HEAVENLY DELIGHT

"A house needs a grandma in it."

Louisa May Alcott

A southern summer's day was a sweet dream when I was ten years old and in my favorite place. My grandma was blessed to live in an antique-filled Victorian home in a quaint old town, just a short hour's drive from Atlanta, where I lived. What a perfect place her home seemed! An oval beveled glass door led from an old-fashioned, roomy front porch to a living room filled with a glorious staircase, an old coal fireplace with a mahogany mantle, and stained-glass windows that reached so high, almost, it seemed to the soaring ceiling.

I wanted to call it mine, but was so happy to be there in brief. Just blessed to be with my Grandma and spend days with her. Those humid days passed so quickly, yet while there I clung to Grandma like honey on a buttermilk biscuit.

I was her shadow. And she never seemed to mind. She seemed happy to have a frolicking granddaughter beside her night and day for a "spell."

She taught me much. Quality and quantity. Partly because I fiercely questioned her about anything and everything that visited my ten year old brain. But mostly, Grandma taught me because of love. Her love was unique. It went beyond instruction and gravitated to discipleship.

I specifically remember one quiet day when, as customary, I followed her from room to room. She told me she had some "sprayin'" to do and she had to be alone. Most naturally, I assumed inquisition.

"What's sprayin', Grandma?" My ten year old mind just couldn't wrap around the idea of spraying being so important. And what in the world was she talking about anyway?

I watched the back of my little gray-haired Mom's Mom walk away from me, but she quickly turned, and with her eyes, cauterized a hole through my skinny, dangly figure, adding distress to my confusion. "Andrea, don't you know what sprayin' is?"

"No, mam." I started to feel defensive. I didn't understand the big deal. But I knew my simple curiosity had led me to trouble. I sort of felt I had come in from a sandbox and needed a bath.

Grandma turned again and walked. I followed. We stopped in her makeshift closet, which was really a large hallway in the back of her aged home. Surrounded by clothes and shoes and scarfs and coats and whatever else fancied her, we stood and stared at each other, and though she was under five feet tall, her presence seemed as mighty as a red oak.

"Grandma, what's sprayin?" My stubborn curiosity was not deterred, for I knew my grandmother's strong heart of discipline could be melted by her compelling, loving leadership. As expected, my young ignorance was too much for her to resist.

"Andrea, do you mean to tell me you don't know what sprayin' is?"

"Nooooo," I slowly answered with hope of subduing dissatisfaction.

"You've never heard of it? Don't your mama spray?"

Interest was now eating me alive. I thought I had stumbled onto a family secret. Or maybe spraying was something grown women had to do to stay clean.

"Andrea I can't believe you don't know about prayin'!"

"I thought you said sprayin', Grandma!" I was at once relieved and disappointed. Happy to be out of the woods. Sad that I was now devoid of a divulged secret.

"I know what prayin' means. And my mama does pray."

How my sweet grandma and I ever had such a misunderstanding I do not know! It looks like one of us would have sooner known the difference between a p and an s. Nonetheless, she was satisfied and relieved, and refocused, my gray-haired companion told me it was her time for prayer. Grandma remained in her closet, while I made my way into her nearby bedroom, and lingered there to listen to a melodious voice speak to God for each and every one of her children and grandchildren. It was like hearing an angel. So sincere, so pure, so heavenly, so selfless, so vibrant and alive, so true, and so unforgettable. It was spoken words showing unseen power.

As Grandma lifted her voice to the Lord, I would occasionally sneak a peek from around the bedroom corner. And with increased courage, I finally made my way into her closet to stand behind her and watch. Grandma's back was toward me, and she was on her knees, weeping, crying out, lost in a heavenly world of praising and asking and receiving. Her head even swayed in rhythm with her resounding words.

Etched in memory as a faithful portrait, those sterling moments on a sultry, summer Georgia day changed my life. If ever I had doubted what prayer was, the mystery was solved. Surely, Grandma had taught me to pray.

She had given me a foundation, a beginning point from which God could build prayer truths later in my life. And today, many years later, I am still learning truths, still searching for a deeper well, still grasping for greater power in prayer.

In our omnipotent God can I only find power in prayer. God is infinite. Limitless. And I am human and fully aware of my many limitations. And yet, those limitations should not bring me a dab of discouragement. FOR, Christ has given a promise! "[W]hatever you ask the Father in my name He will give you. Until now, you have asked nothing in my name. Ask, and you will receive, that your joy may be full" (John 16:23-24).

ASK! GIVE! RECEIVE! Action verbs! And some of Jesus' final words to His disciples before His passion began. And the message in that scripture from John is greater still, as it reveals His and the Father's heart. THEY WANT US TO PRAY! THEY WANT OUR JOY TO BE FULL!!! Christ has shown us the key to prayer and joy! It begins with a gift of contract left to us from God the Father and God the Son. We can use the name of Jesus to implore our Father to respond to our needs!

And our needs, all of them, God knows all about and fully understands. "For your Father knows the things you have need of before you ask Him" (Matthew 6:8).

Before. Not just when. Before. God knows. He Sees.

El Roi is one of my favorite names of God. Its Hebrew meaning is The-God-Who-Sees and is described in The Woman's Study Bible as The Responder to needs!

Hallelujah! Oh, how the Lord loves us!!! He looks! He sees! He knows! That prayer truth fills my soul with unspeakable, bubbling joy!

God is so amazing! He loves us so! He longs for us to pray!

He watches us! Examines our needs with His divine eyes. Looks for us to look to Him! Wants to share life with us! All of life! To have communion with us!

And God wants us all to recognize our need for Him! To see our needs in light of Who He is! God wants to fill a void in us that cannot be filled any other way but by prayer. God wants us to see Him as our Father. And from our parental relationship with Him, God wants to meet our needs, to answer our prayers. And our answers will come as you and I see God as El Roi, as our very own Father in heaven, Who loves and cares for us, Who sees, and Who wants us to connect with Him through the name of His only Son, Jesus Christ.

Let's take a quick but closer look at John 16:24. Notice again the reason for answered prayer is "that your joy may be full." The Greek word John used for joy is chara, which means calm delight, the cause or occasion for joy, or exceeding gladness. It emphasizes the abiding permanence of joy.

Pleroo, the Greek word for full, means to fill to the full; to make complete in every way; to bring to realization; to cause God's will and promises to receive fulfillment. Pleroo is also found in John 15:11 and I John 1:4.

Consider also that the Greek word for ask implies a continuous state of asking! And remember that Jesus, in John 15, had just revealed our necessary state of abiding in Him, a living, constant, unbroken relationship where we remain fixed in Christ. Through union with Him, we take our needs to God, those needs that our Father already sees and understands, and we ask for divine intervention in the name of Jesus.

And the God Who sees us and the God Who hears us is the God Who answers us. He answers that we remain in a constant condition of calm contentment. He answers that in the middle of a mess, in the context of need, we can have delight, contentment, peace, joy. Our imperfect, fleshly life can have perfected joy through the Holy Spirit.

Joy is ours to realize. It is ours to ask. Christ is ours for abiding. Yes, simply asking, just pouring out our hearts to our Savior, to our God, will bring us joy complete. For our asking is our faith in action when Jesus is our vine and we one with Him.

As I close this post, I am asking myself, "Andrea, why in this world would you ever doubt The-God-Who-Sees? Why should you ever use God as a spare tire(please see quote at post's end)? Why do you sometimes delay asking when God desires you have delight?"

My friend, God longs for the melodious sound of your voice. Yes, your cry to Him is like my grandma's were to me. Sweet harmony. Yours is the voice of His beloved. And your rejoicing is the overflowing completeness of His kingdom revealed in you. Right now, God's hands are extended to you. In them he holds your joy.

JUST FOR US TO PONDER. . .

All of us have a measure of faith given to us by God. How much faith does it take to receive not only salvation, but the fulfillment of joy?

How do you, in your walk with God, reach a level of prayer that leads to completion of joy?

What specific times in your life do you remember abiding joy?

Hagar said that the Lord was to her ""the God Who sees me" (Genesis 16:13). Have you ever experienced such helplessness as Hagar did and in your despair, been blessed by the presence and intervention of El Roi?

"Is God your steering wheel or your spare tire?"

Corrie Ten Boom
Research is from e-sword.

Please Remember. . .

"When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past. . . "

-William Shakespeare
A maize sun settled straight above. Surrounded by white, downy clouds, it gave warmth. Not sultry heat. Just balmy comfort. It was a salve. An ointment of peace to bathe, with its soothing smoothness, all around. It was complete, eclipsed all bars, purged each object in its path with purity for its honest lustre and perfect poise.

Silky sands had soaked in its rays. Using my fingers as a sieve, I moved the fine white grains. Remembered God's promise to His friend. "I will surely bless you and make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and as the sand on the seashore" (Genesis 22:17). Amazed, I felt the strength of one tiny crumb of the sugar white. Poured through my hands the pieces whose shade likened to Easter lilies or cow's milk.

My children ran with their father. Enlivened by the cold, splashy waves of the gulf, my then young family danced. Leapt in the tides. Rejoiced in the freedom of a blessed moment of simple presence.

I can still picture my eight year old Chris and his surprise at the force of waves and their foamy diffusion over his body, in his sky blue eyes, up his nose, in his ears, and across his fair face. His brother Steven, two years his senior, barely noticed. Caught up in the power of the breakers and the majestic, unfurling waters, Steven with his olive skin and deep brown eyes, simply desired to make haste with the chance for fun and sun. My dear husband stood near, too immersed in frosty salt waves. As I noticed him notice and saw his smile, I found an impressed image, one that would never pass.

Our little visit to the sea became a snug memory keenly etched and stored in a tidy corner of our minds, there to abide among other family albums. These are brought in and browsed through on special occasions. Like tapered vanilla candles and an ivory damask cloth, dear moments so fixed in motion give beauty, light, and scent to our family table.

When alone, I have feasted from their manna. In my quiet, I remember. At times, my dear husband and I bring out these treasures and feed upon their goodness, relish in their own meaning with thirty-two perspective years. When sitting by the fire, drifting off to sleep, or driving down a reaching road, they are often our companions, giving joy, muse, thanks, sweet seasons.

Created once. Recreated. Again. Again. Again. Returned to shelf. Taken. Reread. Relived. Again and again. Always with heartened animation.

Our memories are alive with wings and settle within our nests, lighting with love upon our fleshly tables. They glow. Are bright to share, to wonder, to teach, to grieve, to change, to feel, to impart, to rest, to joy, to handle, to know again, to pass to others, to regift as though new.

Such passing, this regifting, I have now begun to experience with my own sons and grandchildren. Just the way my dear grandparents and parents did for me, I am finding it ever tempting to tell, to ask.

"Would you like to hear about Mimi when she was a little girl?"

"Whes, whes!" A little head shaking so encourages the telling.

Exquisite. Wondrous. Miraculous. Like the loaves and fishes, memories multiply. Like the widow's cruse of oil, they remain. Like Joseph's store, they bless in famine. Remembering. Sharing. Telling. Giving. Blessing. . . . And compelling.

"And don't you remember?" was Christ's compelling to his disciples. The question was not expected. His words pierced. Cut. Made them think. Gave them fear. Caused them wonder.

Why would He ask about the past at a time like this? They were tired, hungry. Flustered, floundering, with failed memories; they had foraged through the boat and realized they had only one loaf of bread.

Jesus' words pressed their hearts. Stirred instability. Charged ignorance. Challenged faith. Yet, empty stomachs stopped the ears of deep hearing. That real hearing that listens with heart and soul, not ears alone.

Jesus asked them: "Why are you talking about having no bread? Do you still not see or understand? Are your hearts hardened? Do you have eyes but fail to see, and ears but fail to hear? And don't you remember? When I broke the five loaves for the five thousand, how many basketfuls of pieces did you pick up?" "Twelve," they replied. "And when I broke the seven loaves for the four thousand, how many basketfuls of pieces did you pick up?" They answered, Seven." He said to them, "Do you still not understand?"

Can you hear it? The desperation in our Savior's voice? The longing in His heart, propelling Him to compel, to plead, to extract belief from His disciples? Can you feel the sting in Jesus' heart as with passion He cries, "Do you still not understand?"

Christ had turned water into wine, healed the sick, restored sight, raised the dead, delivered from demons, revealed His deity, delivered the Truth, walked on water, taught them trust, shown them faith, spoken to a storm, given hope, fed five thousand, fed four thousand.

And still they struggled. They struggled with belief in Him. They struggled with remembering His works. The disciples were still leaning on their fleshly hearts, their practical minds that limited God's response to personal needs.

Eyes had seen. Ears had heard. Still, they did not get it. The worker of these works they had witnessed was "The Anointed One." Jesus Christ was their Messiah, the Son of the Living God, Who can and will do more than imaginable.

Christ's response to their faint hearts was "After all you have seen, after all you have heard, after spending time in My presence, after walking with Me, talking with Me, seeing Me in the flesh, face to face, knowing My name, watching My faith, noting My love, finding My peace, marking My steps, eyeing My hand extended, do you not really know Who I Am?"

And surely He asks me too today. "Andrea, do you really know Who I Am? Do you not remember My word? Are you not reminded of My works? Do you not believe My voice? Are you not confident in My care? Will you not remember Me?"

Remember. I must remember. You must remember. We must remember Who Jesus is. And Whom we serve.

My friends, we do not serve a wimpy God. We do not serve a clockmaker who created a world to let it orbit and live on its own. We do not serve a senseless God who could not care less. We do not serve one who forgets us.

No, He has written Your name on the palm of His hand! He is touched with the feelings of your infirmities! Jesus understands all we suffer, for He has been there. All our pain and sorrow are known by Him! And He remembers us and knows the plans He has for us, plans to give us hope and a future!

But, we must choose to remember. The Greek word for "remember" in Mark 8:18 means to exercise memory, to rehearse, to be mindful. A passive act? What? No! A "mindful" one with intention to rehearse, review, remember. . .until we know. Until we trust. Until our faint hearts are full of faith, ready to render all to Jesus.

Life events have lately challenged me to remember. To recall the mighty acts of our God. To relive His past moments of kindness and care for my family. To feed on His faithfulness. To once again place my feeble hand in His, Who will never lead me away from His grace and love. To Remember His hope. To remember His love. To remember His truth. To remember.

My dear husband will have a biopsy next Thursday. This problem I have not before mentioned, but it could be a serious one. Yet, we both have peace. I trust in His name.

After all results are in from the biopsy, Jeff will have a heart cath to rule out all suspicions of a blockage.

He is doing better today, for which I am indescribably thankful. And, oh, how much I appreciate your prayers! Your love and concern and uplifted voices to our heavenly Father are such a precious sacrifice. Thank you, dear friends, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Scriptures are from NIV Bible

Scripture references include Mark 8:14-21; Isaiah 49:16; Hebrews 4:15; Jeremiah 29:11

Greek Word Study is from e-sword

I want to give a special thank you to Rebecca of A Gathering Place, whom you will find at her beautiful site at http://www.gatheryeroses.com/. Rebecca is a wonderful woman of God, and she is one of the most talented and creative people I have ever met. Rebecca has been a great inspiration to me and a dear friend.

She had a give-away a little while back, and how excited I was when I found out I had won!!! Pictured below is the lovely handmade sachet. It is beautiful and is filled with a heavenly lavender scent. It found a perfect place in my home, where it hangs on my bedroom door.

Thank you, Rebecca, for having the give-away, and for always sharing your heart with others.

My Own Dense Wood

"The Lord GOD is my strength, and He has made my feet like hinds' feet, and makes me walk on my high places."

Habakuk 3:19

I have been reading the Christian classic, Hinds Feet On High Places. If you're not familiar with the story, it is an allegory. It tells a triumphal tale of little Much-Afraid, who must choose to follow her Shepherd to the beautiful High Places or stay among her vile relatives and continue in her cozy little white cottage in the village of Much-Trembling.

Choosing to follow the gentle, loving Shepherd, Much-Afraid agrees to leave the Valley of Humiliation and begin her journey, one which will cause her to develop hinds' feet. Her new feet will cause her to soar in love above voices of fear and dread.

She endures along her way. She even makes it through many treacherous crags with faith and grace given her by the Shepherd. After making it through jagged cliffs, Much-afraid is led by Him to the dark, dense forest of the unknown. She immediately hears icy voices that challenge her faith. One voice, Craven Fear, who wants to be her first love, taunts and teases her, seeks to sow seeds of doubt in her heart. Begs her return to what she knows.

I had just sat down at the computer Sunday evening, having recovered from achy fatigue and a migraine headache that kept me from church that night. His voice summoned me to our den. "My heart is beating so fast." Jeff's voice sounded alarmed, and complaints from him are rare.

"What's going on?" I asked, alarmed at his words. "I don't know," he replied. "My heart just feels like it's beating really fast. I suggested a visit to the ER; my gracious husband stubbornly declined. After a while, Jeff said he felt better, and we ate BLT''s and potato salad.

I am a slow eater. Jeff eats quickly. He seemed relaxed as he watched television while I finished my meal. Suddenly, with distress of spirit, Jeff held his chest and voiced pain. "It feels like my heart is about to burst out of my chest."

I was jolted. I wanted to call 911. He said, "No. no." I told him most firmly that he had to go to the emergency room. He finally obliged. Insisted we drive. So, I dressed. Hurriedly. Grabbed purse. We made haste to the car. Drove as safely as we could to the hospital, thanking God it was only three minutes away.

Post-haste was the nurses response. An EKG was done. From the corner of my right eye, I saw a nurse leave the triage quietly, and perceived her then running response down the hallway as a sure sign something was so wrong.

Dear husband was rolled into a room where an assembly of medical staff awaited to quickly wire him up. They began probing, sticking, and arranging him on a bed.

I sat in a chair beside. Felt my own heart pound. Sensed that tight knot that grips your throat and belly with chill. Watched. Waited. Wondered. Prayed. And prayed. Prayed that inside prayer one and God alone hears, understands. Desperation had made its way to me. Fear took his icy fingers and wrapped them around my knowing soul.

The doctor asked, "Where's the crash cart?" Nurses assured it was near.

Another jolt. This one went deeper. Jabbed. Stuck. Hurt. Felt like a threatened abyss.

"Be strong. Trust. Pray. Believe. Know. Rest. Find your hinds' feet. They are there. Don't cry. Jeff needs you steady." Such words I said to self. Over and over they whirled in my spirit along with fear, pain, hollow, and hope.

I watched those in green and white work their work on he who was to them any unknown afflicted but to me was my one and only. Who takes care of me. Comforts. Cares. Always. Keeps. Prays. Seeks my best. Lends me strength. Causes me courage. Hears my heart. Holds my hand.

I thought about the mutability of life. The abruptness of change. The inability to control. How pain comes out of nowhere and smacks you right in the face and determines to take your life and knock you out.

With placid trust, yet nagging fear I sat, and at once, felt relief when his heart rate slowly drifted down. With its slow ebb, I, too, wafted into guarded peace.

I listened to the doctor's words. Heard his summation. Savored each word to be sure to absorb their meaning and succeed in their recitation to my sons, whom I knew would be soon shaken.

Knowing Jeff was better, now OK, I left to call Steven and Chris, dreading to speak, yet anxious to bear my soul and share my fear.

"We don't know." I tried to sound calm. Did not want my voice to crack. Did not want my heart to wince. "It could be a heart attack. He may have a blockage. They know he has some problems with the electrical circuits of his heart. We'll know more after more tests. I'll call back in a few hours."

You who have experienced that waiting time know its agony. I prayed. Sat. Stirred. Regarded Jeff's stillness. Prayed. Sought. Stirred. Wondered. Watched nurses faces as they moved in and out the room.

Four hours passed. Good news. It was not a heart attack. Yet, it still could be a blockage. Jeff will have further tests next week.

With thankfulness, with comfort, with post-knowledge I rest today. Still concerned, but encouraged as my dear husband now seems himself. He reassures me all will be OK. We will soon find out more about the ventricular tachycardia, the likely culprit of this shivery experience that has left us stunned from its suddenness.

I covet your prayers during this time. I so need hinds' feet that I may skip and soar and be what I most need to be for my precious husband. I so desire, more than life itself, more than any language could express, more than any material blessing I could ever receive, Jeff's health and complete healing.

I appreciate my blogging friends and the strength I know to receive from your prayers. God is faithful. We are in His hands. He will not fail us and cannot forget us. Please remember Jeff. I love you all so very much and know your faith and, even more, know the power of praying women changes lives. Thank you in the dear name of Jesus Christ.

To Have, To Hold, To Love Thee

Sonnet XLIII

from Sonnets from the Portuguese

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday's

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men might strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints,–I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life!–and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

I today awakened to sweet song of baby birds and whispering thoughts of my love. I eased through my early routine and found my morning spot on my sofa, where I read devotionally. My glass of water, placed beside me as usual by my dear husband, was full of ice and cold, just as I like it, so I sipped, and waited.

A soft, dear hand took mine in his. "Happy Anniversary," said he. "I can't believe it's been thirty-two years," said I. "Where has time gone? We're getting older." "No," my dear one replied. "No." Jeff's loving smile reminded me that God's best gifts grow richer in grace with years.

Vintage is such a lovely way to walk with marriage. A godly relationship appreciates with passing time, growing stronger, showing more honor, having greater love, gaining more patience, learning more value, sharing more joy. With Christ as its center, our Master designs, weaves a masterpiece, a work of His art, one wrought on the loom of time, with trials, with trust, with want and need, through peril, through darkness, in sickness, in storms, in health, in light, in line with His word, in plenty, in hard times, in sweet times. All joins together, becoming a beautiful tapestry of graceful truth, full of real faith, real flaws, and real love.

This most precious piece is not ours for gloating, but for using and handling. It is a work of art to be studied by our children and theirs and others around us. A still imperfect, textured fabric, testifying, not of our strengths or talents, but of the humble work of a merciful God, who takes what little thread and fabric we have to yield to Him and graces it with the beauty of Jesus Christ, His Son.

Thank you, dear Lord, for a godly husband and thirty-two years of our sharing Christ together and walking, hands bound as one, with faith in ministry and life. Thank you, dear heavenly Father, for the unity of your Spirit and the bond of peace, for without your work, our home would be empty and cold, our children and grandchildren lost, unconscious of God's sacrifice of love and His cherished handiwork. Please grant us continued grace and strength to honor you and each other. And for as long as we both shall live, may our marriage ever bring you glory.

A Portuguese proverb says that "Time brings roses." A precious anniversary day brought a dozen to my door. Dearest husband, "If I had a rose for every time I thought of you, I'd be picking roses for a lifetime" (a Swedish proverb).

The Last Goodbye

"If you are able, save for them a place inside of you and save one backward glance when you are leaving for the places they can no longer go. Be not ashamed to say you loved them, though you may or may not have always. Take what they have taught you with their dying and keep it with your own. And in that time when men decide and feel safe to call the war insane, take one moment to embrace those gentle heroes you left behind.

Major Michael Davis O'Donnell, Vietnam Listed as KIA February 7, 1978

He remembered the face peering through the window. A longing, lonely wave said the last goodbye. My dear husband, Jeff, a tall, lanky, fourteen year old boy, returned the glance of his much beloved uncle, almost a boy himself, but aged enough to venture into a tumultuous, erratic war of the 1960's that called many brave young men from their roots to dense, perilous forests and bloody fields filled with hopeless, heartless soldiers, in shock from the trauma of their new home, violence, bloodshed, horror, pain, and grief.

Jeff stared, watching, as Nick drove away, leaving my husband at his Boy Scout meeting. Later that afternoon, Nick would leave his sweet little home on a north Georgia hill and begin an hour's drive to Atlanta, where a plane would signify his journey to the killing fields of Vietnam. In the quiet hours that come after the somber leaving of one so loved, Jeff studied the life of his uncle. He pondered the one he had come to know and grown to love, his mother's loving, stout younger brother, who was more like a brother to Jeff himself than the uncle he was.

Jeff believed Nick invincible. His belief was built on the actualities of Nick's self. He was robust, healthy, scarcely a novice at life, full of courage, and undaunted by anything life swung his way. Jeff remembered playing a game of darts with him. One dart accidentally hit Nick in the leg, penetrating his tough flesh. His uncle immediately pulled it out and threw it down as if nothing had happened. That was Nick. Brave. Immune to fear. Unshaken by shock. Unyielding to pain.

So, Jeff had every reason to believe a safe return home awaited his dear uncle, his friend, his hero in life. How could any less be possible for one so strong and valiant? What else could a fourteen year old boy be expected to believe? Jeff's last conversation with his uncle is now in my husband's mind and heart, forever engraved, letters in stone. He hears Nick's powerful voice as if yesterday they spoke. "You'll be back," with believing heart, he told Nick. Nick's quiet response gave young, teenage Jeff a pause of shock. "Watch out for Mama and Daddy. Their getting older. They don't have much money. They need somebody to take care of them. . . . Because I know I won't be coming back." It was much too much for Jeff's youthful heart. However disturbed, he remained endeared to his hopefulness of seeing Nick again.

Six months later billows of grief surged through the Janes family. A hollow knock on a dear mother's door brought news feared by all whose loved ones live on hostile foreign soil, fighting for freedom and love of country. On a cool morning in the coastal city of Nha Trang, a claymore mine had unexpectedly detonated as Nick attempted to disarm it. Nick was instantly killed. His body was returned to his beloved home in the North Georgia hills, and the family, including my dear husband, was wrought with the sting of death.

On a lovely, warm summer evening in 2003, my husband and I enjoyed a late walk in the stately city of Washington, D. C. Brought there by a church council meeting, the opportunity gave us time to soak in the sights of our country's capital. Our final design at that day's end was to visit the Vietnam Memorial. We feared the darkness might thwart our purpose, yet we

pursued our course, longing for a glimpse of Nick's name on the massive monumental wall.

Thumbing through the voluminous book of those who had died or remained missing for their country in the easternmost part of the Indochina Peninsula, we quickly found his name, Nicklos Byron Janes, along with the listed wall section, where we could witness Nick's personal memorial, carved into the black granite wall. We walked. I wondered at the soon realization of our expectation. Our steps increased with anticipation. I felt my heartbeat rise as we drew near. Finding the proper section, we quickly found Nick's name. We gazed and touched. Felt the smooth, silky stone. Stood, in memorable pause, at the name of a loved one, gathered with what would now be 58,259 others. It was at once humbling and staggering. Pure and tragic. Sobering and thoughtful.

Today we honor Nick and millions of others who served and gave all for love of God and country. And now, in the reminder of loss, I am reminded of the reality of death and the truth of God's word. For Christians and all, the Apostle Paul, appeals through the scriptures that "Death is swallowed up in victory," and he says, "O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?" (I Corinthians 15:54,55).

May we all remember. May we all take pause. May we all believe in hope. May we all trust in God's infallible word. For those for whom we mourn, who followed the path of Christ, wait patiently on the other side. With the Lord, they are present, in their heavenly home. May any grief we feel not yield to bondage, but may it rather rise in faith, knowing that we are all in a temporal state, living for an eternal destiny, a sure hope. And may this hope, this blessed promise of Jesus Christ, render us today and always to a life of service for Him, and an always there faith that credits us with righteousness and prepares us for our better place.

Matthew Henry, a devoted theologian of the eighteenth century, spoke eloquently this truth: "Tears are a tribute to our deceased friends. When the body is sown, it must be watered. But we must not sorrow as those that have no hope; for we have a good hope through grace both concerning them and concerning ourselves." May the peace of God go with you today and bring you holy pause and sweet remembrance, giving you special grace and rich thoughts in Christ for the week ahead.

A Twilight's Teaching

"When twilight drops her curtain down, and pins it with a star, remember that you have a friend, though she may wander far."

Lucy Maud Montgomery
The night fell with a beautiful twilight, diffusing soft light through the day old sky, with hues of pink, like tea rose and cherry blossom, blended with red coral and fire brick, touched subtly with thistle, amethyst, and laced with beige, like wheat. The day's end ebbed gently away, yet supremely approached its leaving with elegance, affecting the setting of sun and the coming darkness with relief, remorse, beholden, believing, dreaming, daunting, with regards of past and prospects of future.

I watched her watch that evening sky. Through the wide window she gazed, sat, stilled, as our sweet little made-up home grew dusky, then darkened, then dark. I spoke. She stayed silent. I pursued conversing. She refused to comply. "What are you doing Grandma?" "I'm just thinking about things," she replied. I knew to engage no longer. I left. Returned. Left. Came later. Left, again. Returned, once more. And left, again.

My wonder at her wonder, her agile patience and the depth of her solitude were much to perceive for one fourteen years old, who sought solace and felicity with the hope of a life before her from one who had lived a life of prayer and truth, a walk with God that equaled no other I knew, and whose great love for me had been security in the days, months, and years following the death of my beloved father.

Indeed, the Lord Himself sent my dear grandmother to our lonely little home to comfort our broken hearts and fill our rooms with her sweet savor and cautious sensibility. Her life was life for us, especially for me. I had always been endeared to her. Loved her fiercely. Longed for her with heart-wrenching hope. And her presence in my pain filled a void that only eternity will tell.

At night, in bed, she comforted me, talked to me, told me of her life. Times growing up with her many sisters, their searches through shivery wood on snowy days, their thorny treks to school, their making-do in meagerness, her loving mother, whom she adored, who loved flowers, flourished with kindness, whom she missed so, of whom she dreamed, now saw endowed with a pink robe, and a new greater love.

My dear grandma and I read our Bibles together, prayed together, talked together, counseled together, learned, reasoned, laughed, lived together. For her unreserved love and dedication to me and my best I am forever grateful. Her gift of her giving spirit and her patient, prayerful life heard many days, and nights, behind closed doors, laid a lasting foundation of love, a legacy to be passed on to my children and theirs.

That one twilight etched in my memory like letters in stone. I saw my dear one in heartbreaking pain, unmoving in dusky dark, who with the growing night, became a lone silhouette against a diminutive waning glow. Grandma carried the burdens of us all. Her children, grandchildren, and her own private pain of a less that perfect love for my dear grandfather, whose less than perfect life brought her more than little grief.

Wanting to cheer her lonely heart and longing to have her again as my own, I searched for words to hurry and heal and bring life to my grandma's still self. I think she understood. . . . And she loved me the more, knowing my vast dependence on her as my rock and strength. Realizing my lonely teenage person was yet too young to fully know the joy of the Rock of my salvation.

Days following, Grandma's heart was again stout, her spirit revived, and she was once more herself. And again she was my joy. But deep in my heart a truth took hold. A lesson won. Like clay in a modeler's hand, God took my dear one's pain and shaped it before me, sowed this vision in my spirit, reached my heart through my sore eyes.

Looking back at that twilight, I now hear the Father whisper. "Life is imperfect. Yet must be lived. Can be lived. Will be lived. Not one heart is so sturdy that it cannot break. Not one spirit so pure that it lives without temptation to despair. Even those you love best, whose lives you so cherish, on whose very words and strength you depend, are not without weakness, fear, or confusion; none are immune from trouble, guarded from guilt, protected from private pain. But all who know My Name, who seek My trust, regard My will, will be kept by My grace, delivered from fear, and find My peace."

This May 20, my dear grandma would have been a centenarian. Until her death at age ninety-four, she remained a rock for me, always being my mentor and my friend. Her petite little figure was wrought with tall faith. Through her long life, she taught me the reality of God, for she lived in His truth and walked in His grace. She showed me the path of righteousness, as she walked it before me, with her love, with her faith, in her darkness, in her pain, and through her weakness. I now have, because of God's grace and my grandma's rich life, a still trust and a lasting hope. It is a pearl, pink-white, perfectly round, and will never lose its luster, a priceless gem, to be fully revealed in eternal light.

A song now pours through my heart. A rapturous voice of praise I learned in my teenage years found a forever place in my soul. Lodged there, settling with hope for all times and time, it still rings, triumphs with truth, with its overcoming words of life, at once yielding joy and hope.

Enjoy this precious hymn, written in 1834 by Edward Mote and William B. Bradbury. Please remember to mute the playlist, located at the bottom of the page.

"For no other foundation can anyone lay than that which is laid, which is Jesus Christ."

I Corinthians 3:11

A Mother's Day Tribute

This heart, my own dear mother, bends, with love's true instinct, back to thee!

Thomas Moore

She Walks in Beauty

by Lord Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

God forbid I let this day pass without tribute to my dear mother, whose grace gave me hope, whose hands healed my hurts, whose body knew no wear, whose heart heard my hopes, whose knees knelt in prayer, whose eyes eyed my tears; whose faith stood strong, in my father's death, in her pain, in lonely nights; whose life she spent striving each day to make our lives better, taking my brother, sister, and me to church, each Sunday; who was faithful to her job at AT&T, forty hours each week, rising early to prepare breakfast, arriving home to cook supper; who never once complained about taking me to the doctor, dentist, orthodontist, shopping, or piano lessons; who never thought of marrying again for the love her children; whose empty nest became a garden of roses; who now knows frail health; whose lips now bring me joy, each day, from miles away, with words . . . Are you ok?. . . How's Jeff?. . . Are you tired? . . . What about Steven? How's he? . . . Have you heard from Chris? . . . Are all the babies ok? . . . What did the doctor say? . . . How's the church? . . . I pray for you every day. . . . I pray for all of you. . . . I love you. . . . I'll talk to you tomorrow.

"She watches over the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness. Her children rise up and call her blessed . . . Give her of the fruit of her hands, And let her own works praise her in the gates" (Proverbs 31:27, 28, 31).