It was a grey, misty morning when the plane took off from Portland’s International airport.
The drive to the airport had been bleak too. Who likes goodbyes? The weather matched my mood.
We gave our last hugs and boarded the plane, Michigan bound. Rain poured down the little windowpane.
But less than five minutes later, this was our view….
Mount Hood’s spectacular snow-capped peak was waiting to surprise us, in skies bluer than the ocean, and brighter than I could believe. We had climbed above the clouds, and left the rain behind.
No matter what, there’s always hope.
And when hope seems to hide… beyond the clouds, or deep in the darkness of the earth, or curled in the shriveled chrysalis… we just have to remember that it’s waiting, unseen, to surprise us.
Because every daffodil that was once squashed deep in the dirt, and every butterfly that was once caught in the chrysalis, and every mountain peak that was once shrouded in mist, they all sing the same glorious song….
it’s the song of hope.
Hope is faith holding out its hand in the dark. George Iles.
Joseph and Nicodemus were sad. They carefully took his body down from the cross. They cleaned him. They made him smell nice. They wrapped his body in strips of white linen and carried him to a quiet cave on the hillside. They laid Jesus down inside the cave. Then they said goodbye. And before they left, they rolled a big stone over the entrance.
Jesus was dead.
Outside the cave, two guards kept watch. The big heavy stone was sealed in place. Around the cave, leaves fluttered silently in the wind. Above the cave, the skies were gray. Rain fell softly from heaven and pitter-pattered on the hillside. And for three whole days, all was still.
But inside that quiet cave something was happening.
God was working.
God was doing a new thing.
If you tried to peep inside, you couldn’t see anything. No eye could see it.
If you stood outside and put your ear to the big stone, you couldn’t hear anything. No ear could hear it.
If you tried to imagine what was happening, you couldn’t. No mind could imagine it.
But inside, God was doing something new—something utterly amazing. Something only God could do.
Jesus waited.
And the world held its breath and waited with him.
I will not buy a glass of freshly squeezed pomegranate juice. I will not. Even though I know how delicious it is, and I really do want one. I turn away from this tempting stall even though I can smell its juicy, ripe fruit from here, and try to focus.
I’m standing in one of Jerusalem’s tiny, fascinating, cobbled streets. This route is called the Via Dolorosa. I’m one of a group, trying to listen to our tour guide as we follow in the last footsteps of Jesus. The triumphal procession and celebration of Palm Sunday is long gone for Jesus. What lies ahead is horrific, and unbelievable, and unimaginably cruel.
These are the very streets through which Jesus dragged his heavy cross, stumbling under its weight, bleeding onto the cobbles, while people watched and laughed and cheered.
We’ve just emerged from the darkness of an underground room, the place where Pilate condemned Jesus to death. We’re ready to go where Jesus went. I’m behind my sister-in-law and I hear her whisper to my brother, as she slips her hand in his:
Let’s follow the footsteps of Jesus.
I’m already feeling emotional as I really think about where his footsteps would take him.
But as soon as we emerge on to those busy Jerusalem streets, that’s when I see the pomegranates, and the scarves, and smell the coffee. And that’s when I lose my focus.
The narrow, winding alleys are simply filled with life, and color, and busyness, and sound. Everywhere I look there are stalls filled with things I want….
I see that fruit and suddenly, instead of thinking about the sour vinegar- the last drink that Jesus would have- I’m thinking about that freshly squeezed pomegranate juice I could have.
I see a myriad of colorful scarves, blowing in the wind, and suddenly, I’m not thinking about the crown of thorns that Jesus wore- I’m thinking about the pretty blue scarf I could wear.
I see the little Israeli coffee stall and suddenly, I’m not thinking about the smell of blood and sweat as Jesus fell to the cobbles under the weight of his cross- I’m thinking about the delicious aroma of freshly ground coffee mixed with cardamom seeds.
Let’s follow in the footsteps of Jesus, she said.
But I’m terrible at it.
It’s so very hard… to walk with Jesus through this Holy Week, to truly contemplate the meaning of Maundy Thursday, and to experience the grief of Good Friday. But for Jesus, it was the only way, the only way, to that empty tomb, to Resurrection Sunday.
And if I wanted to, I could skip right through Holy Week. I could jump straight from Palm Sunday to Easter morning. I don’t have to go through any of it… because Jesus did it for me.
Help me, God, amidst the busyness and distractions of Holy Week, to try to remember that.
We welcomed new members today. Six people had decided to join our church.
They had faithfully attended the membership class a few weeks before, dutifully filled in the paper-work, learned about the holy sacraments we celebrate as United Methodists, and heard all about John Wesley, our founding father.
They were ready. Today was the day we would welcome them into membership.
My husband stood at the altar and called their names. They came forward, smiling. But before we welcomed them into our United Methodist family, my husband said these words…
Is there anyone else here today who feels like they would like to join our church this morning?
It was quiet. And still. Nobody moved. But he didn’t give up.
If God is moving in your heart, I invite you to come forward. We can deal with the red tape and paperwork later, he smiled. But if God is calling you, come and stand with us.
And from behind him, a young woman came, followed by her husband, followed by an older lady who slowly made her way up to the altar, pushing her walker. It took her a long time. But she came. They came. They stood together. And suddenly, six became nine.
And you could just feel it, this whisper of the Holy Spirit, this mysterious murmur that happens when you let God work in the moment, in the quietness, in the heart.
And I’m sure it’s the same Holy Spirit who whispered in the wind on that Galilean beach so long ago, when Jesus said ‘follow me’ to four fishermen, who just dropped their nets and went. Because what could be more important than saying yes to Jesus?
And here’s the thing… I don’t think God cares if we’re ready. I don’t think God cares if our nets are mended or our classes are completed. No form-filling, no lesson-learning, no net-mending should ever come between us and God. God just wants us to say yes to the call, to walk up to the altar.
Because when we do, we invite God to be at work in powerful ways. The moment becomes God’s moment, and our church becomes that beach, where we can drop our nets in the sand, and let the ground become holy as we follow Jesus.
If God is calling you, come and stand with us. my husband said.
It’s the best invitation we could ever receive, the only invitation that truly offers us life.
The cover is not patterned, as my son first thought, and it’s definitely not pretty. The leather is terribly cracked, and wrinkled, and dry – so much so that the words ‘Holy Bible’ are almost obscured.
I don’t know how long my dad owned this 1957 King James edition, or where he got it from, but I do know that he read it every day, that his hands turned the well-worn pages, that this was the most important book he ever owned.
As a Methodist local preacher, my dad preached every single Sunday, and like a faithful companion, this battered Bible accompanied him. It must have traveled for miles.
Whether lying on the front seat of his car, being carried under his arm as he walked, or riding in the panniers of his bicycle as he rode to his appointments, this book was at his side. It was, for my dad, the only text from which to preach.
As a young girl, I can remember coming downstairs early in the morning to find him sitting at the kitchen table, his head pored over this book.
This is a great text, Glenys. I just need three good points to preach on, he would say.
I don’t know how many pulpits my dad climbed, how many sermons he preached, or how many lives were changed because of his words, but I know mine was.
I found his bookmark, tucked, appropriately, in Romans 8:28, towards the end of the New Testament.My four-year old grandson, when he saw it, said, in his wonderful, innocent way,
Oh Grandma, your dad nearly got to the end of his book. You’ll have to finish it for him.
There’s nothing I can do to finish what my dad began. But I can carry it on.
I can continue what he started, what he pursued so passionately in life. I can spread the Gospel – from the pulpit, or the page. I can try to put others before myself, be in love with the splendid world God made, always look for the good in everything, and live like Jesus lives in me. Because that’s what Dad did.
I hope I’ve inherited more from my dad than his Bible.
My dad died as he had lived – quietly, and humbly. He left this world like a whisper, without any fuss, or ceremony, or great reproach.
And it’s really no wonder that the heavens literally opened as we lowered him into the grave.
On a snowy afternoon in a little Michigan town, a blue-eyed three-year old with wavy hair opened an early Valentine’s day gift from his grandma.
She took photos of him as he snuggled with his mom to read his new book.
He lifted the flap to read his love letter from God, and his little face just lit up when he saw his own name written inside. And who knows how God is at work in young hearts and minds as they open those books, and read their letters, and hear God call their very own name?
Who knew that when God called the name of Moses from within the flames of a burning bush, an entire nation would be rescued?
Who knew that when God called the name of Samuel in the quietness of the temple, that little boy would grow up to anoint kings?
Who knew that when God called the name of Mary in the stillness of a Jerusalem morning, when all hope was gone, hope would be restored to the world?
Who knows when God calls the name of Austin through the letters of a little book, what that young boy will do?
Who knows?
Visit the link below to read 50 ways for your family to celebrate Valentine’s Day, and enter the giveaway to win your own copy of the little book that Austin holds.
How exciting for me to participate in a tour for the release of Little Love Letters from Godfrom the comfort of my own home!
This week’s stop in the virtual world is with Jenn, a homeschooling mom of eight! (Did you know that I’m one of eight too?)
Jenn blogs at Treasuring Life’s Blessings, where she agreed to post a review of the book. Be sure to stop by to read the wonderful review and enter the book giveaway too!
Jenn started writing during one of the darkest times of her life, when she found out that her baby son was going to die. Jenn and her family held little Noah for just nine precious hours. So it’s really not surprising that her favorite story in the book would be this one…..
I know that Jenn has already claimed the wonderful words contained in God’s love letter for that story, which say:
Just like I carried Noah, I will carry YOU too. With All My Love, God.
No matter how long or short our days, God carries each one of us, in those big strong arms that hold us tight, even when we don’t know it.
For the next six weeks, I’ll be making stops at eight different websites…visiting with authors and pastors, home-schooling moms and children’s ministers…. wonderful colleagues who will help to launch my newest title, from now until February 15th.
We’ll explore ways of using love letters in children’s ministry; there’ll be author interviews, book reviews; new ideas for family Valentine’s Day traditions and crafts, and best of all, a Little Love Letters from God giveaway at every stop.
I hope you’ll come on tour with me! It starts today, with Vanessa Myers, where I’ll be sharing Five Ways to Use Love Letters in Children’s Ministry.
Here’s the schedule for the next six weeks…..join us, and win yourself a copy of Little Love Letters from God… just in time for Valentine’s Day!
Jan 4: Vanessa Myers: Five Ways to Use Love Letters in Children’s Ministry
The last time I saw my dad he was sitting under a magnolia tree.
It was the last time we would smile for the camera together; the last time we would laugh together; the last time we would sing hymns together under its leafy shade. But I didn’t know it then.
It’s a splendid tree, this love, he said, with that wonderful twinkle in his eye that characterized my dad so perfectly. Just look at it! It’s really at its best.
It wasn’t quite the truth. I knew it, and he knew it. The tree’s best days were certainly behind it. The tell-tale carpet of pink blossoms on the ground beneath our feet gave it away. But my dad was always one to look up, never to look down. It was the reason he saw the best in everything and everyone.
And so we smiled, and nodded together, and admired the splendid tree.
Now then, said my dad, as he looked up into its leafy boughs. Is that Mr Blackbird? He’s always here love, and he’s always singing. Well then, give us a tune.
And Mr Blackbird did. Perched high up on the branch as it swayed in the wind, the blackbird opened his beak and sang at the top of his voice. It was a beautiful tune, shrill and clear, a morning song that carried on the breeze and brought sunshine to the grey skies overhead.
My dad chuckled.
What about this one then? he asked, as he pursed his lips together and began to whistle a tune. The blackbird cocked his head to one side and listened. We waited. And sure enough, there came the obligatory reply. And so it went on: my dad whistling a tune and the blackbird copying.
That was in May, before summer gave way to fall, and autumn gave way to winter.
And on a December afternoon, I found myself kneeling at my front window, clutching my phone, saying good-bye to my dad, as he lay 4000 long miles away, taking his final breaths.
Dad, it’s Glenys, I say, very deliberately and very slowly. It’s really important to me that my dad hear these words.
I have something very important to tell you. I can hear his breathing.
I love you Dad. And I WILL see you again.
I can’t bring myself to say the word goodbye, and so I don’t. I save it for the moment I see him again, lying very still, and peaceful, and quiet and very cold.
I slip an acorn into his pocket as he’s lying there and kiss his icy head.
And on the morning of his funeral, I’m in front of the mirror, getting ready, when I hear something right outside my window. It’s a blackbird, perched high in the treetops, swaying back and forth in the wind, and singing for all it’s worth.
It’s so very loud. And it’s so very lovely. You’d never guess it was singing in the rain that morning, or that the sky above was so grey.
It’s just singing for all it’s worth, that little blackbird…
singing its song for a man who truly taught me how to live, whose legacy of love will last forever, who saw the best in everything, who sat with me under a splendid magnolia tree in May as blossoms of pink covered the ground.
And who knows how God is at work in young hearts and minds as they open those books, and read their letters, and hear God call their very own name?
