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.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
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.
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.
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Through The Years
