It all started with an eagle. A year and a half ago, I was about to start a new job. As I was writing in my journal about it, perched on my favorite spot in the house, I saw a large brown bird on our backyard fence. I gasped, grabbed my binoculars, and zoomed in on what I thought was an elusive hawk that I’ve seen before and have been trying to identify.
I finally captured the hawk.
But this was no ordinary bird. This was a golden eagle sitting in the sun. I could see him clearly, right down to his distinctive beak. I watched as he turned his head a complete 180 degrees, probably scouting out his breakfast.
So, I dressed quickly and went outside to get a better look. I did the short loop behind our house, and, since it was such a nice morning, the short walk turned into a longer walk. As I continued down the main road, all I saw was more birds. Birds of every shape and size, from geese and egrets by the pond to the smallest sparrows dotting the grass.
My favorite was the trio of tiny blue birds with chestnut chests, which I later researched and discovered to be Eastern bluebirds. It seemed as if they were following me down the road, swooping and landing and swooping up again.
I love object lessons in nature, when scenes outside point to what we see in God’s Word. There are so many verses that mention birds, and some that specifically mention eagles. These verses tell of God’s faithful care and abundant provision. They issue a call to rise above worry and to trust the sovereignty of almighty God.
Is. 40: 31 NET “Those who wait for the Lord’s help find renewed strength; they rise up as if they had eagles’ wings…”
Matthew 10: 29-31 NIV “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.”
Matthew 6:25-27 NIV “Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?”
“Look at the birds of the air.” “Don’t be afraid.” That’s just what He led me to do on that spontaneous morning walk – to look and to be reminded. The nests in the trees, the birds seen, the birds unseen but heard clearly. Everywhere I looked, there were reminders of His faithfulness, reminders of Him. I love reminders such as these, and I love what they point to – the One whose praises the birds sing, our faithful, loving Creator.
Starting a new job. How long we continue to live in this city. When we move to the next. Financial goals. All the changing seasons of life.
The birds remind me to lay all this down at the feet of our Creator. This loving God invites us to know Him, and in knowing Him, we have all we need. (2 Peter 1:3)
At the start of each new season of life, at every bend in the road, in every moment of my life – I have all I need. I have everything I need in knowing God.
And I always will.
So, I trust Him to provide each next step at each right time. He is near, and He is faithful. He provides. He does it for the birds, and He does it for me.
Romance, suspense, drama. I recently read a book that checked all the boxes. This story wasn’t in the latest beach read or best-seller – it was in the Bible. The book of Esther reads like the best novel. It’s a juicy, plot-driven story, a tale that’s true and enduring.
I love a good story. Stories of yesterday and today, stories of the epic and the everyday. Stories are at the core of our humanity. They’re the common thread running through our lives, across centuries and cultures. Stories are how we process life, how we share it with others, how we learn, and how we go on.
Stories can lift our gaze from our own preoccupations and broaden our perspective. They offer a reprieve from daily stressors, mindless tasks, and endless distractions. Stories, both on the page and screen, can inform, inspire, entertain. Stories shared orally keep us connected to one another throughout the shifting scenes of life. Good stories can enrich us as we seek to more fully live out our own story.
I have devoured countless good stories. I love each plot point of Pride and Prejudice, each ball, each letter, each conversation with electric undercurrent. I love sinking my teeth into a good mystery. Wilkie Collins, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and Agatha Christie are some favorites. And more recently, Richard Osman and Robert Thorogood, whose adaptations are soon coming to the screen.
For novels, I love the light-hearted fun of Sophie Kinsella and the expert wittiness of Alexander McCall Smith. I love spending summers on Nantucket with Elin Hilderbrand.
I remember being held captive by The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux, unable to put it down as midnight came and went. I remember the exact moment I read the plot twist to end all plot twists: the boathouse scene in Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier.
And I remember vividly coming to the last page of The Silmarillion, Tolkien’s masterpiece. It’s the story he started writing in a notebook in World War 1, one he returned to throughout his life, and was published posthumously by his son and literary executor. This is the story that undergirds and entwines all his other works of Middle-earth. It’s the grand mythology he set out to create for and dedicate to England. It is his magnum opus, and it is magnificent.
Although I have read it many times over the years, I will never forget finishing that first read. I was on my lunch break, sitting on a bench outside the Capitol in Tallahassee. It was springtime. Lush pink azaleas and trees laden with Spanish moss were my backdrop. Birds serenaded me as the sun warmed my skin. It could not have been a more sublime reading environment. And there I came to the final pages. The last ship sailed, and there was the end of the Elves on earth. I was utterly transfixed.
And lately, I have enjoyed reading All Creatures Great and Small and the others in the series of James Herriott’s memoirs – an endearing account of his days as a veterinarian in the North of England in the 1930s. The reader follows him all across the Yorkshire Dales, from one farm to the next.
We encounter ewes in labor, cows with bovine disease, and one pampered Pomeranian who is a most beloved family member of a wealthy widow. We meet farmers who fancy themselves more of an expert on animals than any vet but who always invite him in for “a cup o’ tea” or “a bite o’ supper” once his work is done. You can’t help but fall in love with all the characters he introduces, both two-legged and four-legged.
And you can’t help but fall in love with the land. In my mind’s eye, I can see the purple heather on the high fells, the lush green hills dotted with sheep. Herriott takes the reader right along with him as he drives out to each call. We stand in the barn with him, peering over his shoulder. We follow in his footsteps as he trudges through snow. We easily imagine the beauty of life lived among such wholesome people in such an enchanting place.
I love stories such as these. I love immersing myself in the tale as it unfolds scene by scene. And I love how a good story stays with you long after the last page is turned.
And most of all, I love the stories in Scripture – stories like Esther that are even more meaningful because they are true. They are real. The words of Scripture are “living and active” (Hebrews 4:12). Words that ring true for all eternity. Words written on my very heart.
These are the stories that I return to the most, words I love to re-read, words forever archived in my soul. These are stories that stay with me. The words of Scripture inspire, encourage, challenge, remind, soothe, fortify, and focus me. No other work moves me the way the Bible does. Its words are spirit, and they are life (John 6:63). The best story of all.
Whatever was written in the past was written for our encouragement so that through endurance and the encouragement of the Scriptures, we might have hope.
The season of spring has been gracing us with its presence for nearly a month now. The 21st of March has come and gone, and even Easter is behind us, but I only recently remembered to put out my front porch spring sign. Better late than never I suppose.
The turning over of one season into the next snuck up on me this year because I’ve started a new job. I’ve returned to my social work roots as a case manager for home health for the elderly and disabled. I’ve entered a new season, one I’m enjoying.
Changing seasons in nature, changing seasons of life – change is constant. But one thing that never changes is the holy, indestructible, unwavering love of God.
It’s a love that never fails, never fades, never changes. It’s a love that reaches to the very depths of our souls. It’s unconditional and eternal. It envelopes the whole world in its vastness yet it draws near to us intimately and personally. It’s a love like no other.
It transcends our questions, our doubts, our fears. It eclipses our needs, our failings, our struggles. The love of God is all-encompassing and everlasting.
No one else is capable of loving us the way God loves us because God is love. The very definition of love is… God. “God is love.” (1 John 4: 8, 16) We love – ourselves, others, God – because He first loved us. There can be no love without God. He is the source and essence of love.
When we find God, we find love – and we find we are so very loved by Him. We are loved with a love no one else on Earth is capable of.
And because God never changes (Hebrews 13:8), His love for us will never change. It will always be there for us, whether we feel it or not. Whether we acknowledge it or not. In the midst of changes and challenges, in good times and bad, His love exists. His love endures. And it’s ours for the taking.
And so we know and rely on the love God has for us.
1 John 4:16 NIV
As we accept, embrace, and internalize the love He has for us, we then love Him, ourselves, and others.
What a truly blessed life is available to us – to spend our days being loved by God and loving others. A life enriched, a life of purpose.
A life of love.
May we know “what is the length and width, height and depth of God’s love.” Ephesians 3:18 HCSB
During the height of Covid, I took precautions along with everyone else. I stayed home as much as I could. I wore a mask when I did go out. I had a Purell pump front and center on the kitchen counter. And I watched, and I waited.
I watched my husband and stepson deal with symptoms and testing, initially negative and later positive. I waited for the worst to be over and life to resume some sense of normalcy. And I waited for the day when symptoms would find me.
Although that day was slow in coming, it did eventually come. After months of watching everyone else deal with it, I found myself dealing with it as well.
Since Covid was then still prevalent, I couldn’t get an appointment for a test anywhere locally. Literally everywhere was booked. (Home test kits weren’t readily available yet, at least not that I was aware of.) And since this was my first brush with Covid, I wanted to be sure. If I had it, I wanted to know. I booked the best slot available – one at a CVS 35 minutes away.
So it was that I found myself on a sunny Saturday afternoon a year or two ago driving from south Georgia to a small town in north Florida. Over bridges, over hills, under canopy coverings on beautiful back roads, I drove at a leisurely pace. The scenery that stretched out before me consisted of winding rivers and vast cypress swamps. Scenic views in beautiful weather – even though I didn’t feel all that great physically, it wasn’t a bad way to spend the day. Alone on the road, alone with my thoughts, and with the soothing sound of Pachelbel’s Canon filling my car, time passed quickly and easily.
My map app finally brought me out of the woods and deposited me downtown in a small town, where standing as sentinel atop a hill, was the Wardlaw Smith House. The brown historic marker told me the name of this impressive house and that it was somehow significant. I made a mental note to research it later, but for now, all I had was the name and the sighting – a house with a history. Two stories of white brick with black shutters and imposing columns on a lush lawn.
Large old homes like this are common in small towns. Many seem not to be private residences anymore but business offices or museums. It made me even more curious about this place. I continued to ponder it as I passed it and made my way to my destination.
Wardlaw Smith. What an interesting name. Who was this man? Was he kind to his wife and children, or did he view them as property? Or was he a bachelor? How did he make his fortune? What did he look like? Did he have a handlebar moustache and wear spectacles?
I blink and suddenly the scene changes. It’s the summer of 1856, and Mr. Wardlaw Smith is dismounting his horse in front of the house. He is dressed in a top hat and black suit – he is in mourning. His father’s recent death has left him the house, the responsibility for his mother and sisters, and the pressures of providing for their future and the future of his own budding family. He looks up as the front door opens and sees his young wife, heavily pregnant and glowing, smiling down at him. And at that welcoming sight, his cares are eased, just for a moment. A breeze tickles the long strands of Spanish moss draping the live oak trees in his yard, and the scent of magnolia follows him up the steps. After a long journey, he is home.
I blink again, and it’s 1935. Miss Julia Smith, Wardlaw’s great-great granddaughter is descending the grand staircase to meet young Lieutenant Harper. All her hopes hang on this evening. After six weeks of earnest courtship, she is certain this is the night he will propose.
Her father likes the promise of a successful military career, her mother likes that he comes from a respectable family, but Julia just likes the way he makes her laugh. The air is heavy with expectancy.
For his part, Lieutenant Harper also has high hopes for the evening. His star is on the rise thanks to a recent promotion, but he doesn’t want to venture forward without this woman by his side. He doesn’t want to envision a future without her in it. In his pocket, he carries a small but precious burden – a ring that once belonged to his grandmother.
The Christmas tree in the foyer reaches nearly to the top of the staircase. Holly and ivy line the banister, and the family that have gathered in this home are wrapped in the warmth of the season. It’s a contest as to what shines more brightly – the light of the candles in the windows or the light in Miss Julia’s eyes.
Again, I close my eyes and open them to a new scene. It’s 1969, and the world is in uproar. So much has changed since the first brick was laid in this house. Mr. John Smith is at home in his study, wondering about his sons in Vietnam, worrying about finances, and wondering about the future. He does not want to leave his home, but the repairs needed to maintain the aging house are costing a fortune. He wants his sons to have a house to come home to, but more importantly, he wants his sons to come home.
So many cares, so much change. Just this summer, a man walked on the face of the moon. Things that were never thought possible, never even dreamed of, have happened. Where, he wonders, do we go from here?
On this Saturday in September, his wife is enjoying a late afternoon stroll with friends, leaving him alone in the house, alone with his thoughts.
As his mind wanders, he gets up from his desk and moves to a more comfortable chair near the bookcase. He can’t seem to focus on much of anything. In a daze, his eyes land on a book on the bottom shelf. It’s one of the old family books, a large leather-bound tome that he has never even opened, mixed in among genealogical records and photo albums. He opens it and discovers the words of Mr. Wardlaw Smith, his ancestor.
This is his personal diary, and it records much the same cares and questions he himself is now facing. Questions about money, concerns for family, questions about the future – it’s all recorded in his elegant script. How interesting that though much has changed since these words were written, much is still the same. Family, love, struggles, hope – these remain even though horse-drawn carriages and top hats have faded.
John smiles to himself, knowing that, though some questions remain unanswered, though winter is around the corner, spring will come again, just as it always has, year after year since the days of Wardlaw Smith. Some things are certain.
Once I returned home from getting my Covid test (which was negative, thankfully), I forgot to Google this house, and I still haven’t done so. I have no idea what its backstory is. I don’t know what its current use is or if it’s still a private home.
All I know is that the Wardlaw Smith house still stands. Through war, through hurricanes, through political and social upheaval, across millennia, this house endures. And from the outside appearance anyway, it appears relatively unchanged from what I imagine it looked like when it was built. What a testimony to the long march of time, to the unfolding of history.
Just as the man this house is named after took his place in history, just as every generation after him has taken their place, so we too must take ours. We too have a place in history – purposes to fulfill, people to love, situations to impact. We have much good to do. And whether history records our names or not, may we do all the good we can.
I hope Mr. Wardlaw Smith, handlebar moustache and all, would be proud that the house that bears his name is still standing.
It truly is the most wonderful time of the year. I’m typing by the light of our Christmas tree, admiring the way the ornaments shine. The scents of balsam and fir from our Christmas candle waft throughout the room. My chocolate pecan snowballs are baked, and my presents are wrapped. And I look forward to seeing loved ones soon.
It’s at this time of year we remember those we lost. And the world lost an icon this year with the passing of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.
After she died, I spent hours glued to the TV. I beheld the familiar sight of the royal standard draped over the unfamiliar sight of her coffin: a red dragon on a background of gold and a golden lion on a background of bright red. At once, startling, sad, and beautiful.
I watched as her coffin was carried from Balmoral Castle to Edinburgh, and it seemed to me even the land was in mourning. The green Highland hills stood sentinel over the procession. And the grey stone of Edinburgh seemed a little greyer that day. It was as if the cobblestones knew who was passing over them, one last time.
I saw people standing in incredibly long lines to pay their respects – long lines for Britain’s longest-reigning monarch. I saw pomp and circumstance executed with military precision, though it wasn’t merely for the sake of pomp and circumstance. It was for the sake of honor.
It seemed as if all of England emptied itself as mourners gathered on the streets. Every pub bare, every office empty, every tourist attraction silent and still.
It struck me how the proceedings incorporated every stratum of society. Tradition meets military meets politics meets the people. History unfolding as it has for centuries, as it ever will.
In the end, her crown lay at the foot of a cross. In Westminster Hall, as the Abbey officiant lowered the gilded cross of Westminster into place at the head of her coffin to close the service of remembrance, the foot of the cross was just in line with the crown atop her coffin. And with what was known of her life and faith, we can safely assume this was how she would’ve wanted it. What enabled her reign to be so successful and memorable was her unwavering allegiance to the One who reigned over her.
As I watched the Queen’s funeral proceedings, it reminded me of another time I was confronted with death. When visiting my family in metro D.C., we sometimes stop at Arlington National Cemetery. Climbing the green hills overlooking the city, beholding countless rows of names, and beholding the name of my father certainly left an impression. Surrounded by a sea of stone slabs, row on row, it’s hard not to think about death. Death and how we honor those who have died. And the importance of remembering.
What Arlington shows us, what we saw in the Queen’s proceedings is that how we honor the dead says much about the living, about what kind of people we are. We honor in death those we loved in life, and it’s good to have had people to love. As the Queen herself said, grief is the price we pay for love. We mourn the loss even as we celebrate the life, and we remember. We remember because we matter.
So, this Christmas, I remember my dad. I remember him in his chair in our old den reading the newspaper. I remember his warm hugs and sweet smile.
I remember a family Christmas photo when I was a teenager. My dad was holding our cat, who didn’t feel like being photographed that day, and he proceeded to soundly bite his hand just as we said cheese.
I remember how he meticulously checked my car’s fluids and even Windexed the windshield every time I got on the road after visiting.
I remember how proud he was of my sister and me and our achievements growing up, how proud he was as our family later expanded. I remember the love he had for my mom, a love deep down and ever present, expressed in his own way.
I remember him this Christmas as I gather with others who loved him. Grief is indeed the price we pay for love, and that is a price I am willing to pay. Because love is worth it.
Love matters. People and memories matter. Tribute and traditions matter. And these are things well worth remembering – at Christmas and always.
So, may you have a very merry Christmas with those you love. May we celebrate joyfully even as we remember those who are no longer with us. May the Queen rest in peace and rise in glory.
Italy awaits me. Or so I think. In my family, we’ve been talking about a big overseas girls’ trip for years now; just my mom, my sister, my niece, and me. We haven’t had a clear destination or timeframe in mind, just the desire to travel and make memories together. But now, my sister wants to run in the Rome marathon in 2024, and my mom wants to show the sights in Italy to my niece and me, since we’ve never been there. So, while this idea is in seed form now, it may take root and become reality. In just two years, the women in my family may invade Italy.
I’m picturing pizza at its finest, window shopping, tossing coins in fountains. I’m picturing wandering through vineyards and sampling what they produce. I’m picturing warm sunlight over Tuscan hills, a good evening meal after a full day of exploring.
I’m sure this is nowhere near what the Apostle Paul pictured when he looked forward to going to Italy. Regardless of what he envisioned, it seems Rome was never far from his thoughts.
“I long to see you.” Romans 1:11 NASB
“I am so eager to preach the gospel also to you who are at Rome.” Romans 1:15 NIV
“I have been longing for many years to see you.” Romans 15:23 NIV
“I must also see Rome.” Acts 19:21 NET
Throughout Paul’s ministry, Rome loomed large. Wherever he went, whatever he did, he seemed to know Rome was ahead. And he did make it there, eventually. He made it there unhindered.
Unhindered.
This is the very last word in the book of Acts (NASB translation), and it perfectly sums up Paul’s state and the state of the Gospel after everything that happened in the preceding 28 chapters.
After all the attempts to silence the Gospel; after all the detours and delays; after beatings, imprisonment, shipwreck – through it all, Paul arrived at his destination: Rome. He was a little worse for wear, but he was unhindered. And the message of life and salvation in Jesus’ name continued to spread throughout that region – unhindered.
He was unhindered because he remained obedient to the Lord, stayed focused on Him and not the circumstances surrounding him, and trusted the Lord regardless. He knew God could do anything, use anything, accomplish anything. He knew God would bring him to Rome, and he did.
His faith was unhindered.
And the Gospel was unhindered. Nothing could stop it! The message of the resurrection of Jesus and the hope and life found in Him spread literally everywhere Paul went. People were saved, the church was strengthened, and the kingdom of God advanced – unhindered.
There is an important lesson for us here, something we see clearly throughout all of Pauls’ missionary journeys, through all the miles he clocked. It’s the lesson of looking at the big picture and not hyper fixating on one small scene, even though this is easy to do.
God can use what seems like a detour to bring us right where we need to be. Paul knew God wanted him to go to Rome, so he didn’t worry about all the stops and starts along the way. He trusted God to protect him and to bring him to the right place at the right time.
And he opened himself up to opportunities along the way – everywhere he went, he ministered. In a prison cell, in the Areopagus, in city after city, onboard a ship, on the island where they shipwrecked – all along the way to Rome, he ministered to those around him.
He didn’t discount those opportunities just because they weren’t at his final destination. He didn’t belittle his circumstances just because they weren’t ideal. He didn’t write off the possibility that God could move – even in circumstances such as his.
He was faithful where he was while he was on the way to where he was going.
So, what’s your Rome? What’s the one thing you desire from God? Your overarching goal, your focus, the thing you see clearly in your mind but not yet in reality.
It’s good to have a Rome. We should all have a Rome, a direction we’ve received from the Lord, plans and desires and goals that we’ve surrendered to the Lord and are pursuing in Him, with Him.
Rome is a good thing as long as we don’t rush the journey to get there. We must be careful not to be so focused on getting to what’s ahead that we miss what God has for us along the way. We need not be so consumed with seeing the Coliseum, the museums, the history, and the hills that we neglect to see the beauty in front of us right now.
God has people for us to impact, lessons to learn, growth to gain now. And all this will only serve to prepare us for when we do get to our Rome.
Remember the big picture. Rome is just one stop in life’s journey; God has many places to take us. And regardless of the backdrop of each season of life, God can accomplish something good in it, and He can bring us to the next destination on time even when it seems like we’re miles away.
So, let’s savor each season, keeping our eyes open to the opportunities around us, all while we work towards Rome. Let’s take a mental snapshot of each phase of life, internalizing the lessons learned, and adding new postcards to the collection as we go. And as we do, the big picture of our lives will become clearer and clearer, lovelier with each passing year, as we move forward – unhindered.
And when we finally make it to our Rome, we will be ready to receive all that awaits us there because we’ve been faithful along the way. I believe Rome will be breathtakingly beautiful – and that’s worth waiting for.
Having lived most of my life in Florida, hurricanes are nothing new. But seeing the images of the devastation from Hurricane Ian are mind-boggling. Rivers where streets once were. Empty plots where houses once stood. The outline of a state altered.
These images recall the destruction of Hurricane Michael, the last major storm to hit Florida. My family and I witnessed the remnants of this destruction first-hand when we visited the area in the spring after the storm. Even then, Michael’s mark was evident everywhere we looked.
Mexico Beach, FL – only foundations remain where properties once stood
Port St. Joe, FL – where a gazebo used to be by our favorite restaurant
Like many others, I pray for the rescue efforts, the survivors, and all those impacted by Ian. As the water recedes, may resources rush in. And may the rebuilding process be successful and smooth – layer upon layer, brick by brick.
Storms can be scary. Experiencing them on land is bad enough; I couldn’t imagine being on a boat in the middle of a hurricane! But that is exactly where the Apostle Paul found himself in Acts 27. He was on board a ship to Rome in the middle of a storm, with the dangerous shallows of Syrtis lurking nearby. According to the New English Translation, this was an area of sandbars and shallow water. “It had a horrible reputation as a sailors’ graveyard… The name alone struck terror in those who heard it.” (footnote for Acts 27:17 NET)
Yet Paul stood steadfast. In verse 23, he tells the other passengers of the vision God gave him assuring him of his safety and the safety of everyone onboard. Consider his choice of words as he explains his vision and introduces God to them. “For this very night an angel of the God to whom I belong and whom I serve stood before me, saying, ‘Do not be afraid, Paul…” (Acts 27:23, 24 NASB)
The God to whom I belong and whom I serve. According to the New English Translation, the original Greek word translated as belong means “of whom I am.” In other words, “I am of Him.”
Many churchgoers profess belief in God, but can they say they are of Him? It’s one thing to go to church, spend time around Christians, and participate in Christian activity. It’s another thing entirely to belong to Him.
I am of Him.
I belong to Him.
In Him, I live and move and have my being (Acts 17:28)
These truths are the Christian’s mantra. What defines us as Christians, as seen in Galatians 2:20, is that we died to ourselves and now live for Him. We no longer live for ourselves (2 Corinthians 5:14, 15). Because of the sacrificial death of Jesus and His resurrection, we now have eternal life. Therefore, we are of Him – and hopefully our lives reflect that.
What a wonderful truth! I’m so thankful for the freedom to be alive in Him – that we can be begotten of Him and filled with His life. We can be free from servitude to self, a relentless master, and serve the One who alone knows what’s best for us and can bring it about.
We now live by a higher standard than our impulses and desires. We live by faith in the son of God who loves us and died for us (Galatians 2:20). We live abundant life (John 10:10).
So, by dying to ourselves and living for God, we forfeit what can never truly satisfy and embrace what we were made for – a beautiful exchange. We gladly sacrifice what is lesser to receive what is greater.
And in so doing, we let God do for us what no one and nothing else can, what we can’t do ourselves. He saves and satisfies our souls. He meets our every need and lavishes us with love.
We then spend the rest of our earthly lives belonging to Him. We can say we are of Him, and we let this infuse every facet of life – life as it was meant to be lived.
Two years ago, I stumbled across a medical report in my patient portal, one that I had never seen before. The medical report was titled “Tissue Exam,” and it was from my D & C procedure after I had a miscarriage in 2017.
With the startling realization of what I was about to read, I clicked on it. It hurt to read the heart-breaking contents but doing so delivered a little closure to that painful period in my life.
After I miscarried, I often wondered what became of the tissue that was extracted, whether it was donated to research or discarded, and if so, how. I still don’t know what became of it, and maybe it’s better that way, but now I know this: the size and color of the dead tissue that was once my living, loved baby.
“Received labeled “products of conception” is a vacuum container which is opened and shows small fragments of tan-brown tissue. The recovered tissue fragments measure 5 x 3 x 1.5 cm. The tissue fragments are entirely submitted in three cassettes.”
My one pregnancy, my only chance to be a mom whittled down to tissue fragments. And when the tissue disintegrated, so did my dream of motherhood.
Because I never got pregnant again. We consulted a fertility specialist who said I wasn’t a candidate for IVF using my own eggs. Our options were limited to donor eggs or donor embryos. And while those are certainly viable options for some, for us, it just didn’t feel right. Considering the expense involved and not having a guarantee of success, assisted reproduction was a closed door for us.
Adoption wasn’t an option, either. My husband was fine with us trying to get pregnant. More than fine, actually; he was excited! He wanted me to be a mom, and he wanted us to have a baby of our own. He was crushed when we lost the pregnancy. But he was nearing 50 then and already has a son of his own, so he didn’t think adoption was something we needed to pursue. And that was a decision I understood and accepted. It was a hard choice but the right choice.
And since pregnancy never happened again naturally, motherhood never happened for me. A long-held dream dissolved with my declining egg count.
I’ll never be the mother I always saw myself being. But I can be the stepmother I need to be now, the one I want to be faithfully. I can love the people I do have in my life. And I can care for all those whose life path intersects with mine – children at church, neighbors, the man with the sign on the street corner, friends, and family.
I have a lot of love to give.
And I can do just that. I can live a meaningful life despite the fact that my one pregnancy ended in tissue fragments. That tissue was scraped out of me; I didn’t feel it at the time, of course, because I was under anesthesia.
I‘ve been feeling it ever since, though.
I feel sadness at not being a mom, but I also feel peace. My heart bears the deep, wide wound of infertility – a scar I will carry for the rest of my life, but one that has healed.
And healing is a good feeling. Knowing that the death of dreams can never drown out the life inside me. Knowing that I can be broken-hearted yet remain whole. And knowing that no matter what happens, no matter how hard the hurt is, there is a greater reality. God’s love is bigger than the biggest hurt I face.
And that truth enables me to find healing and to keep going, even when dreams disappear and prayers go unanswered. I hold on to what matters most. I hold on to Him – to life eternal and love unfailing.
“Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be removed, yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken nor my covenant of peace be removed,” says the Lord, who has compassion on you.
Bear with me. This post has a point, I assure you. The story I’m about to relate may not be the most light-hearted thing you read today, but this is me. This is real life – with all its craziness, all its ups and downs – and all its lessons learned.
In August 2014, after a radiation treatment for papillary thyroid cancer, I had a full-body scan to determine if the cancer had come back or spread to new areas. It does this by showing if the patient has any areas of abnormal iodine uptake from the radiation.
And in my case, I did. Among other things, my results showed “a focus of increased activity” on my lower left chest that “may be due to metastatic disease to a rib or other etiology.”
In October 2014, I had a PET/CT scan which showed no distant metastasis. The scan showed that my cancer had not spread to my ribs. (It had returned in my lymph nodes, but that’s another story.)
My understanding is that when cancer spreads to your bones, it’s usually incurable. You just treat the symptoms, manage the pain…and wait. Thankfully, the second scan clearly showed that I did not have cancer in my bones, but from August to October, I did not know that. For two months I lived with that “or.” Either that spot was due to cancer in my ribs or some other benign cause. Either I was dying, or I wasn’t.
Being a cancer patient can make you hypersensitive to things you wouldn’t otherwise notice. When you spend so much time thinking about what’s going on inside your body and discussing it with doctors, you end up having the body on the brain constantly.
And in the weeks leading up to that first scan, I had the feeling of a constant cramp in my lower left chest. (Looking back now, it was probably just from exercising the wrong way, but who knows? It literally could have been anything other than cancer.)
Perhaps the scan results wouldn’t have alarmed me so much if I didn’t have a symptom that matched up with the worst-case scenario. But annoyingly, I did. So, for two months, I waited, and I wondered.
I couldn’t stop the thoughts that inevitably came. I thought about telling my family and friends the news and telling them how much they mean to me. I thought about what my funeral would be like and what worship songs I would want played. I thought about what kind of legacy I’d be leaving at this age. And I thought about all the years that would be left unfinished.
I couldn’t help but think and feel these things in that interim of ignorance. I carried on as normal – went to work, did the dishes, and planned for each next day. But it was an eerie time. I didn’t know if my days were suddenly coming to an end due to an incurable cancer or if I was going to be just fine.
I am just fine. But those two months taught me a lesson I hope I’ll never forget. In those two months, I was reminded to set down the to-do list and pick up the phone. It was easier to not let little things turn into a big deal. I was quicker to give unconditional love. And I took greater pleasure in the simple everyday moments with the ones I love.
Why is it so hard to live with this mentality every day? Why is it so easy to get lost in the busyness and specifics of day-to-day life that we forget the big picture? We let details drive us and we forget about purpose, about what matters most.
We all live with the reality of certain death. Whenever it happens, however it happens, we all have an inevitable end. And though we don’t often think about it in the midst of day-to-day life – paying bills, running errands, clicking on the next show in our Netflix queue – we need to remember this. We need to remember that our time on Earth has an expiration date. And we need to let this breathe life into the time we have left, however long or short that is.
Living like you’re dying is not merely the cliché of going skydiving, or on a shopping spree, or devoting more time to hobbies and pursuing passions. It’s not just conquering your fears or doing what makes you happy. That’s part of it, but there’s so much more to it than that.
For me, it’s loving myself enough to say no to another brownie because too much sugar saps my energy, and I want to be alert and ready for everything in my day today. It’s opening my mouth to speak up in small group even though it would be easier just to sit and listen. It’s putting down the novel I’m currently devouring and picking up my laptop to blog because I want to do the work God has called me to do.
It’s being an active participant in life and not just a spectator. It’s choosing to take responsibility for my own life. And it’s leaning into life as God intends it – life lived in love and service to God and others. Because there’s so much more to life than another brownie or the number one show on Netflix.
God has so much more for us. And I don’t want to miss out on a single thing. I don’t want to waste any time in the short time I have. I don’t want the potential He’s placed in me to remain unfulfilled. In His strength, empowered by the Holy Spirit, I want to live “the life that is truly life.” (1 Timothy 6:19 NIV)
And that life is something that is available to us all – whether we are pre-teens or senior citizens, whether we’re in perfect health or have cancer in our ribs.
So, let’s go through the daily details – the mundane tasks, the larger responsibilities, everything we face – with the knowledge that each day is a precious gift. And let’s choose to live life to the fullest – each and every day we have left.
“So teach us to consider our mortality, so that we might live wisely.”
Have you seen it yet? The new Amazon TV series, The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power is finally here! And while not everyone in the world is a Tolkien fan (for some unknown reason), for those of us who are, this is a big deal. We are seeing depictions of places in Middle-earth that we never thought we’d see on screen.
Which got me thinking – of all the varied geography, of all the distinct realms, anywhere on the map of Middle-earth – which is my favorite? If the impossible was possible and I could live anywhere in Middle-earth, where would it be?
And, like the hobbit Sam, I’m afraid I’m torn in two. There are two places, each quite different from the other, that speak to me, two places I would be equally delighted to dwell in.
The Shire
I can think of nothing better than spending summer in the Shire. That’s probably when it’s at its best. Strawberries and cream. The fragrance of flowers filling the air. And all the rich fields and quiet lanes bathed in clean, warm sunlight. From Michel Delving to the Old Forest, from the North Farthing to Longbottom, I would want to see it all.
When I think of the Shire, I think of Bilbo’s poetic description. I think “of meadow-flowers and butterflies in summers that have been; of yellow leaves and gossamer in autumns that were.” I think of fertile fields lined with well-ordered hedgerows. And I picture a busy night in the Green Dragon, drinks and laughter flowing.
And I think of hobbits: simple folk, simple in the best sense. The kind you want as neighbors. Friendly folk who are quick to jest. Those who remain generous, steady, and content year after year. Because, when you’re surrounded by the beauty of the Shire, how can you not be content? When you know that each summer will be as rich as the last, when each harvest will be as bountiful as before, and winter is just a reminder that spring will come again.
And in the Shire alone, of all the places in Middle-earth, is a glimpse of Lothlorien, my other would-be home. For in the newly-scoured Shire, on the foundation of the old tree in the Party Field, a new tree took root. And not just any tree – a mallorn, with silver bark and golden flowers. An Elven gift for the blessed and beloved Shire.
Lothlorien
I’m not fluent in Elvish, sadly, but I believe the translation of Lothlorien is dream flower. According to Treebeard (and he would know), the old Elvish name for it was Laurelindorenan, or Land of the Valley of Singing Gold. I would love to look out of my window and see dream flowers in a valley of singing gold.
Whatever it’s called, to me, this is the one place in all of Middle-earth most like Aman, the Blessed Realm. Heaven on earth.
Sure, I’d like to see Gondolin, but I’m too claustrophobic to go through the mountain tunnel to get there. And I’d want to walk in the woods of Doriath and feel the power that protects that realm. But I would choose to live in Lothlorien – a land where elves reside and peace reigns. “On the land of Lorien no shadow lay.”
Or as Sam so aptly put it, it’s “like being at home and on a holiday at the same time.”
To look out upon Lorien is like seeing something both new and familiar. When Frodo first opened his eyes there, he saw colors he knew but they were fresh and alive. He was seeing what he had seen his whole life, but he was seeing it anew in the light of Lorien. “A light was upon it for which his language had no name.” I want to make my home in that light.
But not just anywhere in this enchanted land: one place in particular – the hill of Cerin Amroth, a place awash with memory and meaning. For here on a Midsummer’s Eve long ago, an elf maiden and a mortal man stood together, drawn together. And a choice was made, the shadow was rejected, and hope was renewed.
Hope. The land of Lothlorien is full of it. And I would want to bask in its golden glow. To lie down in a bed of elanor and niphredil, to gaze up at the star of Earendil through the mallorn trees, to breathe the mystical air. To do “little but eat and drink and rest, and walk among the trees.” And just like it was for the Company when they went there, that would be enough for me, too.
*******************
I may never be a resident of Middle-earth, but I can be a frequent visitor in the pages of these books I love so much. Works that speak of lost tales and far away places, of deeds of long ago, of a world that doesn’t exist but that you almost wish did.
And now I can go to Middle-earth onscreen also, thanks to Amazon. Will you tune in as well?
If so, I’ll see you there. I’ll meet you in Middle-earth, for a little while.
(All quotations from The Fellowship of the Ring, by J. R. R. Tolkien)
