Passing the Baton

As the youngest of nine children, the history and memories of my family had been deposited in the minds of my older siblings and my mother.  Since mother rarely talked with me, she didn’t offer much in the way of family history.  Some sisters passed away before I was of the age where I was curious about my predecessors.  Some sisters never lived in the same state as me and I saw them maybe twice in my life.   

That left me with two brothers who were like a vault of information.  Both of them had researched the genealogy of our lineage for generations previous.   I really didn’t care too much about the name of my great-great-great grandfather, which I think was Joshua Jehoiada.  But tales about names familiar to me were of interest.  

Both brothers were storytellers.  

Just listening to them was fascinating.  They embellished.  Their narratives were full of humor.  Unknown relatives came alive as they spun their yarns.  They both wrote books full of memories.  

One passed away five years ago and the other one in February.  

So, when I recently received an email from (if I’ve figured it out correctly) a great-niece, the realization hit me.  I’m the older one now.  I’m the storehouse of history and memories.  It’s surprising to me to be in this position.  I’ve been the youngest for all these years.  How did I get here?  And can I do it justice?  

I never knew of her existence.  

As the emails fly between us, it’s been enlightening to hear her side of the stories contained in my repertoire.  And we are just getting started.  

The baton has been passed…and I’m running with it!  

“But watch out!  Be careful never to forget what you yourself have seen.  Do not let these memories escape from your mind as long as you live!  And be sure to pass them on to your children and grandchildren.”  Deuteronomy 4:9 (NLT

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Purging

We gathered around a burn barrel behind the church.  As instructed, I had my one bracelet, some barrettes, and my roller skates.  We were to bring anything unholy and not of God…to be burned.  One person after another dropped items into the barrel.  As a lover of books, it was hard to watch as volume after volume was tossed into the flames.  Some teenagers had several bracelets, rings and necklaces.  A few, the horror of it all, had lipstick.  

Our church was being purified.  

My insides trembled as I wondered if I had remembered everything I needed to bring.  I knew the roller skates were evil.  When I turned twelve my mother had explained roller skating was a form of dancing.  I was now twelve.  God would be very angry at me if I kept any wicked article.  

Sixty-five years later, those sights and smells, shouts of praises and crying of children are permanently etched in my memory.  In the past few weeks, that remembrance has emerged again.  

I viewed a documentary called American Gospel.  

Transfixed by the scenes unfolding before me, I sat motionless as one hour and then two passed.  The true colors of pastors and speakers I admired were being revealed before my eyes.  I had read their books and our church had participated in their studies.  Blindly I had followed their precepts, without any research of my own.  

Their books and DVDs were available for purchase at Christian bookstores.  That meant they were alright, didn’t it?  

In one interview, a well-known pastor explained that going to heaven was easy and the road to hell was very hard to travel; just the opposite of what the Bible says.  Books written by people who say they died and went to heaven were compared.  No two views of heaven were the same.  One author has now totally admitted he made it up.  The “heaven tourism” books are big sellers.  

I have been purging my bookshelves.  Even though it pains me, I am no longer comfortable owning books written by what is known as a false teacher.  So, I’ve made a few trips to the dumpster. 

I’ve learned a lesson in accountability.  I am responsible for what I allow to enter my mind.  

“And now, dear brothers and sisters, one final thing.  Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable.  Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise.”  Philippians 4:8 (NLT)

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Finding My Rhythm

I sat in the swing on the shaded patio, enjoying the breeze and early morning bird songs.  I have a wonderful life.  My mind wandered back over the last five years.  That thought about my wonderful life was a hard-earned sentiment.  

I had wondered if I would ever get here.  

Oh, don’t take me wrong.  I was living life.  Friends.  Family. And before the virus…travel.  And yes, my brother had recently passed away.  But the “wonderful” in my life I was referring to was so much deeper than those things.  

 

My beloved moved to heaven five years ago.  At the time, I was numb, moving through my days like a robot.  Half of me was missing.  I was no longer the same person.  But who was I?  As the weeks and months passed, my mind began to partially function again.  

I knew I needed to find a purpose for my days.  

My second year the frozen parts of me began to thaw. That brought pain.  Such pain.  Yet, I knew I must go on.  As a Christ-follower, I turned to Him without ceasing.  Please show me the way.  

I was very aware that everyone’s grief journey is different.  I read many books describing others’ journeys.  There were no rules.  It was necessary for me to travel this path at my own speed.  Each step of the way, I felt God’s love holding me up. 

I began to write.  

It was during year three I felt God speaking to me.  First through the words in a book.  It spoke of a thousand slender threads coming together, strands of who I’ve been and who I’m becoming.  That’s where I was.  As the days passed, I began to feel writing was my purpose…my ministry.  

So, over the next two years I published two books.  But they were words I had already blogged.  There wasn’t much thinking involved in placing them in order and printing.  The third book was sent to the publisher, but once again they were words already written.  

Book four was going to be written from scratch.  

I was unprepared for how hard that would be.  I didn’t know how to start.  The jumble of words in my head were just that…a jumble of words.  Normally, I don’t procrastinate.  Normally, I find time in my day for what matters to me.  Normally, I feel I’ve accomplished what I set out to do.  In every other area of my life that was still true.  

Book four was still a pile of papers and binders, items to help trigger thoughts and even some notes in my husband’s handwriting.  The book was about him…his cancer journey.  My aspiration for my words was that others would see how God had traveled that journey with us.  

It was overwhelming.  

Here’s where the Coronavirus comes in.  It was a pattern interrupt.  My daily routine got changed.  Which made me stop and consider my priorities.  As an organized person, I like to have a slot for everything.  So, I tried a new routine.  

Didn’t work.  Still no writing.  

 

As the weeks of isolation continued, so did the changes in my routine.  Days were becoming smoother.  The peripheral activities had fallen away.  The marginal pursuits were replaced with meaningful endeavors.  My focus was no longer scattered.  

I’m making it sound like I’m about to write an epic manuscript.  That’s not what this is about.  

I have discovered a life rhythm that works for me in my new normal.  It’s like the radio is finally on the station.  (That dates me doesn’t it?)  God is still in control.  My inner peace has remained.  I have continued to sleep soundly every night.  But as I move through this passage in time, my days have achieved balance. 

Hence, I can sit on the patio and savor this wonderful life I’m living.  

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Reflection and Renewal

Arrangements had been made for me to fly from Washington to Texas for my brother’s funeral.  When the ticket was purchased, the term coronavirus had just begun floating around.  As the time neared for my trip, I was concerned it might be canceled.  Our world was infected.  But all went as planned.  

Upon my return home, I was soon made aware of the plight my state was in.  Deaths were already occurring.  That’s when I understood I could possibly be infected.  I had no clue who I had been around that might have been contagious, so I put myself in quarantine for 14 days.  

After the intense time I had just experienced, a time of solitude did not seem unduly harsh.  

Emails, texts and Facebook were full of people expressing their frustrations and sense of isolation.  Others talked of how they were eating everything they could find.  Tempers flared.  Accusations raged.  

Yet I felt none of that. 

I established a weight-loss goal.  I filled my days with praise music, writing, reading and exercising.  When I wanted a change in activity, I turned the music off and listened to podcasts while I worked a jigsaw puzzle.  And I spent time on the patio meditating and journaling. 

Each day I placed a thermometer on my temple to see if I had that symptom.  Nope.  

Regularly throughout the day, I paused to give God thanks for watching over me.  I set an alarm on my iPhone to pray once a day for the President and our government, our leaders and country.  I asked God to bring a revival…to cause the people of our United States to turn their hearts toward Him.  When I laid my head on the pillow at bedtime, I fell asleep talking to God.  

At the end of 14 days, I remained symptom free.  And I had lost two pounds toward my weight-loss goal.  

By then we had been given the “stay at home” order.  Some people were in a panic mode.  Others just seemed to spew hate at the governing officials who were taking away their freedoms.  I abided in peace.  

My time of renewal had just been expanded.  

I lost another three pounds.  I put the finishing touches on my third book and sent it to the publisher.  I became familiar with the term “streaming.”  My daughter, who lives three time zones away, and I attended church together.  We took notes and discussed the sermon.  I relished my quiet time.  God and I talked a lot.  

And then the perfect storm materialized with a knee on the neck of a black man.  Virus and riots…deaths from Covid-19…deaths from shootings…lootings and vandalism.  Businesses that were already shut because of the stay at home order were destroyed by those who weren’t staying at home, intent on revenge.  

Our world exploded.  

In the three weeks since then, I’ve watched the news in horror.  Beautiful cities devastated.  Out-of-control mobs attacking anyone and anything in their path. And due to Covid-19, elderly loved ones dying alone.  

Our nation will never be the same.  

In a time like this, I’m so grateful for my peace.  If I allowed my focus to be on the turmoil whirling around me, I could become depressed and suicidal.  But God is still in control.  All of this havoc has not been a surprise to Him.  

He is still the Prince of Peace.  

My heart goes out to those who are suffering; perhaps the loss of a loved one or maybe just due to the isolation.  But this season can be used as a time of growth for the Christ-follower.  So many of the distractions and interferences have been removed.  For me, because of the solitude, I have experienced a deeper level of peace.  

We don’t know the end result of all the chaos.  But we do know where the Shelter is as we ride out the storm.  

“I would hurry to my place of Shelter, far from the tempest and storm.”  Psalm 55:8 (NIV)

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