Sing All Ye Citizens of Heaven Above!

I’m no longer falling as frequently on this road towards peace, this road out of grief that ultimately  ends in paradise. For a season it seemed that the ache in my heart was so consuming, so overwhelming that it was part of my self, had become my new identity. Kelsey, daughter of early fallen Dan. But identity is a choice, and I choose that that is not who I am at all. His death is only a part of the story that God is writing with my lifeblood. Letters in red, just like the red letter bibles. Words spoken by God Himself. He has sanctioned these events and that truth brings me peace. But now Christmas is upon us. A time for family, for being close, and the one who held my family together, the glue, is gone. It was dad who organized all of the family meals, who smoothed over conflict amongst siblings, who encouraged into the small hours of the morning when one of us was questioning  our value or our place in the world. We have all been left broken by his passing but when two truly become one and one leaves, the other is left half whole. If only God had given my mother the ability of the star fish, to grow back appendages when we have been ripped to shreds. And maybe He has, maybe God will re-grow her half heart and half mind and make her whole again in time. Even a small star fish takes years sometimes to re-grow a leg.  I ponder these things over in my mind just like Mary did over the events in her family. How? Why? What is Gods plan in this? How will he work out His glory? I can’t imagine the turmoil of Mary. Why would God become a man and such a lowly man, born in a stable, to a humble carpenter,  as a bastard, an illegitimate child. The facts would seem foreboding, grim. At the very least she could see that he would have a hard life and what she met in the end for her son was an early death around thirty years old and in the most dishonorable and painful way, execution as a criminal, on a torturing cross. And God sanctioned these things, for his glory. I ponder, what else will He sanction for the glory of His name? It terrifies me, the raging holiness of God. Even the flesh of babes are not too precious to be used for His limitless glory.  But I can count on one great and awesome truth that brings peace and joy into the very moments of pain, sorrow and suffering, one holy truth….. He is good……… He is Love…….. and He never ever fails at keeping His promises. So as Christmas comes with it’s expectations, it’s ideals of joy, gifts and happiness, and as it fails in every way possible, we can rejoice in it’s one truth….. “God with us”.  In hearing these words at Christmas church service my heart was encouraged by the tears that flowed upon just hearing those words, “God with us”. They told me that my heart was beginning to understand those words, I’m starting to get it, I’m beginning to comprehend. Then we sang. “Sing choirs of Angels, sing in exaltation!” And then these other words brought many tears and a great heaving in my chest as we sang them. , “Sing all ye citizens of heaven above!!!”  Sing dad, sing grandma and grandpa, sing babies that were never born, sing little girl that died too young, sing woman who died hairless and breastless, sing soldier who died for others, sing martyr sing ALL ye citizens of heaven above, for Christ is born and He will bring reunion to us, He will put death to death. Let us rejoice while we wait! “Glory to God, glory in the highest! Oh come let us adore Him, oh come let us adore Him, oh come let us adore Him Christ the LORD!”

Ton Petite Fille (Your Little Girl)

Leaves fly, are set assail by the changing of the season. They fall, are gathered and burned. Their colors let them appear to be already set aflame by sun through them passing. They are gathered by neighbors while I gather layettes, scattered on the ground of my bedroom from washing, over an impossibly large belly. Every move I make is hindered by my daughters, sweet daughters growing in my womb. Lord call them your daughters as you have so named me. But is that really your name for me great God? Ton petit fille, your little girl? Lately I wonder, lacking confidence. This little girl has been wandering down remote roads of untruth where dust of lies fly and settle on my skin and clothes. Slanderers ride swift with smiles and splash mud on my face. Ton petite fille looks now like a little orphan, and what I see in my reflection I believe. “Orphan keep wandering, for you have no home” the evil ones whisper. Your father is dead and he believed a lie. He is nothing but dust in a vessel now. There is no great rest on the other shore, there is no hope for your hurting heart, there is no one standing guard over your children, no one orchestrating your daughters birth. They will cut you open no different than a piece of meat on a table and what will be, will be, chance, random chaos, no design, no designer, no creator of all things, no helper or truth. I become a fatalist so easily. So easily an atheist am I made with tricks and tongues that sling words that are simply innocent with ignorance, but feel calculated and rehearsed for the purpose of my demise. Wounds re-opened leave me scampering for answers. Lies are so easily found in mirrors, in pain, in the words of an enemy ten years past, where truth stands still where it has always been, in scripture, in prayer in kind words of encouraging friends. Truth waits above to be gazed on while Lies are a jester so effortlessly dancing about the filthy floor, so easily given focus and attention to. It is cheap trickery that I believe these lies and am captivated by them, when wouldn’t my eyes rather rest on truth, on the created things of beauty? I stare at the jester while angels sing over head in the falling leaves. I stare at my muddy dress and dusty hands when leaves of stained glass are set assail and create such beauty, when stars align and miracles are made, when spider webs drape my back deck, threads of crystal in perfect geometric form flashing in the morning sun, when a single cell in my body has now become two precious babies, with hearts and brains and eyes that will see and know their mother, will recognize my voice and my smell when they are born. These beauties break down walls. Random chance becomes ransomed and planned. Nothing can be explained by action of accident, result of disorder. I am a daughter of the most high King, my children are watched over by Holy Spirit who moves and keeps safe the hearts of heaven. And that vessel filled with ashes on my mothers shelf is no father of mine, but only what remains of the shell that once housed his eternal soul, a soul that I believe is now in the very presence of God, petitioning the King directly for the safe birthing of my babies and for the sanctification of their hearts and mine. I will see that soul again one day.
It is not knowledge alone that dispels lies but also beauty, for knowledge has taken true form in experience; experience of many things but one thing being beauty, beauty, in sight and smell and sound and touch. My daughters will bring truth on their soft skin and eye lashes, their mouths will sing praises with their first breath of air and their heads will bare a sweet aroma named “baby smell” that will remind us of El Roi, the God who sees, who has blessed us with experience in mourning and has now blessed us with new life, new faith and joy. Sweet Fall you are welcome to come with all that you bring; bring glories, bring truth, bring birth, bring beauty.

Book teaser: End of Part 1 Beginning of Part 2 of "Living Waters" the book

 

About 2 years ago I started writing the story of my trip across the US when Reed and I left the army. That book was complete about a month before my dad passed..... or so I thought. It was evident that the book was not finished so while on bed rest, I'm writing again. This time, the story of what God did, and is doing, and what He does. So here is the last chapter in Part 1 and the beginning of Part 2. I hope you enjoy.

The following morning I made breakfast with chapped fingers and soar knuckles. We all pilled into my dads truck to travel the west end of the “going to the sun” road. We ended up taking the free shuttle to the information center at the top of the pass where we decided to hike up to “Hidden Lake”. We walked up the boardwalk in our tennis shoes, shorts and tank tops even though their was snow on the ground. Abigail and Tessah jetted on ahead. My mom lingered the most taking in the great mountainous formations that rocketed into the sky. When the boardwalk ended we entered Narnia. Small remains of glaciers were scattered about over rock tailings that were so colorful they seemed to be a mixture of a hundred different kind of stones. Further on a stream collected next to the path and then appeared the Mr.Thumnus of our Narnia. As I was much further ahead I looked back to see my mom taking pictures of something that was just out of view in the trees next to the trail. As I watched and wondered at what was now stopping a crowd, the grand white star of the show walked out of the trees into view. I had never seen a mountain goat in person before and had always expected them to be much smaller than the one that now entered my view. The goat  was at least as tall as me with his head raised up and was composed of pure muscle and snow white fur. The mountain goat is almost shaped like a mountain with the tallest point being at his shoulder and his head most often bowed in a grazing posture. The goat walked toward me ignoring the crowd that was no more than ten feet to his right. Distracted by the beautiful animal I hadn’t noticed that a mother goat and her kid had settled in the snow bank to nurse just above me. By then the male goat had made it up to where the rest of the group was. We marveled for a while at how friendly and docile these creatures were.  Someone told us that there were more goats just up the way so we continued on to the end of the trail and the spectacular view of hidden lake. The group of goats which were about seven now were all around us as we gazed out on the untouched aqua lake. There was not a manmade thing in sight, only mountain after mountain until our eyes could not make out what was in the furthest distance. The lake itself dropped off  out of view where presumably there was a large waterfall. The lake appeared to be hanging in the mountains much higher than any lake should be and so clear you could almost see right down to the deepest part. There are some places in this world that appear to be untouched by evil. I don’t know how a place like hidden lake in all it’s beauty could foster any bad thing. As we all looked out from a cliff at the beautiful view my mom was the only one not at peace as she yelled at Abigail and covered her eyes as my sister danced and taunted the edge of the cliff. She would continue this behavior for the next two years in her life decisions, dancing very close to a metaphorical cliff, torturing my parents as they watched and pleaded with her to stop.  Before we began our journey back down the trail I gathered some white fibers from a bush where a mountain goat had shed some of it’s winter coat. I fashioned the fibers into a bracelet for myself on the drive back down. It was the least valuable and the most valued of my souvenirs.  Around the campfire that night our whole group had a joyful air about us. Even my dad was in a playful mood. I took the opportunity to make the most of it. I darted into our trailer and returned with Reeds fishing hat, some bits of paper and a pen. I declared a battle of the sexes in a game of charades. Abigail had recently had her naval pierced and now dawned a dangling sparkly piece of metal in her abdomen. We teased her that is was a fishing lure that served as a lure for boys to be caught with. She caught a stray boy with it on her way back from the bathrooms and we invited him to play the game with us. I knew there was no chance of Reed playing with us so I deemed him judge and maker of the charades cards. One by one we all got up to make fools of ourselves sending the others into fits of laughter. The game ended when Abigails boy had to be cut loose and thrown back to his family. The fire wood was running low and the next day would be our last at Glacier National Park. So we all went to bed early in hopes of making our last day count. I was very reluctant to get back in the car the following morning but in parks like Yellowstone and Glacier there is no other way to see their vastness but by car. We took the two hour drive skirting the park in order to get to the east entrance. The road was rough and unkempt. I annoyed Reed with my complaining as we stared out the window until we both were shocked into excitement at the site of two familiar cyclists headed opposite our direction. “James and Laura!” we both shouted. I begged my dad to turn around because we knew the two but before I could explain the whole story of how we met our biking friends we were another ten minutes down the road. Fortunately Reed remembered that James had a GPS tracking device with him at all times and we decided we would find and visit James and Laura that evening. It was a two hour drive before we made it to the East entrance of the park. The mountainous views did not disappoint and we were all eager  to stretch our legs to find some off road scenery. So we stopped at the first trail head we came to inside the park. The trail crossed under the road giving us the option to go in two different directions. We thought we would try the shorter trail to the waterfall first and then chose another trail if we all wished to go further. The long drive had put a bur under Abigail’s saddle . She hurried us all along rudely  so we pushed her to the front of our crowd where she would create great gaps and then stand in a dramatic posture with one hand on her hip as she waited for us to catch up. She was even more frustrated when we made it to the waterfall because it had been such a short distance. We all ignored the annoyed teenager that seemed to be more focused on the calorie consumption of the hike than the relaxation and beautiful scenery. The waterfall itself reminded me of Lateral  Falls in the Columbia Gorge. It jetted out the side of the cliff where the rocks had pushed the falling creek sideways. Opposite the crooked falls  was a tilted rock the size of a large old growth tree that created sort of a balcony for one to climb up and view the falls from.  It was a more than worthy destination for such a short hike.  When we got back to the road where we had parked we all decided that we would like a bit of a longer hike and instead of going down into the valley we would travel up. The trial started out very steep and at first we weren’t sure that we wanted to go on at such a grueling incline so Reed ran up ahead to see if the grade changed in any way. After just a few seconds Reed returned to report that the trail did get easier ahead so we pressed on. The trsil was through an alpine woods with thick brush and trees well clothes in mosses of all colors and textures. As we were noticing the trees and their decoration we also noticed that one fallen tree had been overturned by a bear searching for insects. Our awareness of a possible bear encounter became more acute when further up the trail we spotted some bear skat that appeared to be less than a day old. We ordered Abigail and Tessah to stay close enough that we could see them. We only had one can of bear mase and we didn’t want to use it so Tessah whistled as she hiked intending to warn any nearby bear of her presence with the tune of “Deep and Wide” . We started to wonder just how long of a hike we had embarked on when we noticed that the hikers passing in our opposite direction were heavily loaded with gear and walked with hiking poles.  One of the passers by was nice enough to stop and chat with us a bit. He informed us that we were on a trail that went over a mountain pass and was about fifteen miles long. We knew that we couldn’t complete the trail that day. It was already nearing three o’clock and we had a hour long drive back to camp. The lone hiker assured us that is would be well worth it to continue at least another two miles where the creek would split in a wide valley and climb up a cliff into three great waterfalls. We were sold on the adventure so we waited for my parents to catch up and told them of the wonders ahead. As we pressed on the trees began to thin and bow down to the ever present wind there. The trees were subdued into strange bush like forms until there were no trees at all, just emerald grass that rolled out like a lush shag rug. The few pine  trees that dared to grow this high were twisted and deformed by the wind. Mountain flowers sprang up all around in shapes I had never seen before. One resembled a dandelion that had gone to seed, the kind you make a wish on but it’s stamens appeared to be covered in tiny feathers that swirled in and upward in motion. It so reminded me of something Dr.Seuse would have dreamed up. We hiked on through the lush grass that only ended for the mountain side shooting up on either side and in front of us.  The beauty of this place is so hard to describe. It’s places like this that fuel the heart to go, they command every heart to discover, to seek out who and what made them and what made the mountain valleys with the twisted trees and wild flowers under sister waterfalls. But maybe it wasn’t even the view of nature, maybe it was the view of my family, my loved ones beside, behind and in front of me walking in praise of the awesome creator that made my throat swell into a lump as I licked and pursed my lips to keep the tears from leaving my eyes.  The mountain flowers, Gods bouquet wooing our hearts.  When we came to the split in the creek the walls of the pass looked as if they  had been formed by some ancient civilization. They rose straight up with geometric shaped pillars. It was like God had raked the valley forming the creek and then left the rakes pattern in the cliffs.  I took every sight in with tender care knowing that our trip was soon coming to an end. With my parents far behind and my sisters up ahead Reed and I walked hand in hand, both of us praising the maker of our heavenly surroundings. There is something so special about mountains, they are wild, rugged and dangerous but in their agelessness  they offer an ever constant reminder of faithfulness and strength. My God never fails to amaze me in the many millions of ways that he has created this world and all the beauty in it to point to Him and tell me what He is like. The mountains are a monument to Gods strength and faithfulness, a grand gesture of heart.

After a while of walking together Reed and I caught up to the girls and decided that we had better head back to see how my parents were. Ab and Tessah jogged on down ahead of us and missed spotting my parents cooling their feet under one of the small water falls in the creek. The two looked so free laying their on a water smoothed rock together, my dads hand resting on my mothers stomach and her hands over his. The sound of the waterfall blocked any noise as we approached. The couple smiled and kissed with their socks and shoes scattered about.  I savored that moment of watching my parents in such a state of peace and love together. Even in all the hardships my parents had faced and will face I know now that’s truly where their hearts live, hand in hand together in awe of God and all He is.

We made it to Oregon the very next day but Reed and I decided to stop for the night just an hour away from home in the Columbia River George while the rest went on. We wanted to be truly welcomed home by the morning sun. We didn’t want home to miss us if we had slipped back in at night. We enjoyed one last summer sunset on the road together. It was the most beautiful out of any the whole trip. As I watched the sun go down with my Columbia river racing by in the window I felt the sun going down on a portion of my life. My childhood was laid to rest and my hurt from the past four years in the Army sank in a symphony of orange, pink and lavender. So often the years slip by unnoticed, we miss the funeral so to speak only to realize years later the passing of an era. My summer across North America was a beautiful celebration of the end of a quarter of my life and the beginning of a new journey.

Reed and I would move into a small and very old cabin on the Sandy river a ways up on Mt. Hood. That fall Reed would catch steel head from our back yard and we would watch the salmon spawn in the Little Eddy creek a few blocks from our house.  After a beautiful winter new life would find it’s way to the waters of my river. We expected the birth of our son that coming fall when the Salmon would run.

Part 2

I laughed without even looking up, “ha! Or we could name him Kenturion.” I was joking with Reed as I looked for ideas for baby names in my Strongs Exhaustive Concordance. I didn’t like it at all but it stuck and the name grew on me. “Commander of many men” and after the centurion in Luke seven who Jesus is astounded by his faith, that’s what we named our blond haired, blue eyed boy the day after my dad buried his best friend of forty years. It was a hard labor described not by me but my doula sister and my delivering doctor but I wanted the very best opportunities for my son and I wanted to learn what Jesus had to teach me about suffering for my child so I did the twenty four hours of labor including four hours of transition without so much as an IV but instead with the dedicated support of my husband, sister and mom.

A month before, my dad got a phone call from Dougs daughter Sarah. Doug had a heart attack while he was out in a remote part of Oregon rounding up the fourth of July weekend. He died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital but his body was kept alive for another few days before the doctors were willing to deliver the very final news to Dougs son and two daughters. His youngest, Sarah and I grew up as best friends until her parents split and our lives took different paths. Our dads were like brothers since the summer before their eighth grade so my dad drove down to be with his friend in his final hours. The day before Kenturion was born they scattered Dougs ashes on a hill where my dad and he used to hunt. I screamed and my dad cried as we both brought fourth new life, the life of my son and the life without his brother. Dad came back the next day to hold my son on his heaving chest as his tears dripped a baptism of grief and joy over this child that would see so many tears in his first year of life.

I am a daughter, a second of four to a man with a thick mustache that hides his baby face and soft heart. This position has shaped me more than I could express. Even if I worried these keys for a lifetime, the story could not be told in full how a boy became and man became a husband, father, friend. When you know a man you know him from where you sit and that perspective alone. I own only my view of my father. At three I was terrified of him but in a way that somehow I still knew it was safe to crawl up in his lap on the couch to watch the Waltons with my head on his sternum. Doug died of a heart attack that was more than preventable and with his death my dad was obligated to enquire on the health of his own heart. Diagnosed as a murmur as a child the doctors now found a deformity in one of his valves, two flaps instead of three to open and close and allow his blood to gather oxygen. After years of being over worked the bicuspid valve had become brittle and worn and in need of replacement. That sternum that I had rest my head on as a child would have to be sawn open to save my dads life.

Lies and Surrender

Lies, they float on the dust in this house, settle on me as I sleep and sit and wait for babies to grow. They whisper at me in the mirror about my hair that looks too much like a boys and my body that resembles a hot air balloon. They tell me in the moment when he doesn’t hold my hand or when he is sleeping unable to defend the truth that he does love me and he does think I’m beautiful. They lean in on my shoulder as I wave to my baby being taken to be cared for by someone so that I can rest and let my daughters grow. “Not a good mother,” they say, “can’t even play with your son”, they say, so gently in my ear I don’t even notice. And the dust on the shelves and on my dresser tell me yet more lies that I am lazy, that my husband must feel so burdened by my lack of chore doing. How could he be attracted to me? How could he possibly see the beautiful wife he married with long curled hair and beautifully set makeup on skin that had seen no stress of true heart ache only six years ago. I paint it up now each morning hoping he won’t see the shadows that have set in from weeping, the wrinkles creeping in from being stretched, body and soul. Lies of “you’re ugly, you’re fat, you’re a bad wife, you’re a bad mother. How can you send him away from your sight all day? What if someone hurts him? What if there is an uncle visiting or a friend that just “loves baby boys” and they molest him and damage your son for the rest of his life! That will be on your hands, because of your failure.” These are the accusations I war against and lose against every single day.

But there is a fountain of truth. I found it last night in my closet. Mourning always seems to come in the evening when my baby is asleep and the neighborhood is listening. So I go into the deepest part of my house, hoping the hanging clothes and the shut doors and a rag from the laundry on the floor will muffle my screams. Those screams are where the fountain flows. Truth…. truth that death is awful and hideous and the appropriate response to it is utter whaling and screaming, doubled over on the floor. This is truth that ushers in the truths that dust off the lies that have settled in on me. This is the truth that breathes new life in me. I cannot stand without it. I cannot walk on this frame of aching and crumbling bones that hangs with rotting, foul flesh. This truth of my insufficiency is so present as I lay on the floor, my hips aching, and my ribs sore from babies growing against them, exhausted by tears and a weekend of pre-term labor and worrying over the possibility of born babies with lungs that cannot breath on their own and mouths that cannot yet nurse. My flesh is failing. My body cannot endure what God is calling me to. He must breathe new life in me. Holy Spirit must literally inflate this empty shell and walk me around and move my lips and my hands for the glory of God.

 And when I have no more sound and no more hot tears I can begin to pray with whispers through swollen lips. “help Lord, set me free from the lies of the evil ones”. And He does, and I find the truth that began to welcome all these lies. The truth that I didn’t want Gods will to be done this week. The night that my father died I knelt on the hospital floor and said with my whole heart, “not my will Jesus but yours be done!” and it was done. And now I don’t want that to be. This week I don’t want Gods will to have been done. I want my will. And really, is that so bad? I just want Him to return now! I want the rider and the white horse, clothed in a blood drenched robe. Oh how I long to see that killer of the wicked.  And I cannot even pray to Jesus for this, for only God Himself knows when the final battle will fall and the Son will come in all His glory and put death to final death. So I do pray, “come Lord, come quickly”

 So this is faith. This is where true submission begins. When I have been wrung out and nothing false remains. Only a true and honest cry of a selfish crumpled woman on her closet floor “I want to go home Lord……take us home” ………I have a decision to make. I want to never get up from that floor. I want to be finished with the trials of this life. I want the tears and the pain to be done. …….but more than that, more than I want my dad back, more than I want the sufferings of this world to end, more than how much my heart aches to see the slaying and abuse and utter torture of the innocent cease……. Even more than how much I desperately long for justice for children… for the lonely to be set in families ….. even more than I want for the salvation of my own babies……my hearts desire is that YOU  are King, that YOUR will be done. Because you are GOOD and RIGHTEOUS and WORTHY, WORTHY, WORTHY and You are HOLY HOLY HOLY!!!” I bow to the High King of Heaven. I bow with my body and soul and with all that I love. I lay it out on your alter. Lord burn it up or give it back to me. Have your way, for my true love is Jesus.

 “All to Jesus I surrender, all to Him I freely give!”