My lungs are burning. I'm running fast. Every running coach will tell you one can out run the pain. I'm hoping they don't mean just physical.
The memory of today finds me staring at The Upside Down. I'm trying to outrun it. I don't want to go back.
Four years ago today, my siblings and our families found ourselves in The Upside Down. In a single instant our world turned upside down, the single worst day of our lives. The thing about The Upside Down is sometimes you walk into it. A decision you make, a choice you choose and you walk into The Upside Down. Other times, you hear the hurricane siren and you can brace yourself before The Upside Down comes.
Not us.
We were picked up and heaved in. We fell hard, hitting ourselves on the rocks of that long shaft into The Upside Down. At the bottom, we lay broken, bruised, bleeding. We clung tight to each other and tighter to God. We navigated together in The Upside Down.
In The Upside Down you can see from where you fell. It's Christmas Eve and everyone is happy and singing and sipping hot cocoa. All appears to be merry and bright. The Upside Down is dark. You question if you'll ever get out. Or if your Christmas will ever have singing again.
As we tended to each other's wounds, stranger things began to happen. The healing came. We spent fewer days in The Upside Down. God held us together and together we lifted each other out.
It's not to say there won't be days we tumble back into The Upside Down. Like today. I ran hard to avoid it.
Looking back I remind myself of the people who surrounded us, walked alongside us, loved on us. I remind myself the wounds and brokenness heal. It leaves scars, but healing does come.
You see, the scars don't heal.
Scars are the healing.
And if there is one thing I've learned about The Upside Down it is this - the beacon out of The Upside Down are the scars of those who have navigated out of it before you.
You will heal.
You will have scars.
The Upside Down will become upside right.
If you are in need of a beacon, I've got some scars I can show you.
Monday, December 24, 2018
Friday, December 21, 2018
The Passing Storm
Stepping out my sliding door, I hear the eagles chatter. One perches itself atop my neighbor's tree, the other I can not see. They are hunting, working together to circle their prey.
The air is brisk, the sky blue; all a stark contrast to yesterday. As I run through my neighborhood, I see the damage left by the storm. It's power was terrifying; homes and properties were destroyed.
A massive evergreen tree lost a 20 ft branch and it hung precariously on a wire overhead. I pray the wire doesn't snap as I run by. The road is peppered with smaller branches. I watch each step I take.
The rising sun whispers through the morning mist rising off the field. The mighty oak, which once stood regal in the field, was broken. The storm had proven too much and snapped a large section which now lay on the ground. I stop. I notice the irony.
The delicate grasses are unscathed.
The mighty oak lay broken.
They both weathered the same storm.
Had you asked before the storm had hit, I would have bet the delicate grasses would snap in the 60 mph winds, not the mighty oak.
My contemplation turns to people. The expectation of the strong to be stronger. Life's storms seem to leave no mark, when quietly they weather to a breaking point. No one expects the strong to lay broken or the delicate to stand strong. Yet they do.
Uncertain of how, I feel it all ties in to our sermon last weekend. Grace. Grace upon grace. In the season where it's easy to get caught up in everything but the important, grace can make the difference. The strong who don't appear to need it yet in truth, may need it most.
May we offer grace to the weathered. The mighty oak or the delicate grass, we all face the storm.
The air is brisk, the sky blue; all a stark contrast to yesterday. As I run through my neighborhood, I see the damage left by the storm. It's power was terrifying; homes and properties were destroyed.
A massive evergreen tree lost a 20 ft branch and it hung precariously on a wire overhead. I pray the wire doesn't snap as I run by. The road is peppered with smaller branches. I watch each step I take.
The rising sun whispers through the morning mist rising off the field. The mighty oak, which once stood regal in the field, was broken. The storm had proven too much and snapped a large section which now lay on the ground. I stop. I notice the irony.
The delicate grasses are unscathed.
The mighty oak lay broken.
They both weathered the same storm.
Had you asked before the storm had hit, I would have bet the delicate grasses would snap in the 60 mph winds, not the mighty oak.
My contemplation turns to people. The expectation of the strong to be stronger. Life's storms seem to leave no mark, when quietly they weather to a breaking point. No one expects the strong to lay broken or the delicate to stand strong. Yet they do.
Uncertain of how, I feel it all ties in to our sermon last weekend. Grace. Grace upon grace. In the season where it's easy to get caught up in everything but the important, grace can make the difference. The strong who don't appear to need it yet in truth, may need it most.
May we offer grace to the weathered. The mighty oak or the delicate grass, we all face the storm.
Sunday, November 25, 2018
Joy of Christmas
Like
every day I drive to work, I pass by The Spot. A moment in time so
powerful, everything around you sears itself into a memory; it changed
everything I knew Christmas to be. Today I contemplate on that day that
changed me.
It
was December 2015 and grief hung on all of us like a wet, wool
blanket one had just fished out of the river. Mom had finished her
fight against cancer Christmas 2013 and Dad had been killed by a car
accident Christmas 2014. The closer Christmas drew, the greater the
anxiety wondering if someone else we love would die. I did not hold
back when talking to God.
"God.
Why? Why is Christmas now nothing more than grief for us?
Why do our
children not get the happy Christmases we always had as kids?
God, why
now does Christmas have to be about death for us?"
He answered me. His piercing words filled me and I began to cry.
"Cheri,
Christmas has always been about death. The very reason Jesus was born,
was to die. I know of your pain and you now know of Mine."
The moment The Spot seared itself.
The moment The Spot became my altar.
Despite
death, there is to be joy. The angels declared, "I bring you good
tidings of great joy". How can they proclaim of a great joy when His birth was only to begin His sacrificial death?
Joy is more about peace and comfort than it ever is about laughter and glee.
I
think back to that Christmas Eve in ICU. Dad and his love for Jesus
brought joy without him ever using words. We learned this as one of Dad's nurses watched
us. He didn't believe as we do, still he watched us pray, he watched us
cry, he saw others praying over us. At the end of his shift he told us there was a difference with Dad. Despite the critical situation, despite the trauma, he had felt the comfort and
peace; the joy. I found out later he had offered to come in on his day
off - Christmas Day - to be dad's nurse if the hospital needed it. The
joy of Christmas was reaching through those tightly laced fingers of
grief.
I think on the difficulty he had coming in to work on his next shift and seeing Dad's empty bed.
An empty bed.
An empty tomb.
Both exclaim the joy of Christmas.
Thursday, March 29, 2018
The Joy Set Before Him
It's Thursday before Easter. Last night I went to church. Once a month our church has a Refuge Service which is an extended time of worship and communion. As we are heading into Easter, the service centered around Jesus's last days.
Pastor Kip asked us to read Mark 14, 15 and 16 focusing on the events leading up to the resurrection and camping out in the story. This morning, Thursday, I did just that. Well, 9 verses anyway. I got through 9 verses.
Mark 14 begins with the religious leaders plotting to kill Jesus. Back door meetings, quiet whispers, covert operations to create a plan to kill Someone the people adored. Extremely powerful men plotting to kill a poor rabbi loved by the very people the powerful men led.
The first verse tells us the Passover and the Feast of Unleavened Bread are 2 days away. In reading I realize the Passover would begin on a Thursday at sundown. Today is Thursday. Today at sundown Jesus would begin the Last Supper.
The Last Supper. A sacred event I have celebrated hundreds of times. The disciples hadn't. They didn't even know it was the Last Supper. They only knew there was something different about this meal. Jesus told them to break bread and drink wine in remembrance of Him. But He was standing right in front of them. I imagine the heaviness in Jesus's voice; the questions running through the disciples mind yet no one uttering a single one of them. What could He possibly mean by this?
Today is Thursday. Jesus begins the Passover. I've only read one verse of Mark 14.
It's hard to comprehend the horrific details of the execution. The betrayal, the beatings, the nails. I've never been hit, but I have been betrayed. The pain of betrayal pierces; shaking everything you know to be true. Your very core is rattled. The emotional toll is heavy.
Jesus experienced both pains; physical and emotional. And it began on Thursday. Today.
My contemplation is on the disciples. As the night grows dark and violent, fear grips their soul. I think back to the most traumatic event in my life. How many moments I stood there questioning what was happening, doubting any of it could be true. Confused. Scared. Yet I was never terrified for my own life.
The disciples were.
Their rabbi who had done no wrong was being beaten and tried and sentenced to die. If the Teacher faced this, then surely they could too as they were His closest friends; His students.
They ran. They hid in fear.
They didn't have Mark 16. They didn't know about the resurrection. There was no fast forwarding to the good parts. The disciples only knew the terror around them. And it was real.
Hope was gone.
They didn't know the joy waiting for them on Sunday. Right now, they only knew hopelessness. And fear. Great, deep fear.
My mind drifts to Jesus. His willingness to being scourged by a Roman soldier. A military man taught how to punish using methods to bring the greatest amount of pain. This wasn't a bar room brawl. This was torture by a trained killer. What horrific pain and agony He endured.
A verse comes to mind, "...who for the joy set before Him endured the cross..." (Hebrews 12:2b).
What joy could be so great as to shadow such deep agony?
You.
Me.
The joy so great as to make the agony pale in comparison was the thought of us spending forever with Him.
For the first time in 49 years I completely understood depth of that thought. I felt it. I swam in it. In humility and disbelief I let it sink in how intensely He wants to share life with me. The joy of me - of us - drowned out the pain inflicted by a trained killer. I am far from perfect, my heart is messy and at times I'm not even nice. Yet the thought of me brought Him joy.
As I celebrate Easter on Sunday, I will sing a little louder knowing the resurrection brings me a taste of that very joy Jesus contemplated. A joy to be made complete on the day we meet.
Pastor Kip asked us to read Mark 14, 15 and 16 focusing on the events leading up to the resurrection and camping out in the story. This morning, Thursday, I did just that. Well, 9 verses anyway. I got through 9 verses.
Mark 14 begins with the religious leaders plotting to kill Jesus. Back door meetings, quiet whispers, covert operations to create a plan to kill Someone the people adored. Extremely powerful men plotting to kill a poor rabbi loved by the very people the powerful men led.
The first verse tells us the Passover and the Feast of Unleavened Bread are 2 days away. In reading I realize the Passover would begin on a Thursday at sundown. Today is Thursday. Today at sundown Jesus would begin the Last Supper.
The Last Supper. A sacred event I have celebrated hundreds of times. The disciples hadn't. They didn't even know it was the Last Supper. They only knew there was something different about this meal. Jesus told them to break bread and drink wine in remembrance of Him. But He was standing right in front of them. I imagine the heaviness in Jesus's voice; the questions running through the disciples mind yet no one uttering a single one of them. What could He possibly mean by this?
Today is Thursday. Jesus begins the Passover. I've only read one verse of Mark 14.
It's hard to comprehend the horrific details of the execution. The betrayal, the beatings, the nails. I've never been hit, but I have been betrayed. The pain of betrayal pierces; shaking everything you know to be true. Your very core is rattled. The emotional toll is heavy.
Jesus experienced both pains; physical and emotional. And it began on Thursday. Today.
My contemplation is on the disciples. As the night grows dark and violent, fear grips their soul. I think back to the most traumatic event in my life. How many moments I stood there questioning what was happening, doubting any of it could be true. Confused. Scared. Yet I was never terrified for my own life.
The disciples were.
Their rabbi who had done no wrong was being beaten and tried and sentenced to die. If the Teacher faced this, then surely they could too as they were His closest friends; His students.
They ran. They hid in fear.
They didn't have Mark 16. They didn't know about the resurrection. There was no fast forwarding to the good parts. The disciples only knew the terror around them. And it was real.
Hope was gone.
They didn't know the joy waiting for them on Sunday. Right now, they only knew hopelessness. And fear. Great, deep fear.
My mind drifts to Jesus. His willingness to being scourged by a Roman soldier. A military man taught how to punish using methods to bring the greatest amount of pain. This wasn't a bar room brawl. This was torture by a trained killer. What horrific pain and agony He endured.
A verse comes to mind, "...who for the joy set before Him endured the cross..." (Hebrews 12:2b).
What joy could be so great as to shadow such deep agony?
You.
Me.
The joy so great as to make the agony pale in comparison was the thought of us spending forever with Him.
For the first time in 49 years I completely understood depth of that thought. I felt it. I swam in it. In humility and disbelief I let it sink in how intensely He wants to share life with me. The joy of me - of us - drowned out the pain inflicted by a trained killer. I am far from perfect, my heart is messy and at times I'm not even nice. Yet the thought of me brought Him joy.
As I celebrate Easter on Sunday, I will sing a little louder knowing the resurrection brings me a taste of that very joy Jesus contemplated. A joy to be made complete on the day we meet.
Friday, March 23, 2018
Soul Sister
The rental car office was several city blocks away. Kathy, Karen and I had just departed the train in downtown Portland. A girls weekend in Oregon's wine country promised laughs, wine and a half marathon. Pulling our luggage behind us, we made the journey through parts of Portland's under-belly. Soon enough we found ourselves in more desirable neighborhoods and closer to getting our rental car. We still had about an hour's drive to our hotel.
A glass front to a tiny office being the only indication we found our place. Concrete walls enclosed a rental counter, two computers and a tiny reception area. The only color to be seen, or felt, came when our personalities walked through the door.
Laughter, jokes and the joy of a weekend away with friends started 6 hours prior when we departed town. Our entire trip took whole new meaning after meeting a fabulous family from a tiny town in southern Washington. Fran, a woman who's smile never left her face, introduced us to her "boyfriend of 59 years". A couple traveling with their daughter and grand-daughters helped the hours pass quickly by listening to their stories of love, heartache and adventure. Together they told stories of their 8 children and 59 grandchildren and great-grandchildren. When we parted ways, they promised to put on a 5k on their property if we'd come down and run it. Without hesitation we told them yes and to make it a fundraiser for their grandchildren's love of horse archery.
The quiet little rental office, exploded with the energy we brought. However, there was no one there to enjoy it. Shortly thereafter, a man, looking much like an old dowdy college professor, walked in the room. His words were short and to the point. As Kathy was in charge of securing our rental car, she went through the process of completing the paperwork.
A chime rings and the door opens. A mother and daughter walk in and come to the counter. A woman from the back room comes out to help them. She has a dynamic personality. The mother-daughter duo and Ms. Personality were fun to watch. The 3 of us are now determined to make Mr. College Professor laugh; alas to no avail. Karen and I sit down as the counter is a little crowded with all of us there.
Soon I am called up to the counter as Kathy has listed me as a second driver. The daughter is also being listed as a second driver. Mr. College Professor repeats his memorized speech informing Kathy and I that she is responsible for all damages to the car regardless of who is driving.
Naturally I ask, "Does this include me taking the car at 100 mph and launching it off the city street hills?"
He glances up looking at me above the rims of his black framed glasses, "Yes".
The daughter says, "MOM! I'm going to do that too!"
Mr. College Professor doesn't glance up, doesn't acknowledge any of our banter. He slips me a paper to sign and states, "Lucky for you two every day at 3:00 pm we close the streets of Portland for Second Drivers. In that time frame you can do whatever you want to the rental cars."
The daughter and I exclaim, "YES!" in unison and give each other a high five.
Mr. College Professor does have a sense of humor.
Ms. Personality leaves to retrieve the mother - daughter rental car. The mother leaves to use the restroom and the daughter takes a seat.
Karen calls out my name. From the rental counter, I turn to look at her and she motions with her eyes toward the daughter at the same time she touches the forearm of her left hand.
Looking at the daughter's arm, I see the big, bold lettering of a tattoo with the recognizable words "It Is What It Is". I was surprised and said to her, "I like your tattoo" and I pointed to her arm.
She rubs it fondly and says, "Thank you. I got it to honor my dad."
"Really? Why?"
"My dad had pancreatic cancer. That saying was his mantra."
I blinked in total disbelief. Kicking off my sandal to reveal my tattoo, I said "My mom's too."
She looked up at me, down at my foot, and back up to me. "Are you serious?"
"Yes. My mom fought ovarian cancer for 16 1/2 years. My sisters and I had the mantra tattooed on our feet in Mom's very own handwriting."
"That is so cool." She stared at my foot. "That saying got my dad through a lot."
"My Mom too. It was never a saying of defeat, it was always a saying of 'Ok, this is what I'm dealing with, let's go fight it.' "
"Exactly. Never, ever an admission of giving up."
"Always a declaration of the starting point."
"Yes. I'm sorry about your mom."
"I'm sorry about your dad."
Our rental car has pulled up and I am called outside by my friends. We stand at the rental car loading in our luggage.
The door opens and the mother comes out.
"Excuse me. Can I see your tattoo?"
"Absolutely." I take off my sandal and show her my mom's handwriting. The mother smiles and looks up at me.
"As I came out of the restroom, my daughter said to me, 'Mom, I just met my soul sister.' I couldn't believe the story she was telling me. Losing my husband has been so hard. What an amazing story you two share."
"This wasn't a chance encounter, and one we'll both share forever. I'm so grateful we met today. Tell your daughter I'll see her at 3 for the 2nd Driver Race."
As quickly as we met, we parted ways. Our journeys going now in separate directions, but forever entwined.
When we set out for our girls weekend away, I never dreamed I would meet my soul sister. A good reminder for me that we all have stories. If we stop and take a moment to look at each other, talk to each other and listen you just might find a strong connection you never knew existed; a tie that binds.
And I found mine with a stranger in a concrete rental office in downtown Portland.
A glass front to a tiny office being the only indication we found our place. Concrete walls enclosed a rental counter, two computers and a tiny reception area. The only color to be seen, or felt, came when our personalities walked through the door.
Laughter, jokes and the joy of a weekend away with friends started 6 hours prior when we departed town. Our entire trip took whole new meaning after meeting a fabulous family from a tiny town in southern Washington. Fran, a woman who's smile never left her face, introduced us to her "boyfriend of 59 years". A couple traveling with their daughter and grand-daughters helped the hours pass quickly by listening to their stories of love, heartache and adventure. Together they told stories of their 8 children and 59 grandchildren and great-grandchildren. When we parted ways, they promised to put on a 5k on their property if we'd come down and run it. Without hesitation we told them yes and to make it a fundraiser for their grandchildren's love of horse archery.
The quiet little rental office, exploded with the energy we brought. However, there was no one there to enjoy it. Shortly thereafter, a man, looking much like an old dowdy college professor, walked in the room. His words were short and to the point. As Kathy was in charge of securing our rental car, she went through the process of completing the paperwork.
A chime rings and the door opens. A mother and daughter walk in and come to the counter. A woman from the back room comes out to help them. She has a dynamic personality. The mother-daughter duo and Ms. Personality were fun to watch. The 3 of us are now determined to make Mr. College Professor laugh; alas to no avail. Karen and I sit down as the counter is a little crowded with all of us there.
Soon I am called up to the counter as Kathy has listed me as a second driver. The daughter is also being listed as a second driver. Mr. College Professor repeats his memorized speech informing Kathy and I that she is responsible for all damages to the car regardless of who is driving.
Naturally I ask, "Does this include me taking the car at 100 mph and launching it off the city street hills?"
He glances up looking at me above the rims of his black framed glasses, "Yes".
The daughter says, "MOM! I'm going to do that too!"
Mr. College Professor doesn't glance up, doesn't acknowledge any of our banter. He slips me a paper to sign and states, "Lucky for you two every day at 3:00 pm we close the streets of Portland for Second Drivers. In that time frame you can do whatever you want to the rental cars."
The daughter and I exclaim, "YES!" in unison and give each other a high five.
Mr. College Professor does have a sense of humor.
Ms. Personality leaves to retrieve the mother - daughter rental car. The mother leaves to use the restroom and the daughter takes a seat.
Karen calls out my name. From the rental counter, I turn to look at her and she motions with her eyes toward the daughter at the same time she touches the forearm of her left hand.
Looking at the daughter's arm, I see the big, bold lettering of a tattoo with the recognizable words "It Is What It Is". I was surprised and said to her, "I like your tattoo" and I pointed to her arm.
She rubs it fondly and says, "Thank you. I got it to honor my dad."
"Really? Why?"
"My dad had pancreatic cancer. That saying was his mantra."
I blinked in total disbelief. Kicking off my sandal to reveal my tattoo, I said "My mom's too."
She looked up at me, down at my foot, and back up to me. "Are you serious?"
"Yes. My mom fought ovarian cancer for 16 1/2 years. My sisters and I had the mantra tattooed on our feet in Mom's very own handwriting."
"That is so cool." She stared at my foot. "That saying got my dad through a lot."
"My Mom too. It was never a saying of defeat, it was always a saying of 'Ok, this is what I'm dealing with, let's go fight it.' "
"Exactly. Never, ever an admission of giving up."
"Always a declaration of the starting point."
"Yes. I'm sorry about your mom."
"I'm sorry about your dad."
Our rental car has pulled up and I am called outside by my friends. We stand at the rental car loading in our luggage.
The door opens and the mother comes out.
"Excuse me. Can I see your tattoo?"
"Absolutely." I take off my sandal and show her my mom's handwriting. The mother smiles and looks up at me.
"As I came out of the restroom, my daughter said to me, 'Mom, I just met my soul sister.' I couldn't believe the story she was telling me. Losing my husband has been so hard. What an amazing story you two share."
"This wasn't a chance encounter, and one we'll both share forever. I'm so grateful we met today. Tell your daughter I'll see her at 3 for the 2nd Driver Race."
As quickly as we met, we parted ways. Our journeys going now in separate directions, but forever entwined.
When we set out for our girls weekend away, I never dreamed I would meet my soul sister. A good reminder for me that we all have stories. If we stop and take a moment to look at each other, talk to each other and listen you just might find a strong connection you never knew existed; a tie that binds.
And I found mine with a stranger in a concrete rental office in downtown Portland.
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