On Chastening

     "...My son, despise not thou the chastening of the Lord, nor faint when thou art rebuked of Him: for whom the Lord loveth He chastenith, and scourgeth every son whom he recieveth." -Hebrews 12:5&6   

     This post is not an easy one for me to admit to, because it very clearly shows my failings.  That being freely admitted I hope you will find forgiveness for those failings and learn from my weaknesses.  After all, the point of this entire blog is to share the very heart of me.  I cannot honestly endeavor to share myself if I refuse to share my moments of weakness as well as moments of strength.  Especially when those moments contain within them some of the most powerful examples of grace and love from the Lord.  So, here goes...

     This story begins Thanksgiving weekend 2003.  I had traveled to Phoenix to attend a church reunion and was fully enjoying my stay with family and friends while excitedly contemplating my plans for the future.  On Sunday afternoon I chose to take a small walk through the neighborhood around the church simply to drink in the sun and contemplate the lessons of the day.  As I walked the streets my eyes wandered to the beautiful mountains surrounding the city.  I was speaking with the Lord in my heart, thanking Him for the beauty of His creation when all at once as if sitting suspended over my view of the mountains I saw an image that I instantly knew was of a future time.  I was sitting at a dinning table surrounded by my children and my husband and we were preparing to eat.  As I looked on the scene I knew God was preparing a future for me in this desert.  I thought to myself, "Okay Lord, I never wanted to live in the desert but if this is your plan for someday then I am okay with it."  I didn't consider the image I had seen after that.  It was for someday far down the road, it did not impact my current plans or life in any way so I quickly pushed it to the back of my mind and the next day was back in Kansas City moving on with life.

     Over the next year I obtained a solid job with my university working in the financial aid department, I was finishing up my degree program and I had purchased my first home which was everything I could want or love in a home set on a hillside in farm country.  My life was full of church, family and friends.  I was on the right track.  But as the year went on I felt an unsettling in my heart and I found my thoughts turned toward the southwest. 

     Slowly I began to do research on jobs under the guise of a 'what if' scenario.  What if I did move there someday, where could I work?  Where might I live?  That year a group of my friends and I drove down to Phoenix for Thanksgiving weekend again.  There was no bolt of lightning, no trumpets sounding or booming voice telling me to move.  There was simply a growing fever burning in my heart and an image burnt on my mind imposed on the mountains.  I did my best to ignore this thought of moving.  Surely it was not the time, that was for a later date years and years down the road still.  I had a plan, I had a life in Missouri.  It was all so smooth and beautiful, surely God was not calling me here now?! 

     After returning home I could not get the thought out of my mind, "It's time to go."  I struggled through the winter with the decision.  I applied for several jobs at ASU and told the Lord if He wanted me there now He would need to prepare a job for me.  Of all the jobs I applied for, only one responded...the police department.  "I never want to work for a police department!", I thought, "This is ridiculous! I would hate the job completely."  I didn't want to even respond, but to show obedience I responded while praying, "Okay Lord, if this is where you want me I'll need your help to get this job."  Several months passed with me flying back and forth to take test after test, on each trip I was sure this would be the end of my trial and I would be able to stay in Missouri.  But a couple weeks later I would get a response that I had passed and when can we schedule the next test.  Finally, the last test loomed nearer and I felt sick to my stomach with the knowledge that I would pass yet again and be forced with the final decision to leave my home.  I knelt in my living room saddened, troubled and not a little bit stubborn and spent an entire afternoon in communion with my maker.  By the end of my long struggle I found myself broken, even more sad and completely at peace.  It was time to go.

     Moving across the country is never an easy task, but somehow everything fell into place perfectly and soon I was locked into a steady rhythm of day to day life.  I missed my home and farm country and seasons and family, but I had loved ones and family here too.  I was reunited with my dear cousin and childhood friend who became as close a sister to me as I ever could have hoped for had I been blessed with sisters.  I had her sweet babies to love on and great friends as well as a job I did not hate after all.  And in the back of my mind I had a promise of someday lingering in the distance.

     Then came the summer of 2009.  My dear Hedricks were leaving to go to Colorado.  The Lord had a work for them and they had their witness to go.  My dearest sister and friend, my babies and their father who was a confidant and trusted minister would no longer be a short drive away.  I dealt with the blow as gracefully as a broken hearted girl could do when faced with the knowledge that it was right in the Lord for them to go.  That year as I struggled with my loss I also had a loss of another kind.  The man I was dating, who I believed to be 'the one' did not turn out to be who I had thought.  I began to look for jobs in Colorado.  To dream of going to be with my Hedricks again.  I love the area they live in and would be more than happy to live there.  The nearby areas were hiring off and on, surely I could find something.  As I looked I began to pray for guidance.

     Have you ever prayed for the Lord to guide you but secretly begged Him to do what you want?  Well, that's what my prayers were and in my gut I knew they were wrong.  Heedless of the promises I had been given here and the knowledge that I was not truly seeking God's will but my own.  I began to investigate my options in earnest.  I was at the edge of applying for jobs several times but always felt held back by some unseen hand.  I would pray in those moments, "Please just tell me yes or no.", but a part of me was saying, "Just give me a yes so I won't feel guilty."  That year as reunion came I made a determination to fast and pray for a final word from the Lord on the topic.  In one of the sermons the minister said, "If you have a question to ask of the Lord, ask in faith and he will give you the answer you seek."  That's it! I knew for sure this was the weekend I would finally get my answer.  The days ticked by and with each meeting I sat in expectation of some word, sign or feeling...something that would for once put my mind to rest.  But nothing came.  Then it was the last service.  My ears and eyes strained with every effort to hear or see what the Lord would answer.  "Please Lord, I am listening." I cried in my heart.  Nothing.  Then the last song and prayer came.  "Here it is", I thought, "This must be the moment."  The Amen was said and no word had come.  No promised answer.  I left the service dejected and worn.  As I walked slowly to my house I struggled inside, "Why Lord, why won't you answer me? Have I not been faithful in asking?  Has my fast not been acceptable to you?  Where have I failed in my attempts to seek you?"  A faint image of a dinning table peeked into the corners of my mind, but I pushed it away thinking, "That is not what this is about!  That was for a later time, clearly there is no hope of that for me at this time."  The image then floated fully into the view of my consciousness, but again I rejected it and told myself to focus on the request at hand. 

     Again I addressed myself to the Lord, deliberately looking straight ahead to the mountains as I walked.  "Why won't you speak to me Lord?"  Then, as quiet as a whisper at the back of my mind and as loud as a burst of thunder from heaven I received my reply.  "Have I not promised a life for you here?"  My being, down to the marrow of my bones felt at once as frozen as ice and as shapeless as molten metal.  I could not form words, but my heart acknowledged the truth. "And why is that not good enough for you?"  There was the direct answer I was seeking, and the Lord was not pleased with me. I cannot explain to you how devastatingly crushed my entire being was.  I do not know how I made it home through the torrent of tears and apologies pouring out of me.  Of course I had been given a promise!  Why was I treating it like nothing?!  Why was I fighting to leave the very place I had been sent to with such great a promise as that?  Because in my weak an shortsighted self I did not see the result of His promise when I wanted it to be there.  Because I was impatient and attempted to make my own way instead of waiting on His perfect timing. 

     I entered my doorway and collapsed on the waiting ottoman.  I don't know how long I cried and apologized to the Lord for my impertinence.  Slowly as my strength drained away I was filled with a peace and love that told me I was forgiven.  As I continued to pray pouring my heart out to Him telling him of my loneliness and my fears, He comforted me with His spirit and restored my hope until I found myself at perfect rest.

     I still do not see that image in it's fullness.  I would like to tell you I never have moments of doubt, after that experience how could I right?  But I am a weak human and still have my moments of loneliness and fear, but I will never again ask to leave this desert He has sent me to for I know He has sent me for His good will and pleasure.  This testimony is not about who I will marry or if I will marry or when I will marry.  It's about my Heavenly Father who loves me enough to give me a royal chewing out when I forget His promises to me.  It's about learning that whatever is in store for this life that He has given me, whatever trials or joys lie ahead, it is the life He has promised to me.  And that promise alone is enough, for no matter how slothful I may be to remember His promises they are never far from His thoughts.  

On Baking

     If you have spent any significant amount of time with me you will know that I love to bake.  I love cooking in general, but baking is my favorite.  The only thing I love more than baking is cooking or baking for people I love.  I like to think that is something I got from my grandma Ruth.  She was a phenomenal cook.  Dinners at grandma's always consisted of: a meat, two veggies, a starch and dessert.  Even if the dessert was as simple as cottage cheese with peaches, there was always dessert. 
     Now, not knowing my grandma you may wonder just how having dinner equates to love so I shall attempt to explain.  My grandmother was never an overly 'huggy' grandma.  While you may have gotten a short hug or a pat on the head now and again, cuddling was not something that happened often....if ever.  Cuddles were grandpa's domain and he did plenty of it.  Grandma was always the voice of propriety almost to the point of being straight laced.  Everything was in it's proper order all of the time including children. If I were to stop right here you may get the impression my grandmother was a hard nosed and cold person, but I can never lead someone to believe that.  You see, there was another side to my grandmother, one that was best seen when in the kitchen. 
     Most days when my brothers and I came home from school we went straight to grandma's for the afternoon/evening.  As soon as I walked in the door my senses were immediately overwhelmed with the odor of hot cocoa and fresh baked cookies.  Grandma always had them waiting on the kitchen table for us.  Even now the thought of those chewy perfect peanut butter cookies makes me miss her.  She would always stand at the counter watching as we ate.  I remember wondering why she felt the need to watch us...did she think we would make a horrible mess?
     Growing up on a 300+ acre farm we had plenty of woods to roam and in those woods were the tastiest gooseberries I have ever had.  I remember in the summer time grandma would send us out to pick them (probably hoping for some peace and quiet) and when we would return she would bake the best gooseberry tarts you can imagine.  The perfect blend of sweet and sour curled up in a flaky pastry shell, it was heaven itself dancing on your tongue.  I would set up the step stool by the counter and watch while she mixed the dough and stirred the gooseberries and sugar on the stove.  The house minute by minute filled with the warmth of the oven and the odor of spices and sugars mixing.  When they were finally cooled (it felt like an eternity) we enjoyed them right on the spot with grandma, as ever, watching from her perch at the counter.
     Sunday dinners were the biggest affair with grandma.  Honey baked ham with cloves, mashed potatoes, green beans, rolls, carrots....the works were all on display on the dining table in her best blue and white china.  I remember the smells and sounds of family gathered together, talking and eating and laughing.  Almost always grandma was the last to eat.  She was up and down getting this or that out of the kitchen, then when things would settle and the needs dissipated I would see her sitting in her chair with the food on her plate barely touched as she sat and watched us after a few moments her face would relax and she would begin eating in earnest.
     Throughout my youth and adolescence I often wondered about grandma and her 'watching'.  Knowing the strict side of her personality I chalked it up to her waiting for someone to make a mess or need something fixed.  An inability to just relax and let the moment happen, but I now believe I was entirely wrong in that estimation.
      I don't know exactly when it happened or how, but as my teenage years went on I discovered I loved cooking and baking.  I enjoyed the process of combining ingredients that individually weren't so special but combined became something new and delicious.  But more than that I began to realize I enjoyed the pleasure people had from eating what I made.  I began to think of the people I was cooking for while I made the food.  How much this person would enjoy this dish and what if I added this spice...so and so would love that flavor.  The creation of the food became a process of putting my care for that person into the product.  I found myself holding my breath just a bit waiting to see if those I had made something for enjoyed it.  Is it too sweet?  Need more spice? Should I bake it a touch longer?  Those simple questions became a quest to find just the perfect combination that would bring them the greatest pleasure possible from my effort.
     One evening while sitting around the dinner table with a new casserole I had invented (Cheesy Asparagus and Potatoes)  I found myself sitting in my grandmothers position.  My plate was full of food that was barely touched and I sat focused, not on my meal or the conversation but on the people I loved who were eating my offering.  Did they enjoy it?  Did they know I thought of them and prayed for them while I made it?  Could they taste my love for them with every bite?
      All at once the light bulb went off in my mind.  That's what grandma was doing! She wasn't waiting for a mess to be made or making sure things were 'just so'.  She wasn't unable to enjoy the moment, she was watching us to see how well she had done.  She was waiting to make sure her offering of love had been accepted and enjoyed!  She was telling us with every stir of a pot and each scrape of a pan that she loved us.
     I am not like my grandmother in many ways.  Where she had things 'just so' I tend to have chaos.  While she was always perfectly put together, I many times am a shambles.  That being said when I am in the kitchen I feel very much a part of who she was.  When I am in the kitchen I am never alone, for in my mind I am standing by her side cooking away and thinking of and praying for those who would eat my small gifts of love. 

Chapter Two: A Promise by Moonlight

     The Missionary's Daughter

I haven't sewed my children's clo'se

For days, the way I'd like to do;

I don't neglect 'em, goodness knows, 

'Cept when it's my duty to;

They're less important, anyhow,

'Cause I'm a missionary now.

My heathen doll's not half so dear

As all my Christian children there,

And that's what makes my duty clear

To always give him speshul care;

'Cause I have found it wrong to do

The things I'm always wanting to.

-Burges Johnson

     When I was about seventeen and on a trip to visit my parents in Honduras I stumbled across the poem "The Missionary's Daughter".  It was in a small frame on my Mother's shelf.  In the frame next to the poem there was a picture of a small girl in braids teaching a rag'a'muffin doll while her other dolls in pristine condition sat on the floor unused.  

     As I read the words my eyes filled with tears and all of the pent up emotions from my childhood flooded back to me in an uncontrollable tsunami of sorrow.  I read it over and over, amazed that I had never seen this before in my parents home.  Where did it come from and how was it written so perfectly for me?  It was as though the author stepped into my seven year old brain and stood by watching every feeling I struggled with as a child.  How did they know? And why of all places was it here in my parent's home in Honduras?! 

     Sitting on the concrete floor of my parent's living room with beads of sweat rolling down my low back from the tropical heat as the constant whir of the ceiling fan spun overhead I faded away into a distant memory.  A night I promised myself never to forget, but which had grown dim with the passing of time.  All at once spurred by the words of a timeless poem I was shot back into my seven year old self.

     It was late at night and all of the house was asleep.  As I lie in my bed tossing and turning I saw the moonlight shining brightly through a crack in the blinds of my window.  Wanting to see the moon in it's full glory I quietly tiptoed down the hallway and into our living room.  The carpet was being replaced (or maybe just cleaned) so the furniture was moved back into the dining room leaving the picture window completely open to view.  As I turned the corner from the hallway I saw the living room full of silver moonlight.  I walked up to the window staring out at the shimmering scene below.  Trees a perfect blackness framed by silver gilding were casting strange shadows on the crystal blue light that filtered through the yard.  Above me the sky seemed full to spilling over with the largest most beautifully white moon I had ever seen.  I was in complete awe at the wonder surrounding me.  In the perfect stillness I began to talk to God.  

     I say talk and not pray because my conversation with Him was not in the standard "Dear God" and "Amen" order.  It was literally a pouring out of my heart to Him.  I thanked Him for waking me to see the beauty of the night.  I told Him how I had been feeling very sad, that I missed my Mom and Dad because they were very busy helping other kids.  I told Him I knew they were doing an important work and I should not be upset but happy that other kids felt loved and cared for.  Then I asked Him if it were possible, could  He please make me poor and brown so that I could be held and cared for too?  I told Him I knew Mom and Dad loved me, but sometimes I just wanted them to hold me.  Then I did what as an adult I shamefully fail to do...I was quiet and waited for an answer.  I watched the shadows move slowly across the lawn as I felt the Lord comfort my heart.  Then I told Him I knew He was right, that my parents had work to do and I had to understand that even if it was hard sometimes.  I promised Him I would not leave Him and would serve Him always, and could He please give me one blessing?  Would He please bless me to never forget this night and to always find wonder and beauty in the small things He created?  Then, with my heart finally at rest, I looked one more time at the moonscape before me trying to burn it into my memory and quietly slipped to bed.

    Sitting in my parent's house as an adult I felt ashamed to broach the subject with my Mom, afraid she would look into my eyes and know what I was struggling through.  Afraid to make her feel even the slightest twinge of guilt over their decisions when we were young.  But my curiosity got the better of me and, when I felt I was sufficiently under control, I asked her about the poem and if I could take it home with me.

   "Take it home with you?  That's my favorite poem, I love it.  No you can't take it.", I looked in her eyes pleading for understanding, "Mom, this was written for me.  I was that little girl.".  My Father overhearing the exchange became upset, "No you can't take it.  Your Mother gives up everything for everyone all of the time.  This is something that is special to her and I am putting my foot down.  You can't expect her to give up everything you know.".  The whole while he spoke I maintained eye contact with my Mom, my eyes growing teary as I tried to hold back my tears.  I do not know exactly what my Mother saw in my eyes, I have never asked her.  But I know what she saw convinced her of my deep set need for validation.  To know that at some level she understood there was a piece of me in that work, even if it was something she might never fully know or understand.  As she watched me never breaking eye contact she said, "No honey, it's okay she can have it."  

     They say there are two sides to every coin and as humans we are rarely if ever able to fully see or comprehend the side opposite to us.  A missionary's work is necessary and important, but I find only the glory of it is ever spoken of.  There is a glorious side, one that made me into the woman I am today who does her best to be reliant on the Lord at every turn.  There is also a side of great sacrifice that cannot be ignored or imagined away.  It's a sacrifice that is unexpected and affects every member of the family.  Growth is not achieved without sacrifice and because of that I am thankful for the sacrifice my family has made.    

Chapter One: His Hand Held Back the Tide

"He gathereth the waters of the sea together as an heap: He layeth up the depth in storehouses.  Let all the earth fear the Lord: let all the inhabitants of the world stand in awe of Him." -Psalm 33:7&8

     I was born of goodly parents.  That phrase has stuck with me since I first read it.  I have always believed it was the perfect beginning of a life story.  Because where does any story begin, if not with one's parents?   My story happens to begin with my parents and, thankfully for me, they were (and are) indeed goodly parents.   
    
     There are moments in your life that become imprinted on your memory, on the very essence of your being.  They influence and forever change who you will become.  My story, my heritage, is fully stocked with such moments and I feel utterly and desperately inept to put them into words with any justice to their creator.  I have taken a breath, said a prayer and hope against hope that somehow when I type the final words, a grace beyond my own capabilities will have stepped in and covered my inadequacies. 
    
     When I was about three and a half years old my parents made a decision which, at the time, seemed to be a foolhardy venture into self destruction with their entire family in tow.  They both felt they had been called to travel to Honduras to see for themselves what the impoverished families in that country might need for daily survival.  They wanted to serve, and they felt led to find service there.  Let me set the scene more completely for you.  My parents who did not speak Spanish (My mother had taken a couple classes, but spoke very little and nothing fluent.) decided to load myself and my three brothers into our Volkswagon van and drive from Rosemount, Minnesota to the Central American country of Honduras where we knew absolutely no one.  At that time the country of Nicaragua, just to the south of Honduras, was in full blown war and the refugees were being sent to camps in Honduras.  There was also during that time period civil unrest in both Southern Mexico and Guatemala.  Several missionary families had already been kidnapped by various guerrilla forces in each country and held for ransom.  Both of these countries would have to be driven through to get to the final destination.   
   
      My family members begged my parents not to go, and if they felt they must go please do not be foolish enough to take the children.  Homes were offered for us to stay in while my parents went on their adventure together, but the offer was denied.  My parents decided if we were to go we would go as a family.  They would not separate us for if the Lord saw fit to protect them, surely He would protect us together as well.  The appointed day for travel came and we set out on the road.  Little could I have known at the age of three and a half that the direction of my life would be forever changed in that single decision.  That very first leap of faith by my parents made all of the difference in the woman I am today.
    
     I should add that my Mother always said a very specific prayer whenever we would begin a trip.  She would ask God to bless us with faith and teach us to trust in Him.  It is a prayer I remember well and one I hope to pray over my own family someday.  But I will warn you, it is a prayer that is not for the faint of heart.  We quickly learned when Mom prayed for faith we were most certain to be faced with a dilemma that could not be solved without great prayer and reliance on the Lord.  As we got older my brothers and I felt a certain amount of dread when we heard the yearly prayer from Mom's lips. I remember begging her, "Please stop praying that!  We have enough faith now, I just want a nice peaceful trip this time." Mother of course, being a loving Mother, did not listen to my pleas but reminded me we would never reach a point in our lives when we would have enough faith because if faith is not growing it is most assuredly dying.
     
     I firmly believe it was because of my Mother's prayers that we never traveled to Honduras without having some mishap occur.  What to me at the time was anything from an inconvenience to a terrifying encounter, became in my heart the foundation of my faith in God.  Not as a being who watches our lives from a throne on high, but as a true Heavenly Father who is actively an omnipresent being in our lives.  Ever with us and in us and working through us as we struggle to understand our place in this world and the world to come.  This is the story of the first building block to that foundation in my life.
    
     It was, I believe, on our second trip to Honduras.  My brother Ronnie was about thirteen, Tommy six and John Michael just Three.  As we traveled toward Chorpus Christi, Texas my Father decided it would be neat to drive us down onto the beach several miles north of town.  It being winter time there was no one on the beach and he knew when the tide was out the sand would be packed down hard enough to drive on. 
    
     I remember the beach being grey and cold with a pretty stout wind blowing the grasses on the sand dunes that we passed driving toward the water.  We were all squealing at Dad not to drive us into the water while he laughed and said we could just drive our way to Honduras through the ocean.  I could barely make out the outline of the city as I looked down the beach into the cloudy horizon.  Everything was giggles and happiness until Dad realized he had miscalculated the tide.  All at once he realized the tide, which he had thought would still be out, was coming in and coming in fast.  Before he could put the van in reverse the tide had pulled our solid ground out from under us and we were stuck fast and hard.  Dad made one attempt to back up, but quickly realized that would only be certain disaster as the water rushed in even more pulling us under even more deeply.
    
     It was decided Mom and Ronnie would head down the beach toward town to get help while Dad waited with the rest of us at the van.  Looking back I cannot imagine what it must have been like for Dad to send off his wife and son into an unknown city while he waited, helpless to do anything to get us out.  How he must have wondered, what if something happened to them?  How long might it take before he needed to worry and what could he do about it?  What on earth would he do to occupy three children under six while we were all trapped inside a van being pulled into the sand?  None of those questions occupied my four year old mind.  At the time it did not dawn on me that my Father had anything to worry about.  All I found myself wondering was, why was Dad pacing back and forth outside the van and what if we are stuck here forever?  Could you get sucked into the ocean?
    
     I don't know who's idea it was because I have no memory of discussing it with my brothers, but somehow we decided what we needed to do was pray.  The three of us crawled into the back of our van and knelt down bowing our heads as far as we could.  Out loud and with as much fervor as I have ever prayed we asked the same thing over and over. "Dear God, please keep the water away, please keep us safe.  In Jesus' name amen."  For the entire time my Mother and Ronnie were gone we prayed non stop.  It must have been at least an hour's time, maybe more but we did not give pause until we heard the sound of an engine coming toward us. 
    
     When we finally looked up we saw my Mother and Ronnie coming down the beach in a tow truck.  The driver was able to pull us from our precarious position and we continued on our way, lesson learned.  Now here comes the amazing part.  It was years later that I heard my Father's account of that day.  It is through his account that I learned how swiftly and miraculously God answered the prayer of his three children that day.
    
     While I was watching my Father pace back and forth on the beach totally unaware of his concerns and fears, he was doing his own praying.  He watched the sand pull away from the front tires of the van until they were sunken in more than half way.  Quickly losing hope of getting the van out in time he was pacing and asking God what he could do when, to his amazement, he saw the water was not coming up to the tires anymore.  Unable to believe what he was seeing he walked around the van and saw that everywhere on the beach the tide was rushing in up past the tires of the van, but in the space right around the van no water was coming in.  For the entire time that he waited for my Mother to return he watched the tide as it stayed back from the van, never once coming near.
   
      After my Mom returned with the tow truck and everything was hooked up he watched as the driver pulled the van from it's location.  As soon as the van was pulled out the water rushed back into the space taking back it's rightful place on the beach. 
   
      I know of no science that explains how the oceans tides will pick and chose where to come in and where to hold back.  I do know of a God who made the ocean tides, who for His own good will and pleasure can and will hold back the very waters of the sea as His children plead for His grace and protection.  I know it because I was there when His very hand held back the tide.