Hey, It's Snowing!

Sunday morning.  The Passenger was up early, to prepare this household's traditional Thanksgiving feast for those who remain.  She was having a hard time feeling thankful.  Actually, she would be glad to skip the next six weeks or so and land right in January.  Rather than a celebration, holidays magnify the loss felt every day of the year.

But guilt swam around in her brain as well.  While she assembled lunch dishes in the kitchen, she made conscious effort to list things for which to be thankful.  Emotionally exhausting, but necessary, it was.  This tension between allowing grief its due and the need to count her blessings for the good of her spirit, was ever present. 

Hours later, the Trucker sat by, waiting for the last minute touches to be completed.  Randomly, he checked facebook. 

Hey, it's snowing in __________, he said.  I'm jealous, she said.  In her heart, Lord, I would so love to see snow, she said.

And then they were off.  To join a crowd of worshipers on this damp and rainy November morning.

Midway through the service, from their spot near the end of a bench, the Trucker tapped her arm and gestured discreetly toward the window a few feet away.

Snow.  Large, moist flakes mingled with the rain.  White, fluffy answers to the longing in her heart.  Large, moist tears mingled with the song on her lips, blurring her vision and her voice.

Such a simple thing.  But such an evidence of care from the Creator.  She whispered in the Trucker's ear, Could you snap a few photos with no one noticing?  Smiling, he shook his head slightly.  She understood.  Sometimes celebrating God's answers would be a distraction to the worship of others.

To her left, a small boy with more wiggles than his body could contain.  Standing on the bench beside his father to see over the heads of other singers, the snow reached his field of vision.

"Hey, it's SNOWING!"  His spontaneous exclamation rolled across the sanctuary.  Heads turned.  Smiles broke out.  Was it her imagination, or did their expressions of worship and thankfulness gain a bit of momentum?

The rain eased away, and the snow intensified.  The service proceeded decently and in order.  They needed to leave, then, earlier than most.  Driving away, the Trucker handed her his phone.  On it, photos of the snow falling outside the window, after all.

He understood her unspoken desire.  Snow was such a small thing, really.  And it could be argued that the storm, moving eastward, would just naturally reach them, regardless.  But only He controlled the temperatures, the winds.  And He heard the cry of her heart.

Such a simple thing, really.  For the God of the universe to hear, to reach down with His finger.  To whisper into her heart.  I AM here.  I AM still here.

And in that, she rests.

Reunited, and It Feels So Good

Could it really be two years ago, when the Trucker and I made a cross country trip to bring him home?

At the beginning, the time seemed never ending.  Three months, a quick week home, then six months.  Then one more month.

Now the long awaited time had indeed come.  They had driven cross country, gotten settled in a motel room.  The class was to be meeting til late afternoon.  Then there would be time to go out for a quick supper with him before the evening commissioning service.

What would their son be like after the term?  More independent, certainly.  How would the time away have changed his thinking?  Things would never be the same as before, but would he return home with them to live, or move on from here?  He was still so young.

They drove to town, parked across the street from the church.  And waited, debating entering or waiting outside.  Everything in them pulled to go inside.  But they didn't know where the class was meeting, and couldn't interrupt.  The text came; class was delayed, would run later.  Sigh.

At long last, the church doors opened.  A team member came out.  Then another.  One by one, they filed out and clustered on the sidewalk, smiling.  Where was their son?

They stepped out of the truck, waiting.  Then he appeared in the doorway, eyes scanning the street.  Taller he was, and broader.  Yet his face had a lean, almost dark, look.  Shadows in his eyes that had not been there before.  

She slipped into the street, then, and ran, her eyes on his face.  Tears came, blinding her sight.  The sense of hearing took over.  She heard his boots, those cowboy boots they had dropped off in July, pounding the sidewalk.

And then she was in his arms, weeping, her head pressed into his chest, glasses digging into her face.  His muscular arms held her in a desperate grip, his shaggy head bowed over hers.  The father's arms circled them both, a quiet, secure comfort.  Unseen, the Father was there surrounding all with his soothing, healing presence.

She could hear his heart thudding under her ear.  His chest heaved. Groans jerked from his throat.  Was it laughter?  Or sobs? Maybe both.  Drops of moisture fell on her head, soaking her hair.  A rain of love, washing away the pain and loss, the separation of the months.  His team on the sidewalk cheered, and then fell silent in respect.  Wiping their own tears.

Their reunions would come later.  For now, they cherished his.  The lighthearted banter, joking over his impatience to see his parents, the knowing they were near but he was not yet released, faded away.  All realized anew the depth of love, the pain of separation.

Because phone calls, even video chats, are never completely honest.  Often, there was so much concern for the other as to deny their own longings, and the true struggles never found voice. 

Finally, to see with one's own eyes the other, was intense relief.  Words and sharing would come over time.  For now, the baptism of tears was enough.

Mr. Snake Pays a Visit

The Trucker and his erstwhile Passenger have had a small home improvement project going on lately.  Her parents, due to a remodel project, were disposing of a set of kitchen cabinets.

Knowing it had been her dream for many years, the Trucker offered to install the sink and surrounding cabinets in their finished basement.  No one lives down there now, but maybe someday.  And it was too good of an opportunity to pass up.

DS#1 obtained a free pump, and brought it and his plumbing skills.  The Trucker managed the electrical work.  Slowly, and only flipped the breaker once.

Today was the first large block of time the Passenger had to tidy up and clean the finished project.  She loaded her arms with supplies, and headed downstairs.

As her foot was reaching for the floor below the bottom step, she glanced down.  

And saw this:

Apologies for the blurry photo.  Her hands may or may not have been shaking.  She's not afraid of snakes, really, but they move quickly, and she didn't quite want to be wondering where he would show up next.

Rather lethargic, he seemed, and offered no resistance to being swept into an empty trash can.  She carried the can outside, and set it down to take another photo.  

And texted it to a friend.  "I had a moment of aerobic exercise today!"

Her response, "He's cute!  Is that his best side?"  She's not rattled by much, is she?

Conveying the snake via trash can out to the woodpile, she dumped it, intending another photo, with a steadier hand this time.  But when Mr. Snake hit the ground, he was inspired. He shot into that wood pile and disappeared instantly.

Oh well.

Shortly thereafter, the Trucker, who quite literally has a song for every event or mood, texted her lyrics from Tom T. Hall.

Sneaky Snake

Tom T. Hall

Boys and girls take warning
If you go near the lake
Keep your eyes wide open
And look for sneaky snake

Now, maybe you won't see him
And maybe you won't hear
But he'll sneak up behind you
And drink all your root beer

And then sneak snake goes dancing
Wiggling and a-hissing
Sneaky snake goes dancing
A-giggling and a-kissing
I don't like old sneaky snake
He laughs too much you see
When he goes wiggling through the grass
It tickles his underneath

Well sneaky snake drinks root beer
And he just makes me sick
When he is not dancing
He looks just like stick

Now he doesn't have any arms or legs
You cannot see his ears
And while…

Source: LyricFind

On second thought, maybe I should have kept Mr. Snake in my care for a while.  In about a week, I may have had use for him!

The Orchid, A Gentle Evidence of Caring

"Here are your keys," she said.

"And I left a little something for you on the front seat.  For your birthday."

Oh me.  Birthday was the last thing on my mind.  So very sweet of her!  Such an honor to be remembered!

How is it that those who carry the heaviest burdens, who have the most on their minds, remember others so well?  

Sliding into the driver's seat, I saw

An orchid.

With delicate pink/purple tinted blooms on white.  Attached to a green supporting stake with those cute little "claw" clips I remember using to tame the curls in my daughters'  pretty hair.  The camera doesn't do it justice.  Or my photographic ability.  At all.  Perfect to park by the thoughtful card received yesterday from the same generous friend.

Back in February of 2018, through the generosity of friends, I was able to visit Longwood Gardens.  For the first time in 26 years, I strolled through the lush greenery and displays of every color and design imaginable, and breathed in the oxygen saturated air.  For the first time, orchids were on my radar.  

Beyond lovely, they were.  I didn't attempt photos.  Just soaked them in.  On occasion, then, I would recognize them when I was out and about.  Was often tempted to purchase one.

Two things held me back.  No, three:

The natural resistance to purchasing anything for myself.  

The lack of a green thumb.  

And which color to choose?

Suddenly, the choices were made for me.  An orchid sat on my kitchen table.

Time to brush up on the care and feeding of such.

I learned:

- They are not your typical potted plant.

-  Most orchids are tropical plants which live as "air plants" hanging on to trees for support.

- The orchid gets no nutrients from the tree itself; it is not a parasite, it gets only support.

- Many orchids have to deal with times of abundant water and times of dryness; they have thick stems called "pseudobulbs" that allow them to store and hold water for the dry periods to come.

- Orchids do best in a humid environment, and prefer light from a north or an east facing window.

- Understanding the natural conditions in which the orchid grows, is critical to understanding what the orchid needs for its care.

Alrighty then.  With further instructions on the proper potting mix and watering, I was ready to give this a try.

However, I thought about orchids some more.  Orchids are not unlike me.  

- I am not typical.  I am a unique creation of God.

- I need support.

- There are times of abundance, and times of lack.  Do I store up the Water of Life in order to preserve my life in the dry and desperate times?

- I thrive in the tender Light, not the harsh, wilting glare of pain and loss.

- I am cared for best by those who take time to know the specific nurturing my soul craves.

The delightful truth?  This same Creator Who formed me with His hands, created the orchid too.  If  He cares for the orchid's every need in a variety of environments, will He not also care for me in whatever life brings?  If He displays His creative work in the dependent orchid, it stands to reason that I am also created for a distinctive purpose, secure in His care.

Now, for that east window!

Tender Touches

The Trucker came in today with an armful of Autumn color.  He set the bunch in a large vase with water to await her coming.

Such a generous collection of lovely.  She emptied the water, sorted and trimmed.

When finished, she had a dainty accent for

the office

the kitchen

the bath

A gentle reminder of care in each room.  Of the Creator God who spoke into being this nurturing beauty, and the Trucker Husband who offered it in love.

Sticks, Stones, and Words

The Trucker was home an extra week this time.  Cooler temperatures were wonderful, except for that one unseasonably warm day.  Indoor projects when it rained, outdoors when the sun shone.  The relief of getting items crossed off a list that had been waiting far too long.

But overshadowing the satisfaction of accomplishment, was a heaviness.  Memories of this same week, three years ago.  Somehow the mind, and even the body, do not forget painful anniversaries.  Even if they are not part of conscious thought at all times, the memory is there.

For the Trucker and his Passenger it was the pain of rejection, of betrayal, of loss; hopes and dreams dashed on the rocks of anger, accusation, and animosity.

Schoolchildren learn: "Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me."  But words do hurt.  Very much.  They flay like knives, stripping away one's confidence and self worth.

The Passenger had not realized how much the pain of false accusation had shaped her.

Today in the hallway after church, she met a treasured friend. They had not been able to connect for some time.

TREASURED FRIEND:  I was just talking with _________, who mentioned how much help you have been to her lately.  You are such a gift to her at this time.

PASSENGER:  What I do is a drop in the bucket, given the responsibilities she carries.  I so appreciated her trusting me with her children.

TREASURED FRIEND:  Remember the day when we moved?  When you took all my children and cared for them in your home?  You made the same comment to me then, about being trusted.

Gripping the Passenger's hands in hers, eyes streaming with tears, she said urgently:  "Please, please hear me.  You are trustworthy!  You have done no wrong!  What happened was not a result of what you have done; this was done TO you!  It is not your fault.  Do not allow yourself to be held back by a lie from the enemy!"  

And as the now familiar tears carved a path on her own cheeks, she realized she had.  Once again the enemy's lies had begun to creep in and cripple her spirit.  Planting the thought that maybe, just maybe, it WAS her fault.  Maybe they WERE right, she should have...could have...and failed.  And believing again, that she was the cause of others' pain, when in fact, the reverse was true.

God is Omnipotent and Omniscient.  If there was something she could have done, or still should do, is He not able to show her what it is?  In a clear and definite way?

And if He has not done so, then there is nothing held against her.  The slate is clean.  There is no false guilt to be had.  

Colossians 2:13 And you, being dead in your trespasses and the uncircumcision of your flesh, He has made alive together with Him, having forgiven you all trespasses, 14 having wiped out the [b]handwriting of requirements that was against us, which was contrary to us. And He has taken it out of the way, having nailed it to the cross. 15 Having disarmed principalities and powers, He made a public spectacle of them, triumphing over them in it. 

I cast my mind to Calvary
Where Jesus bled and died for me.
I see His wounds, His hands, His feet.
My Savior on that cursed tree

His body bound and drenched in tears
They laid Him down in Joseph's tomb.
The entrance sealed by heavy stone
Messiah still and all alone

O praise the name of the Lord our God
O praise His name forever more
For endless days we will sing Your praise
Oh Lord, oh Lord our God

Then on the third at break of dawn,
The Son of heaven rose again.
O trampled death where is your sting?
The angels roar for Christ the King

O praise the name of the Lord our God
O praise His name forever more
For endless days we will sing Your praise
Oh Lord, oh Lord our God

He shall return in robes of white,
The blazing Son shall pierce the night.
And I will rise among the saints,
My gaze transfixed on Jesus' face

O praise the name of the Lord our God
O praise His name forever more
For endless days we will sing Your praise
Oh Lord, oh Lord our God

Songwriters: Dean Ussher / Marty Sampson / Benjamin Hastings

There Comes A Time

The day had arrived.  The last day of work in a local office, for the Passenger.  A part time job that in some ways ended too soon, and in some ways not soon enough.  With mixed feelings, she intended to leave quietly, after the last assigned project was completed.

Promptly at 8AM, her coworker, the very patient trainer/supervisor/cleaner-upper-of-mistakes, arrived.  Bearing a gift to go on.

An iced coffee.  At least the Passenger thinks that is the official name of this sugary, caffeinated concoction.  With chocolate syrup and whipped cream.

Now you need to know, that in all of her half century on this earth, the Passenger has never once ingested coffee.  In any form.  She has briefly entertained the idea on numerous occasions.  Especially on long days in front of the screen, or days following the all too frequent sleepless nights.  

But the smell didn't appeal or impress, so why would the taste be palatable?  And to order one these days would appear to require the learning of a whole new language, as well.

But this was a gracious gift.  Offered in friendship.  A perfect opportunity.  How could she refuse!  She didn't.  And so she and an iced coffee settled down at the computer again to list online, of all things, travel mugs.  As she ferreted out information and details, applying them to blanks on the computer program template, a first tentative sip was taken.

Not bad. A tad bitter, yes.  But definitely not a hardship to drink.  Maybe not this gal's first choice of beverage, and most assuredly iced would be preferable to hot.  

Task completed and remaining coffee in hand, she said her goodbyes and punched out her time card for the last time.  Driving home, she mused over the morning's interesting twist and new experience.  How many people (other than the Trucker) can say they tasted their first coffee in all their 53 years?  And did she really and truly dislike coffee, or was it just prejudice?  Which leads to the question, will she order coffee again, on her own?

Rolling up her own driveway, the thought struck.  After a mostly sleepless night, no breakfast, and three hours sitting in front of a screen, she was awake.  Or, as Jeff Foxworthy would say, "She. Was. A-WAKE!"  Really and truly!  No sleepiness, yawning, or difficulty focusing.  When had she last felt like this, except in a crisis situation?

All day and into the night, alertness persisted.  No complaints, just a wry grin.  

Maybe she'll need to try this again.

After all, there are 53 years to make up for.