of the goodness and deep, deep love of God even when ______, it changes everything.
I miss my mom every day. I cry. I relive our memories over and over. Sometimes the sadness is overwhelming. But I choose gratitude. God taught us both to be grateful. Mom showed me how to be grateful even in death. Only Jesus.
'The Lord is my strength and shield. I trust Him with all my heart. He helps me, and my heart is filled with joy. I burst out in songs of thanksgiving.' Psalm 28:7.
We filled pages as her thoughts turned toward thankfulness. The first few pages were paragraphs, as gratitude poured out for all of the good things she was so thankful for. Some days I didn't even have to ask, she would just start reciting her gratitude. I'm thankful for the 90 years I've had and that the good part has over-shadowed the bad. So I'm just forgetting it. Days passed. One week, then two, then three. She got tired. She would sleep more than she was awake. Things got harder. I'm a blessed woman in many ways. It was hard to sit up, to get up, to do the simplest of things. To drink. To eat. To walk. Then one by one she could no longer do any of them. The entries grew shorter and much more simple: There couldn't be a nicer situation than this chair. And then The sunshine. My daughters. My grandkids. The sunshine (I said that). Then just a word or two: It's so comfortable. And You are so good to me.
My sister arrived, and her husband. Then the two grandchildren, the joy of Mom's life. My husband was there, always. We were all there together and she was so grateful. Quiet and personal shared moments. We remembered. We held her hand. We cried. We prayed and sang.
And the last two entries in her journal, just six short weeks after I found it and a couple of days before she closed her eyes and fell asleep that final time:
Thank you.
Thank you.
I think I cried an ocean of tears, all the time and everywhere, such deep grief, days and nights full of sorrow and the dread of what was to come. To watch her suffer. To stay present. Then to live in the new normal of life without my mother and friend.
And then came another strange paradox: deep darkness and at the same time the many moments of joy that burst in out of nowhere, gratitude to God for all of His kindness to Mom and to us, even in this thing. The strength to get up and make the choice, again each day, to love and serve her with joy, to be there with her, to walk her to Jesus with gratitude, fully present. And now that she is gone, to choose to grieve with hope.
There is no explanation for how this is possible in the darkness of this world, except to know that this is where Jesus meets us. This is where we discover that gratitude is a choice, and when we make that choice, joy and strength follows—joy and strength found no other way but looking to Him right there in the middle of the hard place. And when we are grateful and aware of the goodness and deep, deep love of God even when ______, it changes everything.
I miss my mom every day. I cry. I relive our memories over and over. Sometimes the sadness is overwhelming. But I choose gratitude. God taught us both to be grateful. Mom showed me how to be grateful even in death. Only Jesus.
'The Lord is my strength and shield. I trust Him with all my heart. He helps me, and my heart is filled with joy. I burst out in songs of thanksgiving.' Psalm 28:7.
BIOGRAPHICAL BLOG
Biographical Blog
8-17-16
(This post initially appeared on sisterblog.net--a shared blog between my sister Amy and I).
The instructions here say that I should share a little biographical information--as opposed to biological information, like that I have a lot of freckles, or that I have a Miller's thumb. (You'll have to google that). So here's some biographical info, for what it's worth.
I was born in a small town in upstate New York back in the 60's. We moved to a little bigger small town in Washington when I was three, where I grew up in a little white house (with my mom, dad and older sister and where Mom still lives). There were several mills in Longview (International Paper, Weyerhauser, Reynolds Metals) being that the city borders the north bank of the Columbia River before it makes it's final 50 mile journey to the ocean and where ships from Japan and other countries can come and go easily. My dad worked at Reynolds and Mom worked down the river at International Paper. All those mills gave the town a pretty potent rotten egg odor on warm days.
I had a Dorothy Hamill haircut and I wore a lot of big-flower-printed tops with my bell bottoms. My favorite pair were gold and purple plaid. They didn't go very well with my big-flowered tops. My sister was tall and thin (like my mom) and I was sort of tall and not-so thin (like no one else in my family). Which was a bit of a sore spot with me until I realized it meant I didn't have to share my clothes with anyone. A good reminder that there are always benefits to any situation if you look hard enough.
I thought I loved a boy named David in the fourth grade. He moved away before I had a chance to write a love note to him on a scrap of notebook paper and stick it in his math book like I did with Jeffrey the next year. Every time I hear the song
"I Can See Clearly Now" I think of David, since that was the big song that year. I think I thought I loved four or five other boys before I graduated High School. I don't think any of them thought they loved me back.
Our dad drank a lot during our growing up years. He moved out when I was 12. It wasn't a particularly happy time in our family, but my mom was adept at making things seem okay in spite of some pretty dark circumstances. I am grateful for such a strong mother.
I played the piano ALL the time back then and took piano lessons from age 7 to age 18. I met a lot of great friends and had a lot of great musical opportunities throughout high school since I got to accompany just about everybody who sang at my church or school or around town. I loved to sing too, but played more during those years. I ate, slept and breathed music when I was young.
I graduated and went to college in Seattle where I broadened my world, made some more great friends, had wonderful roommates, thought I loved a few more boys and got a good education. My mom worked really hard to put me through school. I didn't appreciate it or realize the significance of her selflessness at the time like I do now. I've used my musical education just about every day since I graduated. What a gift my mom gave me.
I traveled with a few singing groups after college--around the country and overseas to Peru, Brazil, Chile and Colombia. Singing has now taken me to Africa and all over Europe as well as every state but North Dakota; I don't if I'm missing much, but I think I'll probably get there some day.
I met my husband in 1989 and we were married in December of the next year. He sings too, and that's how we met. I was in a Christian rock band, Komunique, and he joined us when we found ourselves short a member. I was actually verbally engaged to someone else at the time. I say "verbally engaged" because I didn't actually have the ring. Never call yourself engaged until you have the ring. My verbal fiance' was seeing someone else, and things didn't work out well. But again, if you look hard enough, there are benefits. As a result, I ended up with the most amazing man--the first one that really loved me back.
Now we are many years into our marriage and I'm looking forward to many, many more. One of the best gifts of the life we've built together is our son, Jake. He makes our life fun and so much more deeply meaningful. How life changes when you bring another human into the world. What a blessing he is to our hearts.
There are a lot of things that have happened in my life since I showed up on the planet back in the 60's, but the very best was that day at Vacation Bible School back in 1975 when I met Jesus. He has walked with me ever since that summer day in Longview Washington, through every situation good and bad. I haven't always made the best choices. (That's a blog for another day). He loves me no matter. I want to live my life for Him, every moment; there is no good thing in life that doesn't pale in comparison to knowing Jesus. There is no greater thing. I'm often a selfish girl and need Him every day. I love Him with my whole heart, and will never stop being thankful that He saved me from myself all those years ago.
I am unashamed to say that I am living my life in full pursuit of knowing and walking with Jesus. And that's the very best part of my biographical info, no question.
The instructions here say that I should share a little biographical information--as opposed to biological information, like that I have a lot of freckles, or that I have a Miller's thumb. (You'll have to google that). So here's some biographical info, for what it's worth.
I was born in a small town in upstate New York back in the 60's. We moved to a little bigger small town in Washington when I was three, where I grew up in a little white house (with my mom, dad and older sister and where Mom still lives). There were several mills in Longview (International Paper, Weyerhauser, Reynolds Metals) being that the city borders the north bank of the Columbia River before it makes it's final 50 mile journey to the ocean and where ships from Japan and other countries can come and go easily. My dad worked at Reynolds and Mom worked down the river at International Paper. All those mills gave the town a pretty potent rotten egg odor on warm days.
I had a Dorothy Hamill haircut and I wore a lot of big-flower-printed tops with my bell bottoms. My favorite pair were gold and purple plaid. They didn't go very well with my big-flowered tops. My sister was tall and thin (like my mom) and I was sort of tall and not-so thin (like no one else in my family). Which was a bit of a sore spot with me until I realized it meant I didn't have to share my clothes with anyone. A good reminder that there are always benefits to any situation if you look hard enough.
I thought I loved a boy named David in the fourth grade. He moved away before I had a chance to write a love note to him on a scrap of notebook paper and stick it in his math book like I did with Jeffrey the next year. Every time I hear the song
"I Can See Clearly Now" I think of David, since that was the big song that year. I think I thought I loved four or five other boys before I graduated High School. I don't think any of them thought they loved me back.
Our dad drank a lot during our growing up years. He moved out when I was 12. It wasn't a particularly happy time in our family, but my mom was adept at making things seem okay in spite of some pretty dark circumstances. I am grateful for such a strong mother.
I played the piano ALL the time back then and took piano lessons from age 7 to age 18. I met a lot of great friends and had a lot of great musical opportunities throughout high school since I got to accompany just about everybody who sang at my church or school or around town. I loved to sing too, but played more during those years. I ate, slept and breathed music when I was young.
I graduated and went to college in Seattle where I broadened my world, made some more great friends, had wonderful roommates, thought I loved a few more boys and got a good education. My mom worked really hard to put me through school. I didn't appreciate it or realize the significance of her selflessness at the time like I do now. I've used my musical education just about every day since I graduated. What a gift my mom gave me.
I traveled with a few singing groups after college--around the country and overseas to Peru, Brazil, Chile and Colombia. Singing has now taken me to Africa and all over Europe as well as every state but North Dakota; I don't if I'm missing much, but I think I'll probably get there some day.
I met my husband in 1989 and we were married in December of the next year. He sings too, and that's how we met. I was in a Christian rock band, Komunique, and he joined us when we found ourselves short a member. I was actually verbally engaged to someone else at the time. I say "verbally engaged" because I didn't actually have the ring. Never call yourself engaged until you have the ring. My verbal fiance' was seeing someone else, and things didn't work out well. But again, if you look hard enough, there are benefits. As a result, I ended up with the most amazing man--the first one that really loved me back.
Now we are many years into our marriage and I'm looking forward to many, many more. One of the best gifts of the life we've built together is our son, Jake. He makes our life fun and so much more deeply meaningful. How life changes when you bring another human into the world. What a blessing he is to our hearts.
There are a lot of things that have happened in my life since I showed up on the planet back in the 60's, but the very best was that day at Vacation Bible School back in 1975 when I met Jesus. He has walked with me ever since that summer day in Longview Washington, through every situation good and bad. I haven't always made the best choices. (That's a blog for another day). He loves me no matter. I want to live my life for Him, every moment; there is no good thing in life that doesn't pale in comparison to knowing Jesus. There is no greater thing. I'm often a selfish girl and need Him every day. I love Him with my whole heart, and will never stop being thankful that He saved me from myself all those years ago.
I am unashamed to say that I am living my life in full pursuit of knowing and walking with Jesus. And that's the very best part of my biographical info, no question.
thoughts on music and life
Thoughts On Music and Life
5/9/16
I fell in love with music at an early age. At night after we were tucked in bed in our prospective bedrooms, my sister and I would have song wars; we'd sing at the top of our lungs in an attempt to drown each other out. We also sang along with every commercial and sitcom theme from the time we could remotely talk. We sang at the dinner table until our parents made us be quiet. Our growing up was fully immersed in music.
She started playing the violin in grade school and I started piano lessons at the age of seven, when we moved my grandmother's antique upright from her house to our dining room. I first played by ear and spent hours imitating songs I heard on the radio. I clearly remember the day I got my first cassette player. My first tape was of Olivia Newton John. I really wanted to be her someday. I used to put the cassette player in the basket of my green bike with the sparkly banana seat and ride down the hill to my elementary school--there was an echoey tunnel type area where I could be alone and sing along to "I Honestly Love You" at the top of my pre-teen lungs. Then I went to see Evie at the Portland Memorial Coliseum and almost cried--after that I wanted to be her someday. The list grew longer over the years: Amy Grant, Sandi Patty, Barbra Streisand, Whitney Houston; I spent much of my youthful energy playing, singing, writing and accompanying anyone who asked, secretly hoping I'd be someone someday.
I met Jesus at the age of 12, and He took the passion for music He had put in my soul and gave it a purpose. It was the most amazing thing. For years I have worked this out in various forms: solo ministry, worship leading, church music ministry, touring, studio session work, background singing, piano solo and accompanying work, event singing, teaching and coaching. I've loved it all, and still do. The love of music is indelibly written on every part of me.
I've written music since I was a young girl (my first song was titled "Sam's Song," an aptly named and very cheesy rhyming song for a boy I thought I loved), but only recently began finishing the songs I've started. People used to ask me when I was going to do something with my music. That was an interesting question because I thought I had been doing something with my music. At least I have tried to. I think what they meant was that anyone who was a real musician would make a CD--like that would really be doing something important. One of these days maybe I will finish a few of the many recordings I have begun through the years so I can pass my musical thoughts down to future generations, with the hope they can be encouraged in their walk with the Lord. But in the meantime I will be faithful with what's in front of me: loving my family and those who cross my path, the leading of worship and the pouring into my students. As a good friend often reminds me, "Just do the next right thing." I think that is what matters most, our faithfulness to use our gifts for God's glory in the every day, right where we are.
She started playing the violin in grade school and I started piano lessons at the age of seven, when we moved my grandmother's antique upright from her house to our dining room. I first played by ear and spent hours imitating songs I heard on the radio. I clearly remember the day I got my first cassette player. My first tape was of Olivia Newton John. I really wanted to be her someday. I used to put the cassette player in the basket of my green bike with the sparkly banana seat and ride down the hill to my elementary school--there was an echoey tunnel type area where I could be alone and sing along to "I Honestly Love You" at the top of my pre-teen lungs. Then I went to see Evie at the Portland Memorial Coliseum and almost cried--after that I wanted to be her someday. The list grew longer over the years: Amy Grant, Sandi Patty, Barbra Streisand, Whitney Houston; I spent much of my youthful energy playing, singing, writing and accompanying anyone who asked, secretly hoping I'd be someone someday.
I met Jesus at the age of 12, and He took the passion for music He had put in my soul and gave it a purpose. It was the most amazing thing. For years I have worked this out in various forms: solo ministry, worship leading, church music ministry, touring, studio session work, background singing, piano solo and accompanying work, event singing, teaching and coaching. I've loved it all, and still do. The love of music is indelibly written on every part of me.
I've written music since I was a young girl (my first song was titled "Sam's Song," an aptly named and very cheesy rhyming song for a boy I thought I loved), but only recently began finishing the songs I've started. People used to ask me when I was going to do something with my music. That was an interesting question because I thought I had been doing something with my music. At least I have tried to. I think what they meant was that anyone who was a real musician would make a CD--like that would really be doing something important. One of these days maybe I will finish a few of the many recordings I have begun through the years so I can pass my musical thoughts down to future generations, with the hope they can be encouraged in their walk with the Lord. But in the meantime I will be faithful with what's in front of me: loving my family and those who cross my path, the leading of worship and the pouring into my students. As a good friend often reminds me, "Just do the next right thing." I think that is what matters most, our faithfulness to use our gifts for God's glory in the every day, right where we are.
shadowland
Shadowland
5/2/15
Life has a funny way of moving in directions you never intended, taking you to places you could never have imagined from a younger and often more naive perspective. When I was a little girl I had mapped out in my mind what my life would look like. The model family, how I would meet the man of my dreams in college and marry him at 23, have two kids by the time I was 27, have a nice house and comfortable existence in a place where I would settle down and stay for the rest of my life, growing old with my husband, children, grandchildren and good, lifelong friends nearby.
Things haven't worked out quite that way. As a young girl I watched my father descend into the depths of alcoholism until he left us when I was 12. I saw my mother struggle to hold her heart and our family together. By the time I was 25 I had been through a series of my own dating relationships and painful break-ups that left me feeling somewhat used and somehow "less than." While I met the man of my dreams at 26 and was married at 27, I spent the first three years of our marriage in a state of suicidal depression and illness due to an undiagnosed brain tumor. Against all odds we had one child a few years later, but could not have the others I longed for. I moved ten times in fifteen years, between three states and six cities. I have experienced financial peace as well as the stress than comes from knowing there wasn't near enough to make the ends meet. I have experienced the painful ripping apart of the marriages of dear friends and family. I have walked with my husband through debilitating injury and the resulting chronic pain. I have known the sharp and sometimes lasting grief of needless, severed friendships. I have cried an ocean of tears.
I have made poor, selfish and sinful choices. And I have suffered the consequences in some very painful ways.
Much of my life has been spent in what my sister refers to as the "shadowlands" -- a place of darkness that presses in overwhelmingly. A sense of hopelessness and wandering. The type of darkness that goes far beyond my general melancholy nature. (She says I am a poster-child for melancholy). Melancholy submitted to the Lord is a beautiful thing, but left to its own can lead to deep and desolate darkness. I have spent much time in the shadowland, sometimes as a result of my own choices and sometimes because of circumstances beyond my control.
Those have been the times, however, that I have grown the most. The times that I have gained the type of wisdom and maturity that can only come from long periods of pain and loss and questioning. Innocence lost and found. The times that God has gotten my attention and has caused me to press into Him. To repent. The times that He has come to my rescue, around the bend, through the mist. If it weren't for the place of my deep need and darkness, I would never be in a place to discover again that Jesus is present in the shadowland, too. It's the digging of a deeper well, full of all He is and all He offers by His grace, being poured into my soul. For me, the rescue in the darkness is where my life truly began.
Hannah Whitall Smith says that "The valley is the place of vision." I have seen that to be true and know that when I have come out of the shadowland everything is clearer, the sun brighter and the sky bluer than I remembered. And most importantly, I have a deeper hope and trust in a steadfast and faithful God who is perfect in all His ways toward me.
Things haven't worked out quite that way. As a young girl I watched my father descend into the depths of alcoholism until he left us when I was 12. I saw my mother struggle to hold her heart and our family together. By the time I was 25 I had been through a series of my own dating relationships and painful break-ups that left me feeling somewhat used and somehow "less than." While I met the man of my dreams at 26 and was married at 27, I spent the first three years of our marriage in a state of suicidal depression and illness due to an undiagnosed brain tumor. Against all odds we had one child a few years later, but could not have the others I longed for. I moved ten times in fifteen years, between three states and six cities. I have experienced financial peace as well as the stress than comes from knowing there wasn't near enough to make the ends meet. I have experienced the painful ripping apart of the marriages of dear friends and family. I have walked with my husband through debilitating injury and the resulting chronic pain. I have known the sharp and sometimes lasting grief of needless, severed friendships. I have cried an ocean of tears.
I have made poor, selfish and sinful choices. And I have suffered the consequences in some very painful ways.
Much of my life has been spent in what my sister refers to as the "shadowlands" -- a place of darkness that presses in overwhelmingly. A sense of hopelessness and wandering. The type of darkness that goes far beyond my general melancholy nature. (She says I am a poster-child for melancholy). Melancholy submitted to the Lord is a beautiful thing, but left to its own can lead to deep and desolate darkness. I have spent much time in the shadowland, sometimes as a result of my own choices and sometimes because of circumstances beyond my control.
Those have been the times, however, that I have grown the most. The times that I have gained the type of wisdom and maturity that can only come from long periods of pain and loss and questioning. Innocence lost and found. The times that God has gotten my attention and has caused me to press into Him. To repent. The times that He has come to my rescue, around the bend, through the mist. If it weren't for the place of my deep need and darkness, I would never be in a place to discover again that Jesus is present in the shadowland, too. It's the digging of a deeper well, full of all He is and all He offers by His grace, being poured into my soul. For me, the rescue in the darkness is where my life truly began.
Hannah Whitall Smith says that "The valley is the place of vision." I have seen that to be true and know that when I have come out of the shadowland everything is clearer, the sun brighter and the sky bluer than I remembered. And most importantly, I have a deeper hope and trust in a steadfast and faithful God who is perfect in all His ways toward me.
heart of worship
Heart of Worship
6/23/13
As I have been thinking about my recent trip to Europe with my sister, I am reminded that there are some really incredible experiences in this life. Some are the kind that make your stomach ache from laughing--when your face hurts from smiling so big for so long. Some are so inspiring you feel like your heart is going to burst. Some are so full of pain it seems like one more moment under the weight of it is one too many. And then there are things that mark you and change you from that point forward. This was that kind of trip.
I was invited to lead worship for a group of women, missionaries to eastern Europe (places like Czech Republic, Slovakia, Poland, Slovenia, Latvia, Ukraine). Women who have left the relative comfort of America to give their hearts and lives to serve Jesus in some pretty dark places, all to reach people that desperately need to know Him. They live and serve immersed in the language of the country and have next to no opportunities to worship corporately in English, their “heart” language.
Being with these women was inspiring to me on so many levels. I think the most inspiring part was in the stark contrast between their hunger for the experiencing of worship together as sisters in Christ, and our North American complacency at times. In my world (and as is the case with most who live in America), you can find a place to worship corporately at any given hour of any given day. Homes, churches, Bible studies, colleges, youth groups, worship concerts, retreats -- the list is endless. It’s a veritable smorgasbord of corporate worship, available any time, anywhere. This is not so for these precious friends of mine in eastern Europe. They gather together once, maybe twice each year, with other missionaries serving Josiah Venture in various countries throughout the eastern block. And when they do gather, time is precious. They know the days and hours are limited, and they don't want to waste a moment of it.
On the first evening of our time together and as they entered the meeting room in the castle where we were staying, you could almost feel the anticipation in the air. Usually, when I lead worship, I expect that it will take time for hearts to engage and connect with the heart of God. I even plan for that. But here, as soon as I began to play and music filled the room, hands were in the air, faces were turned toward heaven, some knees were bowed, eyes were misting (or tears were streaming), voices were loud and beautiful and unashamed. Not a word or note was wasted–there was no sense of “token worship” as I sometimes feel in services I attend. And this was the second time I had experienced being in the presence of these beautiful women who love the Lord with all their hearts – three years before it was the same amazing experience for me. Hearts immediately and totally swept up in worship. Oh how this must bless the heart of God.
So I return home all the more determined to model this kind of whole-hearted worship in my own life, in the places where I have influence. I think of my friends in Europe quite often as I prepare for worship, quite often while I’m leading, and I pray that God will allow me that same urgency to connect with His heart with unashamed abandon. I want to be unwilling to accept anything less of myself when I accept His invitation to approach the Throne in worship.
I am anticipating returning next spring with my sister, and I am already preparing my heart for the rich experience of worship we will have together. Some experiences in life are really incredible and this is one that I am so thankful for.
I was invited to lead worship for a group of women, missionaries to eastern Europe (places like Czech Republic, Slovakia, Poland, Slovenia, Latvia, Ukraine). Women who have left the relative comfort of America to give their hearts and lives to serve Jesus in some pretty dark places, all to reach people that desperately need to know Him. They live and serve immersed in the language of the country and have next to no opportunities to worship corporately in English, their “heart” language.
Being with these women was inspiring to me on so many levels. I think the most inspiring part was in the stark contrast between their hunger for the experiencing of worship together as sisters in Christ, and our North American complacency at times. In my world (and as is the case with most who live in America), you can find a place to worship corporately at any given hour of any given day. Homes, churches, Bible studies, colleges, youth groups, worship concerts, retreats -- the list is endless. It’s a veritable smorgasbord of corporate worship, available any time, anywhere. This is not so for these precious friends of mine in eastern Europe. They gather together once, maybe twice each year, with other missionaries serving Josiah Venture in various countries throughout the eastern block. And when they do gather, time is precious. They know the days and hours are limited, and they don't want to waste a moment of it.
On the first evening of our time together and as they entered the meeting room in the castle where we were staying, you could almost feel the anticipation in the air. Usually, when I lead worship, I expect that it will take time for hearts to engage and connect with the heart of God. I even plan for that. But here, as soon as I began to play and music filled the room, hands were in the air, faces were turned toward heaven, some knees were bowed, eyes were misting (or tears were streaming), voices were loud and beautiful and unashamed. Not a word or note was wasted–there was no sense of “token worship” as I sometimes feel in services I attend. And this was the second time I had experienced being in the presence of these beautiful women who love the Lord with all their hearts – three years before it was the same amazing experience for me. Hearts immediately and totally swept up in worship. Oh how this must bless the heart of God.
So I return home all the more determined to model this kind of whole-hearted worship in my own life, in the places where I have influence. I think of my friends in Europe quite often as I prepare for worship, quite often while I’m leading, and I pray that God will allow me that same urgency to connect with His heart with unashamed abandon. I want to be unwilling to accept anything less of myself when I accept His invitation to approach the Throne in worship.
I am anticipating returning next spring with my sister, and I am already preparing my heart for the rich experience of worship we will have together. Some experiences in life are really incredible and this is one that I am so thankful for.
the ants go marching
The Ants Go Marching
9/21/08
I’m a busy girl. Too busy. I often think about how busy I am. I dislike the word busy. It conjurs up images in my mind of ants marching all in a line, heading somewhere (who knows where) just because all the other ants are doing it. I wonder if they ever think about why they’re all marching. Or if they just want to stop and sit in the shade and think about something other than the endless march they are part of. Or maybe they’d like to march the other way. Or put down the gum wrapper they’re carrying back to the hill.
I feel like an ant sometimes. Like this past week, for example. The fall season of lessons started up for me. I had 30 students come through the door over a period of four days, a family to feed, a young son to be a good mother to, a conference to plan for, recordings to finish, bills to pay, errands to run, friends to visit, phone calls to make, a husband to love and serve -- all good things, nothing out of the ordinary. But all together it made me feel like I was marching, marching, marching. And I find myself focusing on the time it’s going to take to do everything on my schedule and how tired I’m going to be when the day is done -- and I zap all the fun and joy out of all of it. So there I am, all exhausted and stressed and living for my next free day. Not in the moment at all.
I’ve heard it said that “busy” is not a good thing, that busy is often the partner of stress and the enemy of peace and rest and sanity. So sometimes I try to fool myself and think that I just have a “full schedule.” The reality is that I’m really just busy. And probably need to learn something about balance. How do the ants do it?
So this weekend I’m at the coast doing music for a women’s conference. I’m going to take a long walk on the beach and ponder how I can get some balance and still do all the things I need to do, how to filter out the things that aren’t important, treasure the 30 students that come through my door each week, (knowing they are busy too, and have chosen to spend some of their busy days with me), soak in every moment I have with my husband and son, and look at the glass half full for a change, no matter what the day looks like.
And whenever I have a moment, I’ll stop marching, get out of the line, sit in the shade and ponder something nice. Be in the moment. And then I’ll get back to it with a renewed sense of purpose. I’ll let you know how it goes.
I feel like an ant sometimes. Like this past week, for example. The fall season of lessons started up for me. I had 30 students come through the door over a period of four days, a family to feed, a young son to be a good mother to, a conference to plan for, recordings to finish, bills to pay, errands to run, friends to visit, phone calls to make, a husband to love and serve -- all good things, nothing out of the ordinary. But all together it made me feel like I was marching, marching, marching. And I find myself focusing on the time it’s going to take to do everything on my schedule and how tired I’m going to be when the day is done -- and I zap all the fun and joy out of all of it. So there I am, all exhausted and stressed and living for my next free day. Not in the moment at all.
I’ve heard it said that “busy” is not a good thing, that busy is often the partner of stress and the enemy of peace and rest and sanity. So sometimes I try to fool myself and think that I just have a “full schedule.” The reality is that I’m really just busy. And probably need to learn something about balance. How do the ants do it?
So this weekend I’m at the coast doing music for a women’s conference. I’m going to take a long walk on the beach and ponder how I can get some balance and still do all the things I need to do, how to filter out the things that aren’t important, treasure the 30 students that come through my door each week, (knowing they are busy too, and have chosen to spend some of their busy days with me), soak in every moment I have with my husband and son, and look at the glass half full for a change, no matter what the day looks like.
And whenever I have a moment, I’ll stop marching, get out of the line, sit in the shade and ponder something nice. Be in the moment. And then I’ll get back to it with a renewed sense of purpose. I’ll let you know how it goes.
the golden rule revisited
The Golden Rule Revisited
8/12/08
A friend of mine from church came over the other day to work on some music for her ministry. She leads worship on a regular basis for a few local nursing homes. She wanted some help with leading from the piano since she felt inadequate for the task. Over the course of an hour, we talked and worked on some music and I came away changed.
I have had a soft place in my heart for the elderly. I walked through the devastating effects of Alzheimers with my maternal grandmother, and watched my mom care for her the last ten years of her life, long after Grandma no longer knew any of us and had permanently retreated into a place in her mind only she was aware of.
My friend, however, has not only a soft spot in her heart for the aged, but a burning passion. She says that when she plays and sings the hymns she has planned for each week, people that have been silent and with no discernable memory sing along. Something about the words and melody of those old hymns of the faith reach a place inside that nothing else can. It's like the Holy Spirit uses the hymns to call to their spirits.
I was so moved after she left, somewhat convicted that I had been comfortable with just having a soft spot in my heart. I realize God doesn't call us all to the same ministry and doesn't give us all the same passion for the same causes. But I want to have more passion and not be so complacent about those in our society that don't have a voice and often no longer have anyone interested in their life.
Shortly after my friend's visit I received a thank you note from her in which she enclosed a copy of an article, "The Golden Rule, Revisited". As I finished reading it, I realized I was the grateful one -- to have my eyes opened to the reality of those all around me, tucked away in nursing homes, out of sight and too often out of mind. Lord, forgive my complacency. Give me your eyes to see the need and your passion to make a difference.
The Golden Rule, Revisited
They lie there, breathing heavy gasps, contracted into a fetal position. Ironic, that they should live 80 or 90 years, then return to the posture of their childhood. But they do. Sometimes their voices are mumbles and whispers like those of infants or toddlers. I have seen them, unaware of anything for decades, crying for parents long since passed away.
I recall one who had begun to sleep excessively, and told her daughter that a little girl slept with her each night. I don't know what she saw. Maybe an infant she lost, or a sibling, cousin or friend from years long gone. But I do know what I see when I stand by the bedside of the infirm aged. Though their bodies are skin-covered sticks and their minds an inescapable labyrinth. I see something surprising. I see something beautiful and horrible, hopeful and hopeless. What I see is my children, long after I leave them, as they end their days.
This vision comes to me sometimes when I stand by the bedside in my emergency department, and look over the ancient form that lies before me, barely aware of anything. Usually the feeling comes in those times when I am weary and frustrated from making too many decisions too fast, in the middle of the night. Into the midst of this comes a patient from a local nursing home, sent for reasons I can seldom discern.
I walk into the room and roll my cynical eyes at the nurse. She hands me the minimal data sent with the patient, and I begin the detective work. And just when I'm most annoyed, just when I want to do nothing and send them back, I look at them. And then I touch them. And then, as I imagine my sons, tears well up and I see the error of my thoughts. For one day, it may be.
One day, my little boys, still young enough to kiss me and think me heroic, may lie before another cynical doctor, in the middle of the night of their dementia, and need care. More than medicine, it may be compassion. They will need someone to have the insight to look at them and say, "Here was once a child, cherished and loved, who played games in the nursery with his mother and father. Here was a child who put teeth under pillows and loved bedtime stories, crayons and stuffed animas. Here is a treasure of love to a man and a woman long gone. How can I honor them? By treating their child with love and gentility. By seeing that their child has come full circle to infancy once more, and will soon be born once more into forever."
The vision is frightful because I will not be there to comfort them, or to say, "I am here" when they call out, unless God grants me the gift of speaking across forever. It is painful because I will not be there to serve them as I did in life, and see that they are treated as what they are: unique and wonderful, made in the image of the Creator, and of their mother and me. It is terrible because our society treats the aged as worse than a burden; it treats them as tragedies of time. It seems hopeless because when they contract and lie motionless, no one will touch them with the love I have for them, or know the history of their scars, visible and invisible. I am the walking library of their lives, and I will be unavailable. All I can do is ask, while I live, for God's mercy on them as they grow older.
And yet, the image has beauty and hope as well. Because if I see my little boys as aged and infirm, I can dream that their lives were long and rich. I can dream that they filled their lucid years with greatness and love, that they knew God and served Him well, and were men of honor and gentility. I can imagine that even if they live in the shadowland alone, somewhere children and grandchildren, even great-grandchildren thrive. I can hope that their heirs come to see them, and care, and harass the staff of the nursing home to treat Grandpa better. I can hope that they dare not allow my boys to suffer, but that they hold no illusions about physical immortality, and will let them come to their mother and me when the time arrives. And best, I can know that their age and illness will only bring the day of that reunion closer.
My career as an emergency physician has taught me something very important about dealing with the sick and injured, whether young or old. It has taught me that the Golden Rule also can be stated this way: "Do unto others as you would have others do unto your children." I think that this is a powerful way to improve our interactions with others, not just in medicine but in every action of our lives. And it is certainly a unique way to view our treatment of the elderly. For one day all our children will be old. And only if this lesson has been applied will they be treated with anything approaching the love that only we, their parents, hope for them to always have.
James Dobson Family News, January 1, 2001, Issue 1
I have had a soft place in my heart for the elderly. I walked through the devastating effects of Alzheimers with my maternal grandmother, and watched my mom care for her the last ten years of her life, long after Grandma no longer knew any of us and had permanently retreated into a place in her mind only she was aware of.
My friend, however, has not only a soft spot in her heart for the aged, but a burning passion. She says that when she plays and sings the hymns she has planned for each week, people that have been silent and with no discernable memory sing along. Something about the words and melody of those old hymns of the faith reach a place inside that nothing else can. It's like the Holy Spirit uses the hymns to call to their spirits.
I was so moved after she left, somewhat convicted that I had been comfortable with just having a soft spot in my heart. I realize God doesn't call us all to the same ministry and doesn't give us all the same passion for the same causes. But I want to have more passion and not be so complacent about those in our society that don't have a voice and often no longer have anyone interested in their life.
Shortly after my friend's visit I received a thank you note from her in which she enclosed a copy of an article, "The Golden Rule, Revisited". As I finished reading it, I realized I was the grateful one -- to have my eyes opened to the reality of those all around me, tucked away in nursing homes, out of sight and too often out of mind. Lord, forgive my complacency. Give me your eyes to see the need and your passion to make a difference.
The Golden Rule, Revisited
They lie there, breathing heavy gasps, contracted into a fetal position. Ironic, that they should live 80 or 90 years, then return to the posture of their childhood. But they do. Sometimes their voices are mumbles and whispers like those of infants or toddlers. I have seen them, unaware of anything for decades, crying for parents long since passed away.
I recall one who had begun to sleep excessively, and told her daughter that a little girl slept with her each night. I don't know what she saw. Maybe an infant she lost, or a sibling, cousin or friend from years long gone. But I do know what I see when I stand by the bedside of the infirm aged. Though their bodies are skin-covered sticks and their minds an inescapable labyrinth. I see something surprising. I see something beautiful and horrible, hopeful and hopeless. What I see is my children, long after I leave them, as they end their days.
This vision comes to me sometimes when I stand by the bedside in my emergency department, and look over the ancient form that lies before me, barely aware of anything. Usually the feeling comes in those times when I am weary and frustrated from making too many decisions too fast, in the middle of the night. Into the midst of this comes a patient from a local nursing home, sent for reasons I can seldom discern.
I walk into the room and roll my cynical eyes at the nurse. She hands me the minimal data sent with the patient, and I begin the detective work. And just when I'm most annoyed, just when I want to do nothing and send them back, I look at them. And then I touch them. And then, as I imagine my sons, tears well up and I see the error of my thoughts. For one day, it may be.
One day, my little boys, still young enough to kiss me and think me heroic, may lie before another cynical doctor, in the middle of the night of their dementia, and need care. More than medicine, it may be compassion. They will need someone to have the insight to look at them and say, "Here was once a child, cherished and loved, who played games in the nursery with his mother and father. Here was a child who put teeth under pillows and loved bedtime stories, crayons and stuffed animas. Here is a treasure of love to a man and a woman long gone. How can I honor them? By treating their child with love and gentility. By seeing that their child has come full circle to infancy once more, and will soon be born once more into forever."
The vision is frightful because I will not be there to comfort them, or to say, "I am here" when they call out, unless God grants me the gift of speaking across forever. It is painful because I will not be there to serve them as I did in life, and see that they are treated as what they are: unique and wonderful, made in the image of the Creator, and of their mother and me. It is terrible because our society treats the aged as worse than a burden; it treats them as tragedies of time. It seems hopeless because when they contract and lie motionless, no one will touch them with the love I have for them, or know the history of their scars, visible and invisible. I am the walking library of their lives, and I will be unavailable. All I can do is ask, while I live, for God's mercy on them as they grow older.
And yet, the image has beauty and hope as well. Because if I see my little boys as aged and infirm, I can dream that their lives were long and rich. I can dream that they filled their lucid years with greatness and love, that they knew God and served Him well, and were men of honor and gentility. I can imagine that even if they live in the shadowland alone, somewhere children and grandchildren, even great-grandchildren thrive. I can hope that their heirs come to see them, and care, and harass the staff of the nursing home to treat Grandpa better. I can hope that they dare not allow my boys to suffer, but that they hold no illusions about physical immortality, and will let them come to their mother and me when the time arrives. And best, I can know that their age and illness will only bring the day of that reunion closer.
My career as an emergency physician has taught me something very important about dealing with the sick and injured, whether young or old. It has taught me that the Golden Rule also can be stated this way: "Do unto others as you would have others do unto your children." I think that this is a powerful way to improve our interactions with others, not just in medicine but in every action of our lives. And it is certainly a unique way to view our treatment of the elderly. For one day all our children will be old. And only if this lesson has been applied will they be treated with anything approaching the love that only we, their parents, hope for them to always have.
James Dobson Family News, January 1, 2001, Issue 1
dad
Dad
4/18/08
It's Dad's birthday today, six years since he died. I've been thinking about him all day. I miss him a lot, even after all these years. When special things happen, I wish he were here to celebrate with me. When I have a particularly bad day, I wish I could just sit with him and borrow his calm -- his presence in his later life was usually calm and steady.
He had such a great sense of humor, and a tender heart. The older he got the more tender he became; he would choke up at the oddest times. He had a lot of time to reflect in his last years and not all of the reflections were easy to take, I'm sure. When I would visit, I would sometimes look over at him, sitting in his favorite chair, and see the tears running down his face. He would just say, "I'm so sorry." I had long forgiven him and no apologies were needed, but he needed to say it.
He had a simple life that I often wish I had. In our later years, he was never too busy to be with us or with his grandkids. I wish he could see Jake play football and baseball and golf -- he would've loved to see how much Jake loves to golf.
There is so much more life that I wanted to share with him. I wasn't ready for him to leave us. I was sometimes such a selfish girl. I should've told him more how much I loved him. I should've served him more. I should've been more patient.
I sometimes wonder if God lets him see how much he's missed.
Today I was also thinking about what my sister wrote and read at his memorial service...
My Dad
My dad wasn’t perfect. (Is anyone’s?). He made some mistakes. He made more good, I think.
While alive, we might remember the bigger mistakes more than we should. But family and friends are about forgiving, forgetting.
We remember the good things about people when they pass on.
And laugh about some of the faults and foibles.
We have been doing a lot of that for the last few days.
Dad died early Thursday morning.
My mom and her sister, when they finally retired, spent the rest of the early morning hours in the living room, talking.
My sister and I, along with our husbands and kids, arrived Thursday night. And we talked some more.
Dad’s brothers arrived on Sunday and the house has been filled with their talk. “Remember when’s” and stories from childhood on.
Friends have called and dropped by, cards and letters have arrived…(And food—thank you very much!)…all remembering my dad. The good things he did, the stories he told. (And he could tell a good story—those of you who have known him long are smiling to yourselves and can probably tell a few).
Listening to this talk you remember things you forgot, and hear things you never knew. Another facet, another shade of color of the person you love so much and thought you knew so well.
I have been listening to these stories all week. Now it’s my turn: Let me tell you what my dad did for me.
My dad took me hunting. I remember the first time—I was four years old. We were in upstate New York and the snow was deeper than me. And we bundled up and went tromping through the woods in search for deer. My family remembers I wet my pants—but mostly I remember hunting with my dad.
When I was 10 or so, he taught me to shoot a rifle. Later, when I was in the Air Force, I had to shoot an M-16 to qualify for something or other. Both times I imagined my dad standing firmly behind my shoulder so the recoil wouldn’t knock me on my backside. I got two expert marksmanship medals that way—pretending my dad was standing right behind me.
He taught me to bowl. He taught all of us how to bowl! Kids, sons-in-law, and grandkids. (Of course none of us could touch his average!).
Just a couple of nights ago my sister and I, our husbands and my daughter went to the Triangle to bowl some games. I think that a memorial in itself some way…
My dad was a great provider.
He bought me my first car. (He helped me buy probably at least two other cars as well, and my sister, too, I’m sure).
He helped both my sister and I buy our first homes.
He has loaned me more money that I care to admit needing…
He never hesitated to help when we were in need.
He was the best grandpa. I am so glad my daughter was able to spend part of nearly every summer with my folks.
So we’ve been remembering.
We remember things like Old Spice, old songs, a familiar phrase or the oft-told story that always makes us laugh. The fact that he loved to listen to my sister sing (and in a bit she will sing one of his favorite songs).
But the best foundation my dad laid, on which all the rest lays (on top or alongside), are the many ways he showed us his love and his commitment to our success. By providing for us, putting braces on our teeth, helping us get our start as adults on our own, capping off his commitments to his family in the role of indulgent grandpa and even more indulgent owner of one very lonely tabby cat.
We will miss him much, but know he is in a better place—one without pain, without hassles and where he can look on us all and continue to care for us well.
So I'll think about him until I go to bed tonight, maybe cry a little, then wake up and do my best to apply the good lessons he taught us. I hope he'd be proud.
I love you, Dad, and I miss you.
He had such a great sense of humor, and a tender heart. The older he got the more tender he became; he would choke up at the oddest times. He had a lot of time to reflect in his last years and not all of the reflections were easy to take, I'm sure. When I would visit, I would sometimes look over at him, sitting in his favorite chair, and see the tears running down his face. He would just say, "I'm so sorry." I had long forgiven him and no apologies were needed, but he needed to say it.
He had a simple life that I often wish I had. In our later years, he was never too busy to be with us or with his grandkids. I wish he could see Jake play football and baseball and golf -- he would've loved to see how much Jake loves to golf.
There is so much more life that I wanted to share with him. I wasn't ready for him to leave us. I was sometimes such a selfish girl. I should've told him more how much I loved him. I should've served him more. I should've been more patient.
I sometimes wonder if God lets him see how much he's missed.
Today I was also thinking about what my sister wrote and read at his memorial service...
My Dad
My dad wasn’t perfect. (Is anyone’s?). He made some mistakes. He made more good, I think.
While alive, we might remember the bigger mistakes more than we should. But family and friends are about forgiving, forgetting.
We remember the good things about people when they pass on.
And laugh about some of the faults and foibles.
We have been doing a lot of that for the last few days.
Dad died early Thursday morning.
My mom and her sister, when they finally retired, spent the rest of the early morning hours in the living room, talking.
My sister and I, along with our husbands and kids, arrived Thursday night. And we talked some more.
Dad’s brothers arrived on Sunday and the house has been filled with their talk. “Remember when’s” and stories from childhood on.
Friends have called and dropped by, cards and letters have arrived…(And food—thank you very much!)…all remembering my dad. The good things he did, the stories he told. (And he could tell a good story—those of you who have known him long are smiling to yourselves and can probably tell a few).
Listening to this talk you remember things you forgot, and hear things you never knew. Another facet, another shade of color of the person you love so much and thought you knew so well.
I have been listening to these stories all week. Now it’s my turn: Let me tell you what my dad did for me.
My dad took me hunting. I remember the first time—I was four years old. We were in upstate New York and the snow was deeper than me. And we bundled up and went tromping through the woods in search for deer. My family remembers I wet my pants—but mostly I remember hunting with my dad.
When I was 10 or so, he taught me to shoot a rifle. Later, when I was in the Air Force, I had to shoot an M-16 to qualify for something or other. Both times I imagined my dad standing firmly behind my shoulder so the recoil wouldn’t knock me on my backside. I got two expert marksmanship medals that way—pretending my dad was standing right behind me.
He taught me to bowl. He taught all of us how to bowl! Kids, sons-in-law, and grandkids. (Of course none of us could touch his average!).
Just a couple of nights ago my sister and I, our husbands and my daughter went to the Triangle to bowl some games. I think that a memorial in itself some way…
My dad was a great provider.
He bought me my first car. (He helped me buy probably at least two other cars as well, and my sister, too, I’m sure).
He helped both my sister and I buy our first homes.
He has loaned me more money that I care to admit needing…
He never hesitated to help when we were in need.
He was the best grandpa. I am so glad my daughter was able to spend part of nearly every summer with my folks.
So we’ve been remembering.
We remember things like Old Spice, old songs, a familiar phrase or the oft-told story that always makes us laugh. The fact that he loved to listen to my sister sing (and in a bit she will sing one of his favorite songs).
But the best foundation my dad laid, on which all the rest lays (on top or alongside), are the many ways he showed us his love and his commitment to our success. By providing for us, putting braces on our teeth, helping us get our start as adults on our own, capping off his commitments to his family in the role of indulgent grandpa and even more indulgent owner of one very lonely tabby cat.
We will miss him much, but know he is in a better place—one without pain, without hassles and where he can look on us all and continue to care for us well.
So I'll think about him until I go to bed tonight, maybe cry a little, then wake up and do my best to apply the good lessons he taught us. I hope he'd be proud.
I love you, Dad, and I miss you.
girlfriendship
Girlfriendship
7/26/07
I've been thinking a lot about girl friendship. It's a pretty nice thing, if you ask me. My pondering started as I thought about my friend Keri and how we've been friends for the last 20 years and have walked through all the highs and lows and love each other as much as you can love a friend, I think.
Then I thought about my sister, and what a great friend she is. We didn't always like each other like we do now. Like when she would hit me with her toy telephone, or absolutely hate that Mom sometimes let me tag along with she and her friends. I'm glad we got over that. We're very different, but it doesn't matter. It's an amazing thing to have someone in your life that is always FOR you. She's always for me, even when I'm not easy to be for. And she's really funny. We laugh so hard sometimes we can't talk, tears rolling down our cheeks and everything.
My sister-in-law, Sue, is for me too, and she's a party waiting to happen, any time and anywhere. I love this about her, because it's only how I am in my dreams. I'm glad that she's part of my family. We probably wouldn't have thought to become friends since we're so different, but she lives across the street and I get to see her a lot and join her party. She inspires me to lighten up and not take myself so seriously.
Then there's my friend Lori. She's one of my funniest friends, and deepest, too. I love spending time with her--we alternate between hilarity and deep conversation Sometimes within seconds. We relate on many levels, and have known each other for over 30 years. We started singing together in the 7th grade. We wrote notes to each other about the boys that we loved and were sure we'd marry some day. We didn't. I went on my first real diet with her in the 9th grade. She didn't need to, since she was voted "Best Build" in our senior yearbook. I think she did it just to encourage me. That's what a good friend would do, and she's a really good friend.
I have a neigher, Lisbeth, who is one of those "what you see is what you get" friends. True and authentic and loving and REAL. She has a lovely home that I love to go to, just to hang out because it's cozy, just like her. We were just commenting that we have the kind of friendship where you don't have to do or say anything -- you can just sit and ponder together -- and it's totally comfortable. It's a no-expectations friendship. I love that about her.
And there's my friend Cathy--we've known each other for over 30 years, too. She's been there through thick and thin and knows a lot of deep, dark secrets about me. Although we grew up to be very different in many ways I know she'd drop everything to come if I needed her. I'd do the same. She's a deep thinker and challenges me in my faith and what I believe to be true. She makes me ponder and want to really KNOW why I believe what I believe. Good friends do that, too, even when you have to agree to disagree. That's just fine when you love each other. She's that beautiful kind of friend.
And Tammy -- I never call her Tammy -- we call each other 'Roommite' because we lived together for the three years before I got married, and 'roommate' was a bit too normal. We were always anything but normal. She's another of my funny, quirky friends. We do a mean imitation of the bagpipes -- it takes two wierd people to really pull that off with excellence, and we do. We consoled eachother through many a broken heart, and knew what it really meant when we each found our soul mate in the one we married. We each have only one child, boys, born eight weeks apart. She has always been there for me no matter what 'being there' meant, even as our lives have taken us to live in different parts of the country. We have a lifelong connection. We don't call each other as often as I'd like anymore, but she's one of those friends that I often think about and wish lived closer, just so we could see each other and laugh and talk and do the bagpipes.
Julie is my friend and mentor. I've often said I want to be her when I grow up. I hope that I will even be sort of like her, just a little. I try to be like her now. She loves the Lord with all her heart and serves Him like every day is her last. I want to have that kind of heart for God. Whenever I spend time with her I always seem to have an "Aha! moment" and I come away feeling refreshed and renewed. She spurs me on to greater things and reminds me of what's important. She's a treasure to me.
I met a new friend this week, Tara-Leigh. She was only in town for a few days and we shared a brief lunch, just a moment, really. She's one of those friends that you meet and immediately like, but know that they'll soon be gone and you'll wish they wouldn't leave but they have to. One of those friends that you know would be a good friend if they stayed. I wish she could've stayed.
So many other friends: Courtney, my fun music friend; Becky, my spiritual encourager and conference partner; Jan, my dear friend who lives far away but is forever close to my heart for all we've shared, from the mountain to the valley and back again; Vicki, my friend for life; Betsy, my friend who has always been there at a moment's notice; Janet, my Cannon Beach friend through the seasons; my mother and my mother-in-law...two women I admire so much for so many reasons -- "rocks" in my heart and life; and Donna and Kyla, my young and newly-married friends who keep me feeling younger than I am and remind me of me all those years ago.
So I've been pondering and am thankful for such treasured girlfriend gifts, all of them -- I am who I am in large part because God put these women in my life. May I have the grace to be this kind of gift to others.
Then I thought about my sister, and what a great friend she is. We didn't always like each other like we do now. Like when she would hit me with her toy telephone, or absolutely hate that Mom sometimes let me tag along with she and her friends. I'm glad we got over that. We're very different, but it doesn't matter. It's an amazing thing to have someone in your life that is always FOR you. She's always for me, even when I'm not easy to be for. And she's really funny. We laugh so hard sometimes we can't talk, tears rolling down our cheeks and everything.
My sister-in-law, Sue, is for me too, and she's a party waiting to happen, any time and anywhere. I love this about her, because it's only how I am in my dreams. I'm glad that she's part of my family. We probably wouldn't have thought to become friends since we're so different, but she lives across the street and I get to see her a lot and join her party. She inspires me to lighten up and not take myself so seriously.
Then there's my friend Lori. She's one of my funniest friends, and deepest, too. I love spending time with her--we alternate between hilarity and deep conversation Sometimes within seconds. We relate on many levels, and have known each other for over 30 years. We started singing together in the 7th grade. We wrote notes to each other about the boys that we loved and were sure we'd marry some day. We didn't. I went on my first real diet with her in the 9th grade. She didn't need to, since she was voted "Best Build" in our senior yearbook. I think she did it just to encourage me. That's what a good friend would do, and she's a really good friend.
I have a neigher, Lisbeth, who is one of those "what you see is what you get" friends. True and authentic and loving and REAL. She has a lovely home that I love to go to, just to hang out because it's cozy, just like her. We were just commenting that we have the kind of friendship where you don't have to do or say anything -- you can just sit and ponder together -- and it's totally comfortable. It's a no-expectations friendship. I love that about her.
And there's my friend Cathy--we've known each other for over 30 years, too. She's been there through thick and thin and knows a lot of deep, dark secrets about me. Although we grew up to be very different in many ways I know she'd drop everything to come if I needed her. I'd do the same. She's a deep thinker and challenges me in my faith and what I believe to be true. She makes me ponder and want to really KNOW why I believe what I believe. Good friends do that, too, even when you have to agree to disagree. That's just fine when you love each other. She's that beautiful kind of friend.
And Tammy -- I never call her Tammy -- we call each other 'Roommite' because we lived together for the three years before I got married, and 'roommate' was a bit too normal. We were always anything but normal. She's another of my funny, quirky friends. We do a mean imitation of the bagpipes -- it takes two wierd people to really pull that off with excellence, and we do. We consoled eachother through many a broken heart, and knew what it really meant when we each found our soul mate in the one we married. We each have only one child, boys, born eight weeks apart. She has always been there for me no matter what 'being there' meant, even as our lives have taken us to live in different parts of the country. We have a lifelong connection. We don't call each other as often as I'd like anymore, but she's one of those friends that I often think about and wish lived closer, just so we could see each other and laugh and talk and do the bagpipes.
Julie is my friend and mentor. I've often said I want to be her when I grow up. I hope that I will even be sort of like her, just a little. I try to be like her now. She loves the Lord with all her heart and serves Him like every day is her last. I want to have that kind of heart for God. Whenever I spend time with her I always seem to have an "Aha! moment" and I come away feeling refreshed and renewed. She spurs me on to greater things and reminds me of what's important. She's a treasure to me.
I met a new friend this week, Tara-Leigh. She was only in town for a few days and we shared a brief lunch, just a moment, really. She's one of those friends that you meet and immediately like, but know that they'll soon be gone and you'll wish they wouldn't leave but they have to. One of those friends that you know would be a good friend if they stayed. I wish she could've stayed.
So many other friends: Courtney, my fun music friend; Becky, my spiritual encourager and conference partner; Jan, my dear friend who lives far away but is forever close to my heart for all we've shared, from the mountain to the valley and back again; Vicki, my friend for life; Betsy, my friend who has always been there at a moment's notice; Janet, my Cannon Beach friend through the seasons; my mother and my mother-in-law...two women I admire so much for so many reasons -- "rocks" in my heart and life; and Donna and Kyla, my young and newly-married friends who keep me feeling younger than I am and remind me of me all those years ago.
So I've been pondering and am thankful for such treasured girlfriend gifts, all of them -- I am who I am in large part because God put these women in my life. May I have the grace to be this kind of gift to others.