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Hope. Something about the very word stirs our hearts on a primeval level. The drive to believe the way is never utterly dark is woven into the very fabric of our souls. It is the theme of fairy tales, superheroes, and legends. It is the flicker of magic in our childish games.
“Blow out your candles and make a wish….”
“Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. Wish I may and wish I might. Grant this wish I wish tonight..”
It is the ingredient in the spin that keeps health, wealth and prosperity preachers rich and the desperate coming back for more against all odds. It prompts the gambler to roll the dice just one more time. Hope draws the mother back to the window took look for her lost child although the years have borne testimony that he will not be coming home.
I remember a time when I lost hope. Even now, I can hardly bare to think of the despair that followed. It was such a sorrowful, barren place when my heart echoed the Psalmist cry as he said, “The cords of death entangled me; the torrents of destruction overwhelmed me.” Psalm 18:4. Then, as I cried out to God something unexpected rose from the gloom. It was a new hope, profoundly different from the others. It was rock solid, unshakable and built on the foundation of the very nature of God.
I had learned a few things about God that I knew to be true. God is faithful. He is good and mighty. He loves me personally, intimately, and extravagantly. I never could have discovered this new hope if I had not first fully embraced these truths because it is based on trust.
I remember standing before a group of women to tell them about this hope. It was a messy affair. Tears pouring. Heart breaking. My hands unclenching to release my most desperate longings so that I might embrace a greater hope. I stood before them and in essence said this:
“I no longer know if my daughters will ever come home. For so long I tried to force my logic on the Maker of All Things. I thought, ‘Surely He will bring them home to me. It makes no sense for there to be any other ending to this journey.’ Now, I am not so sure anymore. I have discovered that His ways are so much higher than my ways and His thoughts more lofty than my own finite reasoning. Perhaps, He only gave them to me to love for a little while….but what I have discovered is this: He can keep me no matter what. If He chooses to say ‘no’ to my pleas, He is able and faithful to mend my broken heart.”
I will tell you that not every woman in that room could receive what I said. We all want to believe God will give us what we desire, don’t we? At times, we even try to manipulate the Almighty into doing our bidding as if He, the Sustainer of All, were some cosmic vending machine or a genie in a lamp.
“God, forgive us for making You too small in our eyes…”
Oh, He loves to give good gifts to His children and there are so many, many times he grants our requests but sometimes for the greater glory or the deepening of our faith he says, “No, my child.” or “Wait awhile…” It is in those moments we have the opportunity to find a joy that is deep, pure, and strong, a joy that finds its source in the hope that even if our most desperate longings are denied, He is able and faithful to hold us together.
There, in the sure hope of the love of Christ is true transcendence. It is the victory that comes from believing that no matter our circumstances, it is not the end.
…And in that place is incredible joy.
“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.” Romans 15:13
He was so sure he had it all together, so confident he was right. He had played by the rules all his life, and he had played with excellence. Everything had led to this moment, his moment.
He was the authority, the standard against which righteousness was measured and as he led the charge for purity his following grew. They all flocked around him seeking favor. Raptly, they listened to him speak in the synagogue and as his voice rose in condemnation of the plague among them, they were stirred into fury. Inflamed with zeal for the cause they flooded into the streets, drug men from their homes and picked up stones to dispense justice but first they laid their coats at his feet. It was his approval and blessing they desired.
It must have felt so good to him. After all, he was so sure he was right….. Read the rest of this entry »
Perspective.
As I have been thinking about joy, the word that keeps coming back to me over and over is “perspective.” What I have realized, is that most times I fall into a period of discontentment, or even despair, that a common denominator is that I have lost perspective in some way. One way this is true is that I forget to be thankful for the blessings in my life. For me, thankfulness is the key that unlocks the joy in my heart.
Of course, there have been times when my way was genuinely difficult. In those times, I had to discipline myself to be thankful and sometimes, I found it necessary to start small.
We all have times in our lives of intense sorrow, longing, or loss and what drives one person to the breaking point is entirely different from the thing that threatens to crush another. For me, the long, painful wait for my daughters’ homecoming was one of those times. Somewhere along the way, I reached a time that my heart was so wounded and bleeding that I was just going through the motions day after day.
Joy was nowhere to be found. In fact, it was so far removed from my life that the very thought of a joyful heart was foreign and seemingly impossible to me. One evening, I just had to get away and meet with God. I went for a drive and found myself at the historic cemetery in my town. I guess it seemed a fitting setting for all that felt dead inside of me. I walked among the graves, carrying my grief with me as I went and there I talked with God.
As I read the eighteenth and nineteenth century tombstones, it occurred to me that an astonishing number of them belonged to children who perished in their first year of life. In some cases, I found groupings of small markers bearing the same family’s name and I imagined the grief of their mother who had placed so many small bodies lovingly in the ground. Then, I came to a large flat marker, about five feet long. The child had died in infancy. His name was engraved there along with the dates which recorded the span of his short life. His parent’s names were there as well, but the bulk of the inscription was this verse of scripture:
“The LORD gave, and the LORD hath taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD.” Job 1:21”
Then, God whispered to my spirit, “Your daughters live!” Then, my mind was flooded with remembrance of all the perils my little ones had survived and how many others did not. I realized in that moment that although the wait had been far too long and the way far too hard, that God had spared them and sustained them. They lived!
And that was no small thing.
I dropped to my knees there in the cemetery next to the little one who did not and said, “Yes, Lord, they live. They could have died so many times, but they live. Thank you, thank you, thank you……..”
With that prayer, sorrow was for at least a moment overwhelmed by joy.
I don’t know about you, but sometimes I get so focused on what is wrong and what is missing, that I forget to appreciate what is right and the rich blessings I have received from God’s hand.
Thankfulness. It is the key that opens the door to joy. Sometimes, we find it necessary to start small but what I have discovered is that once I begin practicing thankfulness, it grows! Soon, it is as if a veil is lifted and I see blessings all around.
And when I am so blessed, how can I not be filled with joy?
It was no ordinary classroom. There were no desks, overhead projectors, or dry erase boards, just the Master seated in his chair and the bare, richly hued wood floor beneath Him. It was utterly silent and peaceful. I entered and without a word, took my place in front of Him, sitting at His feet.
I looked into His eyes as He gently smiled His welcome. He lowered His gaze to the book in His lap and closed it. Across the cover, I could see the words “IEP, Courage”. Below the title was my name. He lifted the book and returned it to its place on the shelf to be used again at another time and then chose a new volume for my lesson. I did not have to ask what the next area of study would be. I already knew. He, the author and finisher of my faith, had been preparing me for the new direction of my studies for days, priming my heart until I was eager to receive it. I broke the silence.
“Master, teach me about joy.”
“The joy of the Lord is your strength,” He replied.
“Yes, Master. I read that in Your Word but, what does that mean? How can joy equal strength? That sounds so….cryptic.”
He laughed softly and then bent over to place His hand on my face. “Oh, my child. That is so like you. You just aren’t willing to accept pleasant platitudes, are you? No. For you, it has to be real. It is not enough for you to sing, ‘The joy of the Lord is my strength’ if it doesn’t work out as truth in real life.”
“Life is too short to play games, Father” I replied. “That makes no sense to me. I don’t understand why people go to church on Sundays if they aren’t willing to let you in completely. Either You are who You are and Your Word is true, or it is not and if you can’t be trusted….well, I don’t want a god like that.”
“But you, my child, have learned I AM.” And with those words, though barely a whisper, the room shook.
I bowed my head low before Him and replied the only way I could, “Yes, Almighty One. You are all You claim to be and only you are worthy of praise.”
Tenderly, he lifted my head and cradled my face in His hand. I raised my own hand to rest on the back of His and there I felt a scar, the remant of the price He paid for my freedom.
“You know, My Father, that I love You. Now please, Rabbi….teach me about joy. I need to know, what does it mean for the joy of the Lord to be my strength?”
He settled back into His chair as I attentively watched His face. Then he said, “Joy. Lesson One. The first thing you need to understand is that the joy spoken of here comes from Me. It is different than all others and only I can give it. You must ask me for it.”
“Father,” I replied. “Give me Your joy. I will pray for it every day. It will be the cry of my heart.”
“And I will grant it,” He said. “I will never turn away the Godly prayer of one of my children, but there is more to learn and it may take awhile. Are you willing to spend the time? Are you willing to put forth some effort?”
“Yes, Rabbi. I will do whatever you require.”
“Good. I will hold you to that. This is the end of your first lesson and you have homework. Go and study the word “Joy” and read Nehemiah chapter 8. Meditate on it and then come back and we will discuss it.”
“Will you open my eyes, my God, that I might see wonderful things in your word?”
“Yes, my child. Now, go in peace.”
I rose and made my way toward the door. Then, I paused and turned to look at Him.
“Jesus, thank you for loving me, thank you for teaching me. In your presence is fullness of joy.”
And then I realized…I had just begun lesson two.
Here are some pictures of the cornrows I put in my middle daughter’s hair a couple of weeks ago. I was really pleased with this effort and think these are my best cornrows so far. I asked an African American friend who is an “expert” to please critique them for me and she said there was nothing to critique because they were great!
This style looks really good on Claudine and she loves it because the positioning of the part makes her hair seem long and “glamorous”. Before I was even finished with the braiding, she was sweeping it back dramatically from her face, proclaiming “I LOVE my hair! It is BEEEEAAAUUTIFUL!”
This is a shot of the back. I was not completely satisfied with it. I think the rows are a bit to thick and some of the parts are a little crooked. The back is hard for me because I have to depend on her to hold her head down and she usually wants to sneak a peek at whichever princess movie is playing on the TV. Also, I did the back last and I was pretty tired by then.
I was thrilled with the cornrows on top. Not bad for a girl who struggled to even do a French braid before she became the mother to two Haitian daughters, huh?
Okay, the next two shots are of Claudine “swinging” her braids back and forth. She loves to do this and I think that is pretty common for little girls blessed with beads and braids!
Watch out, girl! You are going to put someone’s eye out with those beads!
By the way, these beads are terrific. They are shaped like little stars.
That is all of the shots for this time. I have a new style of which I found a picture on the internet that I am looking forward to trying soon, but not too soon because this set of cornrows is holding up great! They have been in for two weeks now and I can get at least one more week out of them.
Have a blessed day!
Well, I was sitting around thinking and I said to myself, “You know, it is just not crazy enough around here with five kids and I am a little shy of utter exhaustion so….why not get a puppy?”
And there you have it….proof of my insanity on a leash.
So, I would like to introduce you to the newest member of our household: Puzzle. She is a 10 1/2 week old Miniature Schnauzer. You will have to excuse the quality of her photos. She likes to be right next to me and that makes it hard to get a good shot.
Oh, you want to know why I named her Puzzle? Well, because I love The Chronicles of Narnia and in the final book, The Last Battle, there is an endearing character, a donkey, named Puzzle. My daughter, Meghan, and I always thought that would be a fabulous name for a dog. So, there you have it…Puzzle.
Yes, yes….She is very cute. I love dogs and everything but would not have bought one right now except for the fact the children wore me down with their begging for months and months. I, you see, know how much work a puppy is and I also know that no matter how much they promise to help that this dog is, in fact, mine and mine alone. They will play with her but I will be her main caregiver and she already knows it. How could she not? I was up with her all last night while she had…..diarrhea.
Here is the amazing part…she made it outside every single time except for the first one. I have no doubt it was God’s mercy to me, because you know, I would have been the one to clean up the accidents.
At one point, in the middle of the night, she had some trouble settling back down to sleep after being sick so I placed her on my chest as I lay on the couch. I felt her little heart racing, and racing. Then, it slowed and she went to sleep and I thought….AAAAAAHHHHHHH! I HAVE ANOTHER BABY! WHAT HAVE I DONE?????????
We were at the vet’s bright and early. Guess what she has? You will never guess. Okay, all parents who have adopted from Haiti, guess!!! She has…GIARDIA!!!!
If you don’t know why that is hysterical, here goes: Giardia is the most common parasite for kids who are adopted from orphanages. One of my girls came home with a raging case of it. Here is the really weird part…the puppy is on the medicine they prescribe for humans, Flagil. I laughed out loud when the vet told me.
It was a crazy laugh, mind you. Not a funny, “ha, ha” laugh…….
(The shot to the right is of Puzzle chewing on my Chuck Taylors)
I’m trying not to fall in love with Puzzle, but the truth is….I’m failing miserably.
I was thinking this morning as Ro and I were walking Puzzle, that she will probably be good for me. I tend to take myself far too seriously at times. Every time I turn around, I find that I have forgotten to savor life, and puppies….well, they are all about savoring life. Besides, I know she is meant to be mine. As soon as I put my orange mocha down on the porch, she tried to drink it.
I told her that might not be the best for a G.I. tract ravaged by Giardia…..
The most beautiful statues at the monastery are the two pieces that make up “The Garden of Gesthemani” which were donated to the monastery in memory of Johnathan M. Daniels, a young Episcopalian Seminarian who was martyred during the civil rights movement.
The exhibit is comprised of two pieces. The first sculpture is of the disciples sleeping in the garden.
This is another shot of the same piece:
A little further up the path is the sculpture of the kneeling, weeping, praying Christ the night before His betrayal and crucifixion.
A close up:
This view point is my favorite. Each time I visit this exhibit I am moved by the sacrifice Christ made for my redemption.
Only one photo left and it is a favorite as well. The cross is empty. The work is done. He is risen.
If you are interested in a quiet, spiritual retreat, please consider The Abbey of Gesthemani. My annual retreat there is something I eagerly anticipate all year long. Reservations must be made pretty far in advance. I think the last two years I went, the brothers were booking rooms 3 – 4 months ahead of time. All of the information you need is on their website.
Have a peaceful weekend!
Here are some photos from my retreat at The Abbey of Gesthemani in June. 
This first photo is of a sign posted in the elevator of the retreat house. I thought it was hysterical. Those monks. They can be quite witty when they so choose.
This shot is of the outside of the church. The retreat house is on the left. The monastic area is to the left.
This is another shot of the church with the bell tower.
Below is the cemetary for the brothers.
Under this tree is my favorite place to read Scripture and pray.
There is a woodland path on the grounds of the monastery that has statues and places for quiet meditation. The next few 
shots will show a few of those statues.
The first picture however, is of a sign along the way.
A Cherub:
An angel (or fairy, I’m not sure.)
It seems we have a new summer tradition in our home. For the past three years, when it gets hot…. really, really hot, one of our air conditioning units says, “That is it! I can’t handle it anymore. I quit!!”
Last night was the night. We did not notice it right away because frankly, the upstairs unit has not seemed passionate about its job for some time now so we are used to it being hot. Besides, we were downstairs happily laughing our heads off at Miah as he pretended to be “karate guy”. He was running around the house in his boxers punching and kicking the air while yelling, “HYYYYYAAAAH!” Periodically, he would stop assaulting invisible bad guys to do something that looked strangely like a pirouette. Obviously, he has been pretending “ballet” with his sisters. He would spin and spin and spin before returning to his frantic Karate moves. (I know I personally was kicked in the rear more than once while unloading the dishwasher.) When he gets worked up like that he reminds me of a cross between Animal from The Muppet Show and The Tazmanian Devil from Saturday morning cartoons when I was a kid.
At one point, as my husband and I sat watching him I broke our stunned silence by saying, “That boy is just not right.” To which Michael responded, “He is probably more right than you know.” To which I countered, ”When I did substitute teaching for kindergarten and little boys acted like that I felt sorry for them because I thought it meant their moms did crack when they were pregnant with them.” Michael just raised his eyebrows at me and grinned.
Miah is doing great in kindergarten but it is a stretch for him to become so “civilized” all at once. When he gets off the bus he walks right past me into the house, drops his backpack and takes off his shirt, socks and tennis shoes. Only when he is finally free can he give me a kiss and say hello.
My baby has had an interesting week in school. A girl slapped him. Yes, you heard me correctly. He was not the least upset when he told me about it. I asked him what happened and he said she told him she was going to slap him. He responded to her that she could not do that and so….she slapped him. At least she is a person of her word.
I’m just so glad he did not let loose with Karate Guy. Whew….all that talk about not hitting girls must have stuck after all. I am actually very proud of my warrior child. It must have taken a great deal of self restraint to keep from throttling her, and let me tell you, I have no doubt who would have come out the victor. I’ve seen his cross punch. Besides, slapping is a sissy hit. Everyone knows that.
Good thing she did not mess with one of his sisters……
As far back as anyone remembers, the roots of my family tree run deep in the red clay of Mississippi soil. My Mom and Dad were among the first and the very few to break the mold and move out of state. My grandmothers still live there as well as my aunts, uncles and all of my cousins.
The mountains of North Carolina where I spent my childhood were a pretty long drive from my parent’s hometown near Elvis’ birthplace so we did not visit often, but we usually went there for Christmas. I also have vivid memories of visits made occasionally in the summer. My parents would drug me with Dramamine and spread a foam mattress across the back seat of our huge, black “land yacht” of a Chevrolet. My brother and sister and I would play for awhile but eventually doze off as the miles drug on and on. The closer we came to our destination, the higher the temperature would rise. After what seemed an eternity, the wheels of our car crunched to a stop on my grandmother’s driveway in rural Mississippi. My parents then opened the car doors and as we crawled out of the backseat the heat hit us and nearly took away our breath.
The heat seemed to somehow radiate equally from the dusty clay beneath our feet as it did from the white hot orb hanging in a pale blue sky above. By midday, it forced the entire world into a submissive silence and stillness except for the song of the cicadas high in the pine trees.
My grandparents were good people who worked hard but had very little. Their weekdays were filled with their labors and devotion to their children and grandchildren. Sundays were set aside for worship and the obligatory fried chicken and biscuits that followed. They were the kind of people who kept “The Good Book” handy and prayed over every meal and plenty of times in between.
They also used racial slurs as freely as they drew breath.
Mississippi has the largest population of African Americans in the United States and the color line between black and white seems to be drawn in permanent ink, or maybe even blood. I have thought long and hard and I just can’t remember if I ever heard one of my grandmothers in particular ever call a person of color anything but the “N” word. That is why I did not think I would ever go back after my daughters came home from Haiti. I was the first person I know of in either line of my family tree to enter a familial relationship with someone of color.
But…for whatever reason, maybe it was the fact that my grandmothers are in their mid 90’s now, I realized this past weekend that it was time to go. I decided the kids and I would stay with my sister, who lives in a university town that is a bit more integrated, and we would then drive another 1 1/2 hours to visit the grandmothers together. As I neared my sister’s home I called to confirm directions and she said, “Okay. You are about to go through a lot of little towns with big Rebel flags. Don’t get out of the car.” I hung up my cell phone and stared at the tall pine trees standing sentry along the side of the two lane road. Here and there Kudzu and poverty seem to be in a race to see who could overtake the countryside first.
My five children laughed in hysterics at The Muppet Show DVD playing on our van’s TV and I began to pray. I prayed for protection and mercy. I prayed that if my grandmothers’ did in fact respond badly at the sight of their brown great-grandbabies that I would have the wisdom and strength to confront them in love. I prayed that nothing negative my kids heard or saw during their visit would “stick”.
The next day, as we all entered the nursing home together, I took a deep breath and held the girls’ hands a little tighter. We walked down the hall to find my grandmother sitting there as if she were waiting for someone or something although she had no idea we were coming. Her eyesight is failing and she did not recognize me at first.
“Grandmother, it is me, Sherri” I said. “I have my children with me and here are my daughters, the ones you have not met.”
And immediately, she did the most miraculous thing: She pulled my brown babies into her arms and said, “I’m your grandmother, do you know that?” Then, she kissed them both and held them tight.
I am sure there were people staring but she loved my babies as if she had waited for them forever. There was not a hint of malice, rejection or questioning. They were mine and therefore, they were hers. That is all that mattered.
It was a beginning. I have wondered if as she sat in the lunchroom that day if anyone asked her about them and what she would say if they did. Until that moment, the racial lines had been drawn for her entire lifetime in places that were comfortable to her. Black, white. Them, Us.
Suddenly, the line faded and became a bit blurry. There she sat at the end of her life and to her surprise she found something had shifted and it was not so easy to determine who was good and who was bad by the color of their skin. As I was watching that day, the veil W.E. Dubois describes in “The Souls of Black Folk” unraveled just a little bit.
And I thought, just maybe, there is hope after all.
