A Lesson from John Donne

Driving to Art yesterday, a day full of tumult after unregulated consumption of brownies by one of my darling babes the previous night, I was encouraged, challenged, reinvigorated when I remembered the words of a friend, spoken years ago as she struggled to get through to one of her children: "I'm not going to lose this kid."  It may sound a bit dramatic, but it reminds me that the time to capture our children's hearts and minds is short, and that the task of capturing their hearts and minds is worth expending enormous amounts of energy and creativity, worth digging deeper into one's heart than one had imagined ever having to do - all in order to capture a child's heart and mind.  It reminded me that my love absolutely cannot be exhausted. Rather, I must show this child - all of my children, really - that my love remains steady and fully committed to bringing about good for and in him.  I cannot give up, I cannot grow weary.  I must press on, loving obviously and consistently.

In the midst of these thoughts, I remembered one of my favorite John Donne poems.

A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER.

by John Donne

I.

WILT Thou forgive that sin where I begun,

    Which was my sin, though it were done before?

Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through which I run,

    And do run still, though still I do deplore?

        When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,

                    For I have more.

II.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won

    Others to sin, and made my sin their door?

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun

    A year or two, but wallowed in a score?

        When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,

                    For I have more.

III.

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun

    My last thread, I shall perish on the shore ;

But swear by Thyself, that at my death Thy Son

    Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore ;

        And having done that, Thou hast done ;

                    I fear no more.

I've always derived a certain amount of delight from the knowledge that my second child's name is homonymous with one of my favorite poets of all time.  Yesterday, I felt an even greater joy in the never unnoticed coincidence.  (We didn't set out to name him after Mr. Donne, but I was not disappointed that it happened so).  The lines, "When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done, for I have more" echoed in my mind, a reminder of the Father's unending, undespairing love...  a love to which I must turn when I would rather throw my hands up in despair than wrap them around a frustrated child or allow them to rest at my side, a quiet reminder that when he has done growling, pestering, shouting, or otherwise making himself thoroughly unpleasant, my love hast not done.  I might change the poem a little - "When thou hast done, I have not done.  I have more."  As I commune with my children and with any who share or cross my path, may I faithfully and forever follow the example of the One whose mercy and grace outlast my sin and wretchedness.  May I in ways small and large communicate the reality that God's love is full and free - and forever.

Some Things You Just Can't Get at the Grocery Store

If you've ever gone grocery shopping with four children, you know the sort of comments such an adventure elicits.

"Are they all yours?"  


"Wow!  You've got your hands full!"  


"Bless your heart..." 


"I don't know how you do it."


Yeah, it gets old.

What you might not know, especially if your routine generally involves taking four children to the grocery store, is that a trip to the grocery store without children brings its own set of comments.  Recent gems include:

"You have enough in there to feed an army." (This said as a complete stranger peers into my shopping cart and I silently thank God that I'm not buying feminine hygiene products or anything of an equally delicate nature on this particular shopping excursion.)


"A bunch of people are going to run out of the house to help you unload those groceries, right?"


The givers of the comments above were both late-middle-aged people, apparently shopping for themselves alone, and were actually rather nice folks who didn't speak maliciously.  However rude it is to comment on the fullness of someone's shopping cart, neither was mean about it.  They simply pointed out that my cart was full...  even though it didn't seem all that full to me on either occasion.

I'll confess, though.  Um...  I can be a bit snarky now and then.  Maybe, just maybe, it crossed my mind to look into the cart of the next person who tells me how full my cart is, and say, "Aw, eating alone tonight?"  What better way to highlight how rude it is to comment on the contents of a fellow shopper's buggy?

But I don't think I'll ever do that.  You see, driving home from the store this past Saturday, I realized a few things, starting with the fact that a bunch of people would come running to help me unload the van.  I also realized that for me, a solo trip to the store is more a break from real life than it is an excursion into real life.  I don't go to the store for contact with other (adult) human beings.  I don't go for adventure or excitement.  I have ample adventure and excitement at home.  I go to the grocery store because we need food for all these mouths, and I go alone to enjoy the peace and quiet of a rare outing by myself.  (But mainly because we need food).  The store - this place bustling with people - is not the hub of life.  Home is the hub where everything exciting and marvelous and chaotic happens, and a wonderful hub it is.

Two blocks from home, when I realized that life -rich, crazy, busy, demanding, glorious life - was about to resume, all snarky thoughts of what I might say to the next person who told me I could feed an army melted into thankfulness for my little army, for the ability to feed them, and for the eagerness with which they would help unload the groceries.  (Ahem, the eagerness with which some of them would resign themselves to running bags of food to the back door and drop everything into one huge heap of food and plastic bags while others would take the opportunity of an open van door to plant themselves in the driver's seat and pretend to drive, but hopefully not push too many of the wrong buttons on the dashboard...)

I am thankful.  My crazy-full shopping cart, whatever anyone feels compelled to say about it and whatever it costs me at the checkout counter, is a gift.  And the reason it is so full...  this crazy-darling little army I'm feeding - is a greater gift, one you just can't find at a grocery store...

...Unless Geoff's not home, and I have to take them with me.

Do You Want to Get Well?

"Do you want to get well?"  Jesus asked the invalid beside the pool.  And then He healed him of his thirty-eight year infirmity.

In The Rest of God, Mark Buchanan asks his readers the same question regarding spiritual sicknesses.  "Do you want to get well?"

As we discussed this question in Sunday School today, the issue of holding onto memories and mementos of a deceased loved one arose, bringing with it the questions of what healthy grief looks like and how long it ought to last.  It was neither an easy nor a comfortable conversation for more than one of us.  As is often the case, I found myself unable to put much of what I thought into words as I struggled with the question of how to let go of grief... and then, whether we even ought to let go of it.

One clear thought, which I dared not attempt to share aloud as my tears fell silently, was that the death of someone you love changes you.  You can't go back to who you were before tragedy turned your world upside down.  In the days after my sister's death, the chorus of Hillsong's "I Will Never Be the Same Again" ran through my mind almost constantly.  I had a sense, even in those early days, that my life and my views of God would never be quite the same.  I would find a new path to follow.  I would shout, cry, and tremble before a God whose ways I could not comprehend.  In the end, I would stand.  But I would not stand as I stood before.  I would be - and I was - changed.  I won't lie.  Some of the changes were very good, but some of them, eh, not so much.  But that's not the point of this post...

The point is that grief scars, and maybe that's not all bad.  Maybe we're supposed to bear our scars with grace, rather than apply creams and lotions or have them surgically or miraculously removed - or pretend they aren't there.  God promises to wipe away our tears, but I'm not so sure about our scars.  Maybe it is His will that at least a few of those remain.  After all, Christ's wounds, his nail-pierced hands and spear-torn sides, remained even after His resurrection.  Ask Thomas.

And then there's Paul, who pleaded with the Lord three times to remove that pesky thorn.  God's answer, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”  (II Corinthians 12:9) Your weakness plus my grace equals my power perfected.  No healing of wounds, let alone of scars, but a command to walk through suffering in the grace and power of the Lord Jesus Christ.

Earlier in II Corinthians, Paul writes:

3 Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, 4 who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. 5 For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows. 6 If we are distressed, it is for your comfort and salvation; if we are comforted, it is for your comfort, which produces in you patient endurance of the same sufferings we suffer. 7 And our hope for you is firm, because we know that just as you share in our sufferings, so also you share in our comfort.

II Corinthians 1:3-7

And this clinches it for me.  While there is a completely unfixed point at which grief becomes excessive and unhealthy, it is not for us to forget our sorrows completely...  or to view scars as a clear sign of weakness or spiritual sickness.  Scars remain, years beyond our initial grief, that we might comfort those who hurt today.  When we hide our scars, we hide our humanity and diminish our ability to relate to and comfort others.  In our scarred brokenness, we hold each other close, comforted by the knowledge that someone knows our pain.  Not just knows about our pain, but truly knows the turmoil of a broken heart. In those moments, we may offer one another the hope not of mere survival, but of triumphant survival by the grace of the Man of Sorrows, Christ himself.

Again, there's a difference between wallowing in sorrows and being forever changed by sorrow.  The first could hardly be considered healthy (though there may be periods in the mourning process in which a brief or occasional wallow is good for the soul).  The latter, however, may be perfectly in line with God's will for His children...  to be touched deeply and eternally by the sorrows of our fallen world.  After all, Christ was broken to heal us of our sins.  He rose again, wounds still visible, and was glorified.  He did not shun the cross, neither to avoid it nor to forget it. Can we expect to be vessels of His healing power without being broken ourselves as He was?  Will we shun sorrow, or will we acknowledge our fellowship with the Savior who leads us through our darkest griefs?

For me, I don't want to wallow in sorrow, nor do I want to define myself by what I have lost.  In fact, I don't want to define myself by what I have gained through sorrow, either.  Rather, I want to walk in honest acknowledgement of my past tragedies and of my present struggles, in joyful thanksgiving for all the blessings God has heaped upon me, and in quiet confidence in the One who holds me in His healing hands, the One who puts the pieces of a broken heart back together -but not quite the way they were in the beginning, that the renewed heart may both cry and laugh with newly broken hearts.  

To answer the question, "Do you want to get well?" when it comes to grief, I guess I'd have to say, "Yes, but well is not what I was before.  It is something different, something sacred... something that feels more keenly than it did before and pours itself out in sorrow for others over and over again.  It is something that, having felt the pain of loss and the joy of survival, understands with bitter pain and glorious joy what it is to "rejoice with those who rejoice, and mourn with those who mourn."  It is a little closer kinship than before with Christ and all mankind.

After the Funeral

The death of a close family member changes things.  Whether your beliefs are shaken or strengthened, you look at things a little differently after the funeral.  On our way to piano lessons this afternoon, we stopped at a red light.  Outside the church on the corner across from us, a hearse waited as mourners filed into the sanctuary.  In the time of a sigh, I thought of the joy the deceased must have brought to those who knew him or her, of the intense sorrow those left behind felt in the present, and of the struggles they will face as they adjust to life without their loved one.  I ached for these strangers, knowing too well the course of grief.

My daughter, however, had a different perspective.

"Mama!  Mama!  Look what I found!" she shouted excitedly, pointing out the window in the direction of the long black car.

"A hearse?  A funeral car?" I asked.

"Yes!  Is there a dead person in it?" 

"Maybe, but probably not.  I think the car is waiting till the funeral is over."

"Is it OUR funeral?"

"No, honey... (Mommy cringes inwardly)... and I'm hoping we don't have any more funerals anytime soon."

"Because only dead people have funerals?"

"Yes, and I want all of us to live a very long time."

"Grandpa looked like a doll at his funeral." (An observation she borrowed from her older brother).

"Yes, he kind of did look like a doll..."

I had worried about taking the children to my father's viewing, and indeed, Elisabeth had been quite upset by her initial view of Grandpa - of the running out of the funeral home and refusing to go back in variety.  By the end of the three hour viewing, however, she was walking around the funeral home chapel as nonchalantly as a vivacious four-year-old girl is prone to walk.

She's resilient.  Initially shocked, she recovered.  She remembered how to walk - not timidly, not clinging to Mommy's skirt, but smiling, looking up, chatting with whoever would listen.  Now she reflects upon death not with the horror she felt at first, but with fearless curiosity, perhaps understanding in her childish mind more than we understand in our adult minds.  When she speaks of Grandpa being in Heaven, her blue eyes light up and practically fall out of her head they're so big...

"There's a big slide!  And TOYS!"

Oh, I know. Her doctrine of Heaven may not be entirely sound, (although she may not be as far off as the more mature among us believe).  Yes, there's a lot she can't possibly understand, and if she lost someone closer to her - she rarely saw my father - it would be much more difficult for her to process.  I don't deny any of that, nor do I pretend that her young soul has a firm grasp of matters of life and loss.

Still, there's something beautiful in the view from her precious, wondering eyes...

Let Them Shine

John is going back to art class today, and I'm super happy about that.  We enrolled him in an after school art class last year because it was less severe than Ritalin and cheaper than therapy (for him, for me, for all of us...)  And it worked wonders.

Thursday became John's favorite day (and a great tool in encouraging him to behave in the earlier days of the week).  Art Class was an arena in which John could shine apart from his parents and siblings.  It was entirely his, and he loved it.  In the act of creating artwork, his sometimes ruffled spirit quieted, his frustrations melted away.  I picked up a calmer, more peaceful child than I had dropped off, and the effects lingered beyond that afternoon.  I joke about Art being therapy, but it's not really a joke.  Art does something for this boy that no amount of anything else can do.  It takes him away from the demands and frustrations of the moment and returns him more equipped to handle those demands and work through his frustrations.  I suspect Art does this for all of us, actually, but its soothing effects are more evident on some than others.

On top of these blessings, I discovered another treasure.  John's art teacher, a soft-spoken, middle-aged man who shared he had his own strong-willed child, really seemed to enjoy John.  Not just teach, not just tolerate, but enjoy.  It may be my imagination, but his eyes seemed to shine a little when he spoke of John. I'm sure I saw a twinkle as he called John "a prolific artist," and told how John didn't always follow directions exactly, but often had his own ideas of what he wanted to do and proceeded enthusiastically with his ideas.  I cringed a little to hear that my son was clearly not following directions, but his teacher seemed to appreciate John's creativity and determination.  In other areas, (say, reading, writing, math, penmanship, etc.) creativity and determination sometimes cause a bit of tension, but Art, true Art, begs for these traits.  Artists must be creative and determined; essentials must be learned and mastered, but Artists ultimately must forge their own paths if their work is to be worthy of the name "Art."  Mr. M. seemed to see a glimpse of the Artist in John and delight in it.

We had a couple different art classes to choose from this year.  We're going back to Mr. M., mainly because he let his eyes shine when he spoke of John.  He understood and appreciated sometimes exasperating aspects of my creative child's personality.  His understanding of John caused me to pause to appreciate John's amazingly creative, astoundingly determined, awesome little spirit - a spirit that shines with the joy of creation every Thursday afternoon.  I realized anew what wonders God had placed in the heart of my little boy and marveled at thoughts of what my creative, determined boy might someday become.

I guess the point of all of this is threefold.  First, if you are a teacher or anyhow involved with children, please let your eyes shine when you speak of them.  Remind their mothers and fathers how precious, how beautiful, how promising their babies are.  They may have lost sight of that in the struggles of the day.  Second, if you are a parent, allow your child room to shine.  Give him space.  Encourage his passions.  Give him someone who sees the good in him and will inspire you and him to believe that he is an amazing human being bound for wonders beyond your imagination, that the very things that drive you to your knees will be the things that establish him as a great man.  And third...

...  If you are my son John, shine with all the brilliance of the amazing boy you are!  

(And because I'd be a bad mom if I didn't tell you this... listen to your art teacher!)

Of Earth and Eternity

Humans are amphibians - half spirit and half animal. 

As spirits they belong to the eternal world, but as animals they inhabit time. 

C. S. Lewis 

It may be a very bad thing to let one's mind wander during one's father's funeral, but tears have an annoying habit of falling unbidden from my eyes at unexpected times and often for less than obvious reasons.  It has always been so, and I'm coming to accept that there are little faucets somewhere in my eye sockets over which I have no control.  When emotion - any emotion and it doesn't necessarily even have to by my emotion- overwhelms me, down stream the tears.  After four days of receiving hugs and condolences, I was, quite frankly, tired of sympathy by Saturday morning.  At the risk of sounding ungrateful or insensitive or just plain awful, I was weary of words of comfort that didn't quite speak to what I was feeling on the inside.  I was also a little jealous of drier eyes that seemed to attract fewer hugs.

Sitting yards away from my father's coffin, listening to a longtime family friend sing a song I can't even remember now, tears threatened to fall.  I forced my mind from the present and found C.S. Lewis's quote about amphibians.  To dwell on it would have induced its own shower of tears, so I admitted its relevance and tucked it away for future contemplation.

It's future now, and while I'm not sure I like being compared to a salamander, I wholeheartedly agree with Lewis that we "belong to the eternal world, but...  inhabit time."  We belong to eternity, as our very souls cry out against Death; yet we inhabit Time, confined to Earth till Death releases us to eternity.  And our two homes, Earth and Eternity, exist simultaneously and painfully at odds.

As creatures of Eternity and believers in Christ, we know that Death is a laughing matter.  Death is the moment we see Christ face to face; suffering, sorrow, and struggles flee; we are made like Him, and glorious, joyful, amazing Eternity enfolds us.  I can't even begin to imagine the wonder of that moment.  So we can and should laugh at Death, partly in ridicule of the one who thinks he brings destruction, but more so in triumphant gratitude for the joy into which he ushers us.  To the believer for whom Christ has prepared a heavenly room, Death is but the friend who opens the door to Christ's eternal mansion.


But we know, too, as creatures of Eternity, that Death should not be.  It was not part of the original plan, way back in the Garden of Eden.  Death is a result of sin, our refusal to follow God perfectly.  We brought this disaster into His perfection, and so we, wounded creatures of Eternity, grieve Death's very existence.  We grieve the chasm Death carves upon our souls and upon all of Creation.  We grieve for our departed, for ourselves, and for creation.  With unspeakable anguish, we grieve the loss of Eden.  And we grieve the time we must endure before God makes all things new, till Creation sings aloud of her Redeemer's ultimate triumph.


We groan in the longing of Creatures of Eternity awaiting promises fulfilled on the day that will be, and we groan in the agony of Earthbound souls holding the shattered pieces of what was.  For we are still bound to Earth and to its joys and sorrows.  We feel keenly the absence of those we've loved and whose love has surrounded us from birth, or from first encounter, or in our later years.  We love on Earth and feel the sting of Death in the absence of those he ushers into Eternity.  We are not beyond the horrors of Death, nor the agony of loneliness, even in our hope.  We are touched by tragedy and filled with grief.

I have, as many know, been through tragedy before.  I know the loss of my father is different from that of my sister, and as such, will run its own course.  I do not expect this grief to feel or look the same as that of the last twelve years, nor do I claim to understand the ways of Life and Death.  I will claim, however, a familiarity with Death and Grief - a familiarity that explains the tears, both of agonizing sorrow and of waiting hope, that have fallen during the past week and will fall for years to come, a familiarity that enables me to think of the C.S. Lewis quote above not as intriguing words, but as painfully joyous truth.


I am a salamander, caught between two worlds.  Sometimes I'm not sure from which world my tears spring, but I know the King of Eternity...  and that he loves his little salamanders and is able to guide them through the trials of Earth to the glories of Eternity.  And that is enough for now.

Snapshots from the Valley

The Valley of the Shadow of Death is not a place I like to visit, for what must be obvious reasons, but it offers some undeniably beautiful scenery.  I'd brought my camera, but not the will to use it, so words must suffice to show you the beauty I glimpsed in my family's time of grief.  I promise to use less than a thousand per picture.


A father, remembered by many as vibrant, passionate, and fully committed to Christ, who despite his weaknesses and failings touched more lives more deeply than I had imagined and who raised four children (one of whom he has waited almost twelve years to see in glory) who share his faith, an accomplishment he would surely attribute wholly to God, but of which he would be most humbly proud..

A mother who is stronger than she knows and who will by God's grace and sheer determination move forward without her husband of forty years...

A sister, wise and wonderful, whose steadfast manner steadies those around her, who knows when to make a joke and when to hold a hand...

A brother who in my absence from Florida became a man, and a promising one at that...

A sister-in-law in whose loving hands I am comforted to leave my brother and mother...

A husband and a brother-in-law who do what needs to be done and more, who see, repair, and improve things around the house that have nagged their grieving mother-in-law for years and who scour her home for important paperwork she can't find, whose actions speak love more loudly than any words could do...

Four children who entertain themselves peaceably for five days, with few excursions beyond their grandmother's house, who hug their sorrowful grandmother just when she needs it, and who ride (mostly) contentedly for two ten hour drives in one week...

A mother-in-law who offers whatever help we might need, and truly means it...

An eighty-year old paternal aunt who even in her shaken grief proves as tough and feisty as ever...

A maternal aunt who flew to her sister's side and brought her both comfort and laughter...

A cousin I barely knew who felt like an old friend...

A friend, like a second mother in my youth, and her husband, without whose help, in this and numerous past experiences, our family would have been lost...

Two friends, who fell in love, grew up, and became a family, whose presence at my father's funeral and help watching our children during the funeral, meant more than words can express and whose companionship during a visit the next day will be treasured always...

A man and his wife, parents of the best friend of my youth and of one of the friends mentioned above, who opened their home to our family Sunday afternoon and whose constant love over the changing years has never failed to comfort me...

Old friends of my father, who shared memories and laughter with my family and who felt like family themselves...

Newer friends of my parents, whose love for them is evident in their faces and deeds, and who I trust to continue to uphold my mother in prayer and in action...

Finally, friends here and elsewhere who have sent condolences, shared memories of my dad, and offered prayers for me and for my family, living out the Scripture, "Rejoice with those who rejoice, mourn with those who mourn..."

For all of these portraits of God's love in human form, I am thankful.