At The Edge of the Journey

The discomfort increased in intensity and duration over time and my doctor kept telling me it wasn’t my heart -- even though all the symptoms indicated that it was. During my last exam, I lost patience. “Something in my chest is screaming for attention and the screaming gets louder every day!” I said. “If it isn’t my heart then let’s find out what it is and fix it.”

My physician prescribed Nitroglycerin tablets for “Just in case”, she said, and asked me to schedule an appointment for further tests that were not heart related. And then she added, “It isn’t your heart.” I was growing very, very tired of hearing that.

That incident happened a few days earlier. Now I sat with my friend, a very wise and sympathetic RN, who listened compassionately while I purged frustrations. The discomfort was still in my chest, just behind the sternum. It felt like an elephant was resting its foot on my chest. As with previous episodes, I’d found it increasingly difficult to breathe. I’d break out in a cold sweat, experience nausea, dizziness, and an overwhelming feeling of weakness and fatigue. Still, the words echoed in my memory, “It’s not your heart.” Something inside me bought into that so I ignored significant warnings. It was easy to do when an EKG indicated that my heart was OK. Yet the pain was getting worse as time passed -- month after month after month. It didn't matter what I was doing, the pain persisted. One particular evening an episode of chest pain lasted more than an hour as I sat quietly reading in my lounging chair at home. Even when the pain went into my jaw and I struggled to breathe, I kept hearing, "It's not your heart." I'd become programmed into believing it wasn't my heart, so I did nothing.

Days later, as I sat chatting with my nurse friend, I experienced another episode of chest pain. “Do you have Nitroglycerin tablets with you?” She asked. I did, and took one at her urging. The chest pain subsided, but five minutes later I had another episode and took an additional nitroglycerin tablet that aleviated the pain. I was experiencing unstable angina, she said. I knew the symptoms. I'd had them many times before.

With my friend's concerned urging, I called my cardiologist. She called my cardiologist too, and expressed grave concern as a medical professional. An angiogram was scheduled. And there it was -- the problem was my heart after all. A stent that had been implanted a year earlier was now 99% occluded with scar tissue. The stent had been placed in my coronary artery because the artery had been 85% blocked with plaque, even though my cholesterol and triglyceride levels were perfect.

My cardiologist calls me a mystery, but he performed an angioplasty with a new stent implant inside the old one. Afterwards, he told me I had been only minutes away from a fatal heart attack. Fortunately, there was no damage done to my heart. "If we had not done this procedure today," he said, "you would have been dead tomorrow."

Psalm 121: 7,8 says: "The Lord will keep you from all harm – he will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore".

I believe this. I am living that promise.

After a nuclear stress test just a few months ago, my cardiologist turned to me with joy dancing in his eyes and said, "You have the heart of Wonder Woman!" He pointed to the computer screen to show me the images of my heart, and there it was in amazing glorious color on the screen, a heart completely healed!

Discovery and Recovery

It isn’t so important to write about the details of my discoveries on the way to healing the inner child as it is to acknowledge that recovery is possible, and most importantly, it is attainable. The time frame for this process is however long it takes; and the journey is one that is taken with courage, strength and trust. Opening the door of one’s soul to walk through past storms is never easy. Storms can be severe and frightening. Ah! But there is so much to learn in a storm! I began that inward journey with great determination, jumping in with both feet on the way to becoming real. Those who know me describe me as one who is very much in touch with my feelings. Being “in-touch” was a gift that blessed my efforts and brought timely discoveries that led to effective recovery. Long forgotten wounds that had festered for a time were opened, grieved, cleansed and healed.

The wounded past waits to be discovered. Everyone has one. That marred period of time is destined to be relived and anxious to be healed. Think about a garden where weeds abound. Look at the garden and visualize how beautiful it can be with an array of flowering plants, shrubs, fruit and shade trees, and maybe even a fish pond or a fountain. Now look at the all the weeds. The weeds, if not removed, will eventually take over the entire garden and sabotage all attempts to grow flowers. If we grow a garden full of weeds, all we have to give away are weed stalks that have weed seeds attached to them; and the weed seeds germinate in other gardens; and the cycle continues.

Gardens are completely dependant on those who care for them. We are the keepers of our garden. Some keepers never see the weeds. Others work to keep the garden as free as possible of weeds. But we all know the resilience of weeds. They come back! The work is a continuous event. Then there are others who see the weeds but leave them in the soil and bitterly complain. Weeds flourish in gardens such as these. Using this analogy, here’s what I see happening in a weed garden: The bitterness stick strikes the stink weed that fills the garden with a putrid stench that causes the angry plant to spew out venomous thorns that strike the hurt plant that cries acid tears that terrifies the fear plant that emits a cloud of poisonous gas… and any flower left in the garden withers and dies.

What happened during that time of weeding that helped me through that process of discovery and recovery? How was I able to walk through those terrible storms again and have the courage to open closed doors to explore the places that I’d kept hidden? What was it that gave me the strength and endurance to continue weeding a garden with weeds?

The story continues…

Discovery Two

The pain was urgent and was demanding release, so I decided to purchase one of the books and return to the privacy of my home where I could explore the words and the stories. I had to find out why I was seeing myself in the books I had chosen to browse through.

It was difficult to decide which book to buy. I grabbed two of the books and took them to the check-out counter and asked the sales lady for a recommendation. I explained about the radio program I’d stumbled onto and my curiosity about certain words and phrases. The words that struck my spirit most were the words “dysfunctional” and “the responsible one.” I don’t know why they struck me but I was desperate to explore this new-found territory and take the first step in the journey of discovery. As I began to speak, another sob came rushing to the surface with the full force of unrestrained grief and agony. I stood there in that little book store, trembling and fighting the tears and the pain that demanded release. I’d been a happy person up until that moment – or so I thought. Then I did something that seemed so inexcusable, so unlike me, I buried my face in my hands and sobbed in a public place as though no one else was present.

As I cried, gentle arms reached around me in a tender embrace and a soft, compassionate voice whispered into my heart, “It’s OK. It hurts. It’s OK to cry. Let it go. There’s healing in letting go. There’s healing in tears.”

When I uncovered my eyes, two people were hugging me: the nice sales lady from behind the counter and a giant man. Both had tears in their eyes. Both wore expressions of compassion and understanding. I felt protected and I felt loved. Days later, I discovered that the lady and the giant were married to each other and were owners of the bookstore that bore the name “Stepping Stones.” They’d been through their own healing of the wounded child and they knew and understood my pain.

Both books I’d selected were recommended as starters, and the sales lady even gave me some literature about various support groups in the area. When I returned to my home I opened one of the books and started reading, turning the pages very carefully as if each page were a very fragile thing. With every turn of the page, little red paper hearts spilled from the book onto my chest -- right over the area of my heart. I giggled and cried at the same time. I was being loved by people I didn’t know and probably would never have taken the time to meet. It was a blessed moment.

That began my process of healing the inner child and of learning to trust people, and of gaining a world of love.

Story to be continued...

Discovery One

Several, if not all, of my friends are struggling with past painful issues. I hurt for them. I've been where they are -- but it's been so long ago. After asking myself how I can help them in their journey of pain, an inspiration came to me this morning. Having walked that valley of pain, I can write about my discoveries and recoveries and share them here. Hopefully, my stories might provide a form of encouragement for someone who is walking that path of discovery.

So here it is, Discovery One:

It’s been several years since I made a significant breakthrough that began the process of changing my life. For many years, I used to say, “I don’t need people in my life.” Interesting thing to say, isn’t it? I never gave it a thought until that fateful day.

It was in the early 1980s when I discovered the wounded child. I was out for one of my daily walks and spotted a bookstore along my usual route. I hadn’t noticed the bookstore before, but being an avid reader I walked into the store to investigate. All the books and literature on display were about dysfunctional families and drug and alcohol addictions. The word “dysfunction” caught my attention. I heard that word while scanning for stations on my car radio just the day before and wondered what it meant. I found it fascinating that I’d been hooked by a word and I wanted to know more. Though I can't remember where I read this or who said it, the statement has much wisdom and definitely applied to me at that specific moment: “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.” I think I reached the point of readiness that day.

As I flipped through the pages of several books in the bookstore I saw bits and pieces of myself in every book I opened. An undeniable pain began to surface. I fought the tears, got angry at them, tried to choke them back, and felt a dreadful anguish struggling to escape. It was a battle I thought I’d loose, but I’d been trained very well in holding back tears, so the only thing that escaped was a very distressed sob.

After that, I was composed and in control once again. But, what on earth was that anguish about?

Story to be continued….

More about Mountains and Valleys

I settled into the chair and took that first small sip from the warm cup of steaming aromatic tea. It comforted me as I gazed out the window of the little tea shop. Only minutes ago the sun illuminated the landscape, brightening the rain soaked places that sparkled in the sun. All too soon, however, the accumulation of rain clouds rolled across the sky and closed it up again and the earth darkened. I'm forever thankful for the sun-breaks that frequently happen during the day. They help brighten up the earth when the gloom gets too heavy.

This was a pensive morning. I had just left a friend who shared deep sorrow -- sorrow so deep that she was still wrapped in the raw pangs of it and unable to accept comfort. I thought about her shattered life and continued looking out the window with thoughts about sorrow and suffering. There is so much pain in the world. Everyone hurts. This, I suppose, is my day to think about pain and why it happens. Sorrow and suffering happens to everyone. There's no escaping it. It's part of life. It comes and it goes. It comes again, and it goes again -- like the ebb and flow of the ocean tide.

One thought, the thought that comforts me, is that pain and suffering is the only way our faith can grow. It's in the lowest valley of humility where we find God's comfort; it’s in the darkest shadow of the mountain where we experience His peace; and it’s in climbing the dusty journey up the mountain where we know His power and His strength. Grace comes as we completely surrender to God's will. It's in this time of submission that we are given His vision for that which we can become, and it's where we hear His voice as He guides us into becoming all that we can become in His design.

I've traveled with sorrow and suffering all of my life and I consider myself most blessed. You see, I've had many Son breaks during those dark days and I discovered that there is joy in the midst of suffering. I pray this joy for my friend -- frequent Son breaks as she heals. She will see that at the end of her journey there will be peace and she will look back and see how much she has grown.

The Foot of the Mountain From the Top of the Hill

As I stood at the foot of the mammoth mountain, watching my team mates ascend the steep rocky slope, my breath caught in my throat and every muscle in my body tightened. I questioned my ability to climb the mass of earth that soared before me. Doubt immobilized me in that single timeframe and in those speeding seconds my thoughts took me back to another chapter of my life where I stood at the foot of a different mountain.

Twelve stair steps were easy to climb, but during that episode of my life they soared above me like an impossible feat. An attempt to climb even one single step exhausted me to the point of collapse. It was the illness, the severely exacerbated asthma that robbed me of my life as I used to know and enjoy it. Because I trusted in the God of miracles I had refused to enter the plastic bubble that was prescribed for me in order to prolong my life. “One day,” I said to my doctor, “I will climb a mountain.” He considered the fact that I couldn’t even climb a single stair step but he accepted my decision.

In the months and years that followed that declaration of faith, I was blessed to be gifted by the measured return of all the things I had grown allergic to. I hugged a pine tree and wept as I took pleasure in its fragrance, burying my face within its still-tied-up branches while it stood in the narthex of our church at the start of the Christmas season. The following spring, I stood under a pale blue sky in the center of a large enclosed garden of roses and breathed in their sweet perfume while praising my Heavenly Father for His grace, His goodness, and His mercy. During the summer I traveled to the Pacific Ocean and sat on a sandy slope, delighting in the sights and smells of the sea and listening to the song of sea gulls soaring overhead. Fall brought winds that hurried multicolored leaves along the way as they danced in the breeze, bounced across lawns, and twirled down every walkway and street. As I walked along a path in a local park, a large flock of sparrows flew to the sky from behind me, soaring over me and ahead of me on both sides. The child's heart in me giggled with delight to be graced with the privilege of being a participant in this magnificent and glorious panorama of birds in flight. The world was new, fresh, exciting, and exhilarating! I’d been given the opportunity of rediscovering all the thing I'd been told were lost to me forever. Tears of joy fell each time God returned a gift once-lost. As I think on these things I’m reminded of a verse from Francis Thompson’s The Hound the of Heaven which says, “All which I took from thee, I did but take, not for thy harms, but just that thou might'st seek it in My arms...”

The illness and my weakness gave God the opportunity to demonstrate His power. He used all the things I had become allergic to as teaching tools to help me grow; and then He gave them back to me again one by one. My health had been restored. Now came the test of the mountain.





The year was 1999. I’d been selected as one of three artists from the US to travel to Bethlehem Palestine to paint the Millennium Mural for the year 2000. A gifted local artist joined our team when we arrived in Bethlehem. The photograph in this entry shows the four artists with selections of the mural that was painted on the BBC campus (click on the photo to enlarge it). Looking back, I find it absolutely illogical that I’d gone before the Lord three times, reminding him of the asthma. For several long years I had not traveled anywhere without the watchful accompaniment of a family member. Traveling alone was still an area that had not been tested. Each time I went before the Lord in prayer about traveling to a foreign land with a group of strangers who knew nothing of what had gone before in my struggle with asthma, His answer was always the same: “Trust Me.” I chose to trust, and in that splendid moment the burden of uncertainty suddenly released itself so powerfully that I felt like I was floating. In complete surrender to His will, my soul fastened tightly to The Shepherd’s leading as I traveled to Bethlehem Palestine to paint a mural inspired by Psalm 23 on a concrete wall that measured 102 feet in length by 22 feet high. We finished the mural in three and a half weeks and then went on tour of the Holy Land.

The mountain towered before me like a menacing monster and its path was dusty, rocky, and void of vegetation of any kind. It was August, the hottest time of the year, and there was nothing to provide shade or shelter during the climb. Years earlier I predicted that I would climb a mountain, and now the mountain presented itself as a testing of the authenticity of my faith. We were in ancient Jericho in the Judean Dessert. The mountain was several feet high – perhaps the length of a football field – maybe less. It was a simple hill, a mound of earth easily scaled, but to me it was a massive mound of dread, an impossible attainment, and a terror filled journey of gasping for every breath. My team mates were already ahead of me by a couple of yards but my feet felt like they had bonded with the rocky soil at the base of the hill. As I looked up the dusty path I heard my Lord’s voice in my heart reminding me of His instruction to trust Him. I thought about the hill he climbed for me two thousand years ago. He brought me to his birthplace to paint a mural in honor of his faithfulness, and he was ready to climb another hill with me. Apprehension released its powerful grip and I took that first step. During the ascent, as I placed one tiny baby step in front of another, not a single breath was labored and I reached the summit of that dusty mound refreshed and energized and with triumphant rejoicing for all that God had brought me through.

Turning around to see the path I had climbed, I saw that the foot of the mountain from the top of the hill was not so vast a distance after all. Below the hill, at the place where I hesitated in trembling and fear, grew a beautiful little plant with glossy leaves and tiny white blossoms. While looking at the mountain, I'd missed seeing it there. Discovering it's existence reminded me that in every circumstance of our lives, God leaves His incredible fingerprints of love. Too often, while focusing on the problem, we miss seeing the hope, the possible, and the glory that comes with victory. I saw an impossible dusty mountain in the dessert. God saw the possible and proved it.

“Many, O Lord my God, are the wonders you have done. The things you planned for us no one can recount to you; were I to speak and tell of them, they would be too many to declare.” Psalm 40:5

A Spring of Living Water In the Desert

Several years ago, when my husband's doctorate was nearing completion and his job search had begun, I told him I would go anywhere in the world with him -- with one exception: I would never live in the desert. I learned an important lesson about the word "never" after that.

Here came the test. An exceptional job offer presented itself in Lancaster California. That little city is located in the Mojave Desert. When my husband told me of the offer, I found myself having to trust God's wisdom. As I packed our belongings for a move to the desert I remember saying, "God must have a plan for us there."

Within a few weeks after moving to Lancaster, I became increasingly ill. Every breath was an exhausting effort. The diagnosis of asthma was made a few months later, but by then, the asthma was well out of control. Allergy tests confirmed that I was allergic to everything in the desert. Asthma weakened my system so much that I became severely allergic to every plant and flower, all trees and grasses, all fragrances - natural or man-made, and nearly all the foods I had once enjoyed. The wet earth after a rain was a very serious threat, and the atmosphere became deadly for me whenever the wind blew. Every attack was a life-threatening episode.

Because of highly sensitive lungs, my physician placed me in complete isolation. Fortunately, it was my allergy proofed home and not a hospital room where I had to remain secluded during a long and dreadful year. Visitation was strictly prohibited because of the threat of allergens or irritants that could be introduced into my protective shelter. The only two people allowed to enter my secluded area were my husband and our twelve-year-old daughter.

At first I had great difficulty finding God's plan for me through this illness and solitude. I was very active before my affliction with asthma and the confinement made me very angry. I was angry because I couldn't breathe, angry because my life as I wanted to live it had ended, and angry because I couldn't express emotions. The expressions of anger, or grief, or laughter, stressed my lungs to the point of triggering life-threatening bronchospasms. Having to suppress the expressions of grief or laughter just didn’t seem fair. Most of the time, I couldn't even speak above a whisper. Climbing stairs was such an effort that I couldn't climb more than one or two steps before collapsing in sheer exhaustion while gasping for my next breath.

Because of the severity of the illness I was forced to inactivity; and that stillness went against the nature I had grown accustomed to. I had to relearn and put into practice the disciple of quietness. It's a discipline I took take great delight in during my prayer life a couple of years prior. However, working multiple tasks in service to the church became my focus and kept me from spending time with God and time in His Word. My spirit eventually became very stale.

In the silence of my sterile and isolated world, I grew to depend completely on God. I’d forgotten what that felt like. It was marvelous! As I listened, He revealed more of His infinite love for me. In the midst of grief I found joy, in my weakness I was being strengthened, and where a multitude of questions abounded, I was given answers. I had become parched and I was being revived by a spring of Living Water. My spirit danced!

That became the year of rediscovery. At the end of that year my allergist informed me that I needed to be enclosed in a plastic bubble for the remainder of my life. He justified this prognosis by stating that the outside world had become deadly to me and I would never be able to live in it again. I thought about that for a moment and then I made my decision. I said no, affirming that God did not create me to live my life inside a plastic bubble and He was certainly not finished with me yet. My doctor's response warned that I would die without the assistance of the bubble as my protected environment; but I had great faith in The God of the Impossible and I declared with great boldness, "Watch me. Some day I will climb a mountain.”

God took me to that mountain a few years later. But that’s another story.

Faith In The Midst of Terror

I received the following plea from my friend, Paul on January 28th. Paul lives in the heart of Bethlehem Palestine. He is 22 and the youngest of five children. He was a member of our Salt and Light ministry team when we served as missionaries in Bethlehem and he is YWAM trained in discipleship. Paul is a young Palestinian Christian and has a ministry of music – working to create the first Christian praise band in all of Palestine. He and his brothers have developed the first Palestinian Christian outreach to young people -- right in the center of a Muslim community.

Having visited in his home often, we know Paul and his Christian family very well. Here is the account of Paul’s ordeal and his faith in action.

January 28, 2008 6:17 AM: I was going home from the Bible College and there were Israeli soldiers and lots of jeeps that prevented me to go in the way of my home. One person asked me to stay there for a while, until this attack finish so I am here now for almost 2 hours hearing shooting and bombs all over. I was trying to call home and there was no answer! Later, my mom called me and told me that many Israeli armed solders entered our home and they put all my family in one room and they took the whole house until they could destroy a house next to ours. At this moment one or more family will have no home in this very cold weather and we don't know when this thing going to finish. Please pray now and send this email to people you know to pray for this. I love you all. Let’s trust God for a miracle. Blessing, Paul

January 29, 2008 4:24 PM. Thank you all for your prayers. There is good and bad news too but thanks God for it all: The Israeli soldiers left after 7 hours of the attack from 2:00 PM to 9:00 PM. few cars were damaged on the roads. One person was killed, 3 families became homeless in this very cold weather, many believers were unified through praying together for the same thing, God heard all our prayers and did what is best, my family all safe but there was some damages in the house . God can use it all for His Glory. I will be sending you another full update about it all but please send this out too for the people who prayed with us, and please keep praying for comfort to the family of the guy that was killed. Bless You All. Paul

There are so many thoughts that race through my mind as I think back on these times. I can only catch a few of those thoughts right now, but maybe that’s a good thing. This missive would be too long otherwise.

We tried not to get involved in the political issues, but it was difficult not to have a personal opinion at least. We visited many Christians in many Palestinian cities who expressed an eagerness for peace, and listened as they spoke of forgiveness and healing. We listened to several Israeli soldiers and felt compassion as they shared their desire to be at peace with the Palestinians. Many of them didn’t want to serve in the army, but the choice was not theirs to make. All of them: Israelis and Palestinians, said that peace could happen one day, but they didn’t know how that would be accomplished.

While crossing the checkpoint into Bethlehem one evening, one of the soldiers expressed his wish to visit Bethlehem some day. There were tears of sadness in his eyes and a longing in his voice for an end to the violence. We will never forget that.

The economy in Palestine was so severe that many were out of work. I very vividly remember a young Muslim man, about 19 years old, who had been out of work for two years. He was asking for money to pay his bills, to buy food for his family, and to pay for a doctor’s visit. His eyes were firey red and painful looking. It was disturbing to look at them. He had an infection in his eyes and was desperately in need medical attention. Without medical attention, he would lose his vision in both eyes. He wept as he told me this. My heart broke.

I painfully remember when our Christian friend, a graduate student from the Bible College, was detained at a check point and verbally abused by an Israeli soldier who had control issues. Our friend had done nothing wrong. He was just there to escort his new wife back to their flat. We watched helplessly and our hearts broke as our friend stood silently in the midst of that terrible barrage of insults. After it was over, our friend said to his tormentor: "I forgive you."

Anguish griped my heart with a stranglehold that nearly took my breath away the first time I stood in front of the towering concrete separation wall that was being constructed around Bethlehem and the entire West Bank. I looked around and saw people standing silently with shoulders slumped in grief before this great wall. They knew they were seeing their prison walls. Faces bore the strain of hope long vanished as despair crept into their eyes and took up residence in their souls.

On the other side of the fence, whenever we’d journey into Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, and other cities in Israel, we witnessed another kind of imprisonment as armed security guards blocked the entrance to every business establishment. Some of the stores had metal fences surrounding the establishment with a security guard at the gate of the fence checking everyone with a metal detector and examining handbags. Memorials with flowers marked the charred places where suicide bombings had occurred.

Many innocent people on both sides are caught in a conflict they neither started nor wanted. It stirs up feelings of sadness and anger toward the injustice that continues there. However, God has not abandoned that place. Look again at at the forgiving heargt of my friend Paul and the efforts he makes to continue the work of Jesus Christ. There are many Palestinian Christians just like Paul whose faith-in-action are having a mighty impact for God’s Kingdom in a land that is thought to be forsaken. We only hear of the battle that continues to rage there, and we are subjected to images of the horrible violence in that land. Rarely, are we given information of the efforts for peace by Palestinian Christians who are living there. They have found opportunity for God's Kingdom purpose and have equipped themselves with love, mercy, and forgiveness in the midst of chaos and persecution. These are the heroe of our time in God's mighty army, clothed in His Armor.

People Needing People

It was a beautiful gesture of love that caught me by complete surprise and impacted my life forever. That unforgetable memory of a six-year-old child’s selfless and loving heart lingers tenderly in my mind as I see him walking toward me with his prize held out in front of him. “Here,” he said as he handed me his trophy, “I think your drawing is better than mine.”

We were in first grade at that time and we’d just competed in an art contest. He won the trophy for best artist in our class and I received the prize for second place. It wasn’t until third grade that I won first place in another art competition, but winning didn’t matter any more and it had ceased to matter since that extraordinary day when Gordon handed me his trophy.

Believing Gordon’s work to be more worthy of the prize, I declined the trophy he had graciously offered. His caring recognition of my artistic ability, however, blessed me with a gift far more precious and timeless. In that incredible selfless moment, I learned that we are not enough all by ourselves. We need the encouragement of others if we’re to gather our gifts and talents and trust our ability for improvement and greatness.

During the years between grade one and grade twelve, Gordon continued to encourage and praise all my artistic endeavors. He touched the depth of my creative spirit and inspired me to grow. As an adult I developed an art ministry and used my gift to serve the church: designing bulletin and photo directory covers, constructing and painting stage props for children's plays, supervising and teaching high schoolers in the design and painting of a mural, and much more. That ministry took me across the sea to the city of Bethlehem in peace-time Palestine where my call to full time service in the mission field began to unfold. What took me there was another art project. I'd been selected as one of three artists from the U.S. to paint the Millennial Mural for the Bethlehem 2000 Project in the city of Bethlehem.

Gordon was instrumental in helping to shape the course of my life for God’s purpose; and I suspect he touched the depths of many hearts with his incredible gift of encouragement. He became a highly talented visual arts teacher and contributed many years of educational services and counseling to high school students. Gordon entered the Church Triumphant a few short years ago. While in a silent momentary celebration of his life, I saw Gordon in my minds vision: He was embracing an Eternal prize.

The Broken Places

Loses often fragment our lives, creating empty places where something used to be. A significant breaking in my life happened with the death of my mother. The strengthening of the broken place and the filling of the emptiness is the gift that she gave. This is the story of that gift, and how I came to find it.

The urgent wail of the ambulance raced closer. Reality screamed in the stillness of the night and shattered the hearing heart. Dressed in black, like the color of the night, they came for her and carried her into the darkness and carefully placed her semi-conscious body into the ambulance. Making its final journey, the ambulance moved along in silence as I followed close behind, painfully aware of the evening’s contradictions: black and white, urgency and calm, health and sickness, life and death.

She was my mother. The memory of those terrible years when her life was a series of contradictions brought a chill colder than the night air. Refusing to forgive the pain of betrayal, she learned to distrust and she became bitter. Anger and hatred consumed her. But her heart held a fragment of love, and love meant hope. We had many conversations in years prior. I talked with her about forgiveness but she remained stubborn and rebellious, and the hatred twisted and distorted her features.

As the final chapter of her life reached its closing, joy and grief stirred in my heart at the same time. My thoughts raced back two years prior when I sat and listened to my mother’s story of complete surrender. She told me of a dove that flew
down from the sky and landed at her feet as she sat alone in the shade of the large peach tree in her back yard. She spoke to the dove, asking about my whereabouts, and the dove told her that I was in Heaven talking with God. When she asked if she could go to Heaven to be with me and God, the dove replied that God would give me permission to accompany her in the journey to Heaven when it was time for her to go there.

After my mother's experience with the dove, she began making preparations to go to Heaven by opening the sealed door of her heart and cleaning out the chaos, the pain, and the debris from years past. Forgiveness soon filled her heart and she found peace at long last. I was blessed and privileged to see new joy in her and I wasn’t ready to let go.

Grief surged within me and as I reached for something to calm the mounting anguish, I saw images of stained glass windows. They wrapped themselves around me like a soft warm blanket on a cold winter's night. I saw pieces of stained glass, carefully joined by a master craftsman, forming images in the window of a church -- images of saints, preserved in artistically arranged broken pieces of colored glass. I focused on the variation of color and texture that sparkled and danced with the radiance of sunlight beaming through those colored places and I felt at peace.

A jolt tore me from that vision as the car came to an abrupt halt. The ambulance had reached the hospital and my mother was moved to the emergency room where a doctor examined her and prepared papers to admit her. One of the admitting requirements is a chest x-ray and I wondered how she would cope. Her body was crippled with arthritis and osteoporosis. She would have to raise her arms high above her head for the procedure and it would be an impossible and painful task for her to even try. I accompanied her to radiology where, to my horror, the x-ray technician said I was going to have to help force my mother’s arms above her head.

The word “force" stung like a dagger brutally thrust into the depths of my heart. I was determined not to participate, yet I couldn’t abandon my mother at a time when she would need my support. I shot an arrow prayer to Heaven’s Throne Room. “Lord God”, I pleaded, “She is your child. Show me another way. Speak through me so she can be strengthened and comforted.”

He did.

Looking into those submissive, childlike eyes, I reached for her hand and asked in a gentle whisper, “Mother, do you know what they’re going to see when they take a picture of your chest?”

She fixed a trusting gaze on my eyes and shook her head. “No.” she whispered back, “What are they going to see?“

“They’re going to see that Jesus lives in your heart!” I replied.

It was true. The living Lord was resident in her heart. No one had to force her arms above her head during the procedure. She knew he was there and she was eager to share his image with everyone. When she looked at me with that glowing sparkle in her eyes, I felt the warmth of joy dancing in my heart. I closed my eyes briefly and said a small prayer of thanksgiving.

My mother had been a long time getting to this place of peace. Her life had been a series of fractured pieces and she had finally given all her brokenness to the Master Craftsman and I was blessed to see Him at work in the new design. During the last two years of her life, her spirit maintained a radiance in spite of the frail body scourged with pain. I watched her inner joy in fascination and allowed some of the joy to spill over into my own spirit.

When her spirit departed her earthly temple, I knew my mother had entered the Father’s Kingdom. Knowing this made it less difficult to let go. I knew I would see her again. The radiance I saw in her was the Light of the Son shining through. At her memorial service I saw them again: images in stained glass windows - those dear saints who were as imperfect as each of us. They didn’t become saints because they led perfect lives. They made mistakes and learned from them; they sinned, asked for, and received forgiveness; they experienced the brokenness of life and gave the fragments to a Savior. In his compassion he took those tarnished pieces and washed away the stain of sin with his blood; and then he colored the broken pieces with his love and made them into new creations that allowed his Light to shine through.

God gave me a double portion of joy. The Master Artist used my mother's brokenness to reshape her into a beautiful new creation; and He allowed me to witness the process. The Lord's compassions never fail.