God rekindles burned-out lives

with fresh hope.

1 Samuel 2:8 (MSG)

Linking with Deidra Riggs and the Sunday community

Last week I attended the funeral of a childhood friend. Three months ago she was diagnosed with cancer. Just three months.

Her name was Deb. We were BFFs before there ever was such a designation. I lost track of the number of people at the funeral who said, “You two were inseparable.” And we were. Sleepovers. Bike rides. Chocolate. Picnics. Summers at the library. Books. Books. Books.

A typical Sunday afternoon would find Deb curled up on one end of the couch, me on the other, and in between us were our latest reads. There may have been a bowl of popcorn and M&Ms. Always popcorn.

Along with her love for reading, Deb also had a love for writing. She had a true passion for it. Me, not so much. I remember “borrowing” one of her short stories and entering it in a writing contest. Deb said she wasn’t brave enough to do it herself. So I did it for her. Isn’t that what BFFs do? Imagine her surprise when she won a contest she didn’t know she had entered. It was a proud BFF moment.

Deb may not have been brave enough to believe in her writing, but she was brave enough to believe in me. I’m convinced it took much courage for a fifth grader to one day invite her friend to church. But that courageous invitation changed my life forever.

For the next few years, Deb and her family picked me up most Sunday mornings for church. That’s when I became a part of the Noble family. Sunday School. Church. Sunday dinner. Afternoon family stuff. Evening church. Youth events. Sunday after Sunday after Sunday after Sunday. Deb and her family loved me to Jesus.

I can’t imagine it was always easy or convenient to have another kid around, another mouth to feed. But not once, not once, ever did I feel anything but a part of their family. God knew I needed the consistency of those Sundays to crack open my fearful, guarded, locked up tight heart. God knew I needed to watch a dad love, really love, his daughter and not hurt her, or hate her, or leave her. God knew I needed this family to love me to Jesus.

When I heard how sick Deb was I just had to write her. I had to tell her one more time what her 5th grade act of courage did for just one life. How does someone adquately say thank you for that? I’m not sure, but I tried.

So these last days as I’ve told Deb Noble stories to my girls, I’m challenged with a question. Who am I loving to Jesus? Who are we as a Brown family loving to Jesus? It takes courage. It takes commitment. It takes time. But I know that one courageous step can change a life forever. I know because it changed mine.

Thank you, Deb. With all of my heart, thank you.

I so badly wanted to start this first paragraph with “we’re having a heat wave.” But then I would have to dig out my White Christmas dvd and sing every song from that wonderful musical all day long. My family would hate it. I would be in a very happy place.

But really we are having some kind of heat here in Minnesota. It is summer after all. But for me living with a chronic illness in some kind of heat means more than finding some kind of shade. It means staying inside. A lot. Most days you’ll find me watching summer happen from the patio window, or admiring my perennial garden from a distance while not letting the weeds distract me, or laughing at the cardinals, goldfinches, and robins fight for their fair share of the bird bath space. Most days it’s all look but do not touch.

Living summer on the inside teaches me a lot if I let it. Oh, I’ve run from these lessons plenty. Years’ worth of plenty. Most days it just seemed easier to be grumpy/whiny/frustrated/sad/mad about it. I do that combination well. Ugly, but well. But then God stepped in like He always does. Maybe I’m like Him when I sit back, watch my girls put on their ugly, and just wait them out. How patient He is!

God has chosen this summer to get into my business, my ugly business. There have been many days when the fight with ugly has brought me to my knees. And that’s where He really got me. “Deb, when you live summer on the inside without the ugly, I receive that as an offering.” Want to know the name of that offering? Contentment. An offering of contentment.

I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances.  Phil 4:11b

The key word there for me is learned. The Greek definition is to learn by use or practice, to be in the habit of, to be accustomed to.

Learning contentment is a habit. A habit takes practice. A record breaking hot summer has been the perfect scenario to practice contentment. My habit of ugly went pretty deep. But with each choice to focus on what I could do, what I was grateful for chipped away at the ugly. In practicing my offering of contentment, God has opened my eyes to see Him in ways my habit of ugly kept hidden.

When I am able to be out, trust me when I tell you I celebrate it big! I breathe deep. I dig in the dirt. I walk and walk and walk. And I may even take a twirl in the backyard. Maybe. Only the neighbor’s dog knows for sure.

How about you? What is your offering of contentment? I’d love to read your story.

Saying good bye is hard. But in that hard good bye is also the opportunity to remember. I’ve been doing some remembering about a friend I consider dear. Yet a friend I’ve met only online. I think it was Angie Smith’s blog where I first heard about Sara, aka Gitzen Girl. Her story was compelling. Her words authentic. Her life vivid.

As Sara has lived with her chronic illness (you must read her story), she taught me valuable lessons on how to live with mine. And soon Sara will be seeing Jesus. Very soon.

Here are few Sara quotes that have challenged me, changed me, called me to be more like Jesus:

Are you living your life fighting for what your mind wants, or are you trusting and being open to the things that He may be putting in front of you?

The beautiful truth is taht being homebound isn’t limiting my life. It’s just limiting my location.

I had to choose fear – or completely Trust Him – one cannot exist if the other is true.

Sara helped me choose my one word for 2011:

It’s the opposite of hiding. It’s been a life-changing word for me this year.

I wonder if Sara has any idea, really, how her life, her words, her bravery to share both have touched the lives of so many? Soon she will know.

I haven’t been the only Brown girl engaged in Sara’s life. Thanks to her Tuesday’s Project Life posts, my girls have come to know her and love her, too. Oftentimes more interested in Riley’s (Sara’s dog) happenings. Sorry, Sara, but your Riley is a charmer. They love sweet Riley.

Earlier this summer while traveling from Minnesota to Iowa for a family visit, we drove through Sara’s lovely city. I couldn’t help but think of her and pray and smile. At that same time, my youngest daughter yelled out in a most excited voice, “Mom! This is where Riley lives!” Lots more smiles.

I keep thinking of the words to song I read at my Grandmother’s funeral. There’s this line that will not leave me…

Finally Home
But just think of stepping on shore and finding it heaven
Of touching a hand and finding it God’s
Of breathing new air and finding it celestial
Of waking up in glory and finding it home

Thank you, Sara, for everthing…and welcome home.

Sara has touched countless lives. Many, like me, are linking up their Sara stories here. My only advice is to read with kleenex at the ready and an open, grateful heart.

 

Most people don’t get excited about Mondays. The end of a relaxing weekend. The start of a grueling week. I used to be that way. Until Wayne. My dear friend changed all that.

 Wayne fought the hard fight of ALS with strength and dignity and faith. Lots and lots of faith. When diagnosed in 2007, never would I have imagined the privilege awaiting me. The privilege of helping care for him. Mondays were my days. On Mondays we talked and prayed and read and laughed and cried and solved all the world’s problems. All in one day. We were amazing! Mondays will never be the same for me. I miss them. I miss Wayne.

 Several weeks have passed since our last Monday together. On that Monday Wayne kept reassuring me it would be better soon. “Deb, it will be better soon.” On the outside the ravages of that dreaded disease were winning. Maybe so on the outside. But I knew better. Because for months and months I had Mondays. I had the perfect view to watch his faith grow to the depths. I heard his questions. I saw his praise. His sacrifice of praise. Wayne’s mantra was “always look up.” When circumstances make no sense. Look up. When people don’t understand. Look up. When darkness is all around. Always look up. What a beautiful definition of praise.

 Our last conversation was over the phone. Days before Wayne would meet Jesus face to face. Days before our Monday. Wayne whispered he was doing well. He was lying. We both knew it. I begged God for words. He supplied some of His own.

O God, listen to my cry!
Hear my prayer!
From the ends of the earth,
I cry to you for help
when my heart is overwhelmed.
Lead me to the towering rock of safety,
for you are my safe refuge,
a fortress where my enemies cannot reach me.
Let me live forever in your sanctuary,
safe beneath the shelter of your wings!
For you have heard my vows, O God.
You have given me an inheritance reserved for those who fear your name…
May he reign under God’s protection forever.
May your unfailing love and faithfulness watch over him.
Then I will sing praises to your name forever
as I fulfill my vows each day.   Ps 61 (NLT)

 We could almost feel God’s touch on our cheeks. Turning our gaze heavenward. Looking up. Wayne cried. I cried. We cried together. I told him I loved him one last time. Three days later Wayne received his full, complete, lacking in nothing healing.

 When the wave of missing hits me, I think of Wayne’s family, his children, his beautiful wife, Joy. I pray for comfort. I pray for courage to keep looking up. With a grateful heart I offer up praise in the missing.

Wayne, thank you for Mondays.

Looking up!