Several weeks ago, I wrote about my flowerbeds. I posted photos of special blooms and shared lessons about what my favorite garden spots were teaching me this year.
Things were looking good out there, and there was no reason to think the summer wouldn’t hold many more enjoyable gardening moments.
It was a good week away.
Last Monday, the girls and I packed up and headed north to my college roommate’s farm in Iowa. It was a week of respite—five days to reconnect with dear ones and recharge our batteries for the long road ahead at home.
Tucked away in the pages of Exodus, there’s a little verse that describes a beautiful scene of respite.
Shortly after God miraculously delivered the Israelites from the pursuing Egyptian armies, the Bible says the people “came to Elim, where there were 12 springs of water and 70 date palms, and they camped there by the water.” (Exodus 15:27)
Doesn’t that sound delightful?
This verse has long been a favorite of mine, but it’s been on my mind more lately as my family and I have been working our way through a crisis that began when my mom fell in the shower a couple of weeks ago.
It’s a long, sad story—too much to tell right now. For now, just picture daily trips with my dad to a Kansas City hospital. Family meetings with medical teams comprised of plastic surgeons, internal medicine doctors, palliative care experts and all kinds of nurses.
Long and heavy phone and text conversations with siblings near and far. Surgeries that hold great risk for an 85-year-old woman with my mom’s particular set of issues. Restless nights filled with thoughts of what comes next for her.
It’s been a lot—let’s just put it that way.
People around the world have been praying for my mom and our family. God’s healing power is clearly at work, and I can honestly say I don’t think there has ever been a time in my life when I have experienced more of His peace.
At the same time, I’ve felt like I’ve been carrying a weight that gets heavier and lighter, depending on the latest report from the doctors, the most recent news from whomever is in the hospital room with my mom, and how much sleep I got the previous night.
That’s why I’ve been quick to notice settings that offer respite, if only for a moment here and there. Like the long corridor that leads from the main lobby of the hospital to the parking garage. One day after the girls and I left my mom’s room, we got Krispy Kreme doughnuts from the cafeteria and ate them on a curvy bench in this hallway.
We were still at the hospital, but for a few peaceful minutes, it felt as if we were visiting an art museum instead (see picture above). In the midst of the stress, busyness and uncertainty, it was an oasis.
Then there was the day after my mom’s second surgery (following one of those nights of little sleep) that I sort of hit a wall. We had to be somewhere at 4 p.m. and we didn’t have enough time to go home first, so we stopped by the local Lifeway store to get a Father’s Day present for Randy.
Lilly and Molly took off into the store, but I spotted a little table with two chairs in the bargain book section right inside the front door. I was so tired, I couldn’t resist. I plopped down, pulled out my phone and started writing down my thoughts.
As I sat there, I slowly became aware of the music that was playing on the store’s intercom. One after another, the worship tunes reminded me of times in my life—and my mom’s life too—when God had made His presence known in special ways.
It was exactly what I needed to keep moving, which, at that point, was all I needed to do.
Now, we’ve entered a week of decisions for my family and transition for my mom. And I’m not there for it.
When you’re in an intense season like this, there’s no good time to leave. But sometimes, the worst time to leave is also the right time to go. So the girls and I packed up, and we went—just as we had planned to do before the accident.
Instead of 12 springs of water and 70 date palms, we are surrounded by rolling Iowa hills, corn fields and gravel roads. As I sit here typing this, I can hear mourning doves calling through the open window of an old country farmhouse.
I have nothing on my agenda for this week except long, relaxed conversations with my college roommate and watching my girls run around the farm with a batch of kids who are dear enough to us we might as well be related.
Back home, reinforcements have arrived, and capable, loving hands are helping my parents move through the next big steps.
Here, we’re getting refreshed for the long haul—however long that haul might be.
♥ Lois
Sometimes, the worst time to leave is also the right time to go. Share on XP.S. I’m linking up this week with Purposeful Faith, #TellHisStory, Coffee for Your Heart, Chasing Community and Grace & Truth.
I grew up singing hymns at church. Out of a hymnal, accompanied by a piano and organ. It was as traditional as you could get, even 35 years ago.
I’d stand in the congregation with my youth group girlfriends and we’d harmonize together. I mostly sang soprano, but occasionally, the hymnal in my hand helped me pick out the next note in the alto part.
Back then, my favorite hymns were the upbeat ones like “Blessed Assurance,” “When the Roll is Called Up Yonder” and “Wonderful Grace of Jesus.” I liked a few slower ones—“Great is Thy Faithfulness” readily comes to mind—but only if they had a chorus (or “refrain,” if you prefer.)
I’m sure we sang Frederick M. Lehman’s hymn “The Love of God” at my childhood church, but I’m guessing I didn’t care for it much. It has a chorus, but it seemed heavy and plodding—not the sort of music my teenage self particularly enjoyed.
Decades later, we sang “The Love of God” when the late Jerry Bridges came to my current church for a conference. I remember this clearly, even though it was several years ago, because this was the first time I had ever really paid attention to the lyrics.
Honestly, I don’t know how I overlooked this song all this time—the truth and images in Lehman’s words are as beautiful as they are profound.
We sang it again a few Sundays ago, and I was struck again by the prophetic tone of a song that was written 100 years ago. That, and the writing metaphors—if there was ever a hymn that would appeal specifically to a Christian writer, this would have to be it.
Since then, though, my family has entered an intense and difficult season. And as I visit my seriously injured mom in the hospital and lay awake at night wondering what the future holds for her, it’s the actual subject matter of this old hymn that comforts my heart.
No matter what happens—and none of the possibilities are very encouraging at this point—I’m resting in the reality of God’s perfect love: the love of a Father who knows each of His children by name and is with us in the fire and the flood, on the mountaintop and in the valley, for now and for all eternity.
The love of God is greater far than tongue or pen can ever tell; it goes beyond the highest star, and reaches to the lowest hell. The guilty pair, bowed down with care, God gave His Son to win; His erring child He reconciled, and pardoned from his sin.
Oh, love of God, how rich and pure! How measureless and strong! It shall forevermore endure—the saints’ and angels’ song.
When hoary time shall pass away, and earthly thrones and kingdoms fall, when men who hear refuse to pray, on rocks and hills and mountains call, God’s love so sure, shall still endure, all measureless and strong; redeeming grace to Adam’s race—the saints’ and angels’ song.
Oh, love of God, how rich and pure! How measureless and strong! It shall forevermore endure—the saints’ and angels’ song.
Could we with ink the ocean fill, and were the skies of parchment made, were every stalk on earth a quill, and every man a scribe by trade; to write the love of God above would drain the ocean dry; nor could the scroll contain the whole, though stretched from sky to sky.
Oh, love of God, how rich and pure! How measureless and strong! It shall forevermore endure—the saints’ and angels’ song.
—Frederick M. Lehman
♥ Lois
No matter what happens, I’m resting in the reality of God’s perfect love. Share on XThis spring, I’ve been reminded over and over why I love gardening. I’m no horticultural expert, mind you. There’s just so much divine creativity at work in the flowerbeds that circle my house, it’s hard to keep track of it all.
Not that I haven’t been trying, of course. Ever since I spotted the first crocus peeking out from under the heavy mat of last fall’s leaves, I’ve been chronicling the season’s progress with photos on Instagram.
As I’m writing this, it’s the last week of school and my mind is full. Just this morning, I’ve forgotten my hair stylist’s name when I was trying to reschedule an appointment, and I sent Lilly’s dance teacher an email three times because I kept forgetting to include an attachment.
The less-structured and (hopefully) lazier days of summer are on the way, and I couldn’t be happier about that. But before we turn the calendar page on another season, here are a few things I learned this spring.
♦ Ever since we moved into our home six years ago, our noisy dishwasher kept people from falling asleep at night, interfered with conversations in the kitchen, and basically sounded like a freight train was rumbling through the house whenever it was running.
I wouldn’t normally recommend replacing an appliance simply because it’s too loud, but the racks were starting to fall apart too, so that made the decision to get a new one a little easier.
We like to measure things around here, including sound levels. And here’s what we’ve discovered, thanks to our recent appliance purchase. When it comes to dishwashers, there’s a huge difference between 73 decibels and 46 decibels.
The new dishwasher is so quiet we barely notice it’s running at all. Now all we have to do is figure out how keep the “cycle completion signal” from going off in the middle of the night.
♦ Most of these seasonal lessons don’t involve actually learning how to do something. If you’ve been following along with me lately, however, you’ll know that I really did acquire a new skill this spring—I taught myself how to bake homemade bread.
And after spending my entire adult life avoiding recipes that contain yeast, I can’t believe how delightfully therapeutic it is to dig my hands into a soft, warm mound of dough.
♦ I am capable of sitting in a waiting room by myself while my husband has a scary sounding procedure done on his heart. It might sound silly, but before Randy’s heart ablation in late April, I struggled with whether I should ask someone to join me as I waited that morning. The hospital’s long hallways are too hard for my parents to manage, but I’m sure I could have found a friend who would have been happy to accompany me.
I woke up one night with this thought pressing on my mind: I don’t know if I want to brave it alone. Almost immediately, the still, small Voice whispered: “I will be with you.”
Peace followed, and my quandary was solved.
As it turned out, I wasn’t alone in the waiting room after all. God was with me, and His presence calmed my anxious heart. Friends and loved ones were a quick text away. And, as you may recall from my recap of that day, a couple of total strangers kept me distracted and (at times) secretly amused for a good part of the morning.
♦ On the last day of winter—an 80-degree Sunday in March—I went running with Lilly and Molly on the bike trail near our house. I do most of my exercise on the treadmill, so running outside is a bit of a challenge. I set a goal for how much I wanted to run, and I was so excited about actually meeting that goal that I failed to notice the uneven ground where the paved trail meets the sidewalk that goes back to our street.
My foot hit the edge of the sidewalk and I went flying, sliding on my knees on the rough concrete until I came to a complete stop. I didn’t break any bones or tear any ligaments, but I did learn this: Skinned knees heal much more slowly at 46 than at 10. And I still have the scars to prove it.
♦ When you pray and ask God to show you what you need to see, He does. I’ve found this to be true in my role as a mom over the years, and lately, I’m finding it also applies to the help I’m giving my parents.
When thoughts pop into my head—check this, ask about that, probe a little deeper there—I’m learning to follow up on them. Sometimes, it’s nothing. Other times, though, what I discover enables me to nip something in the bud, assist more effectively, provide comfort or encouragement, or alert others to needs they can meet.
♦ Last summer, the serpentine belt on our van broke soon after we returned home from a lengthy road trip. We got it fixed, but around this time, we also started noticing a persistent rattle. I just chalked it up to wear and tear—we had driven a long way on some pretty mountainous roadways, so I figured our van was finally starting to show its age.
When it comes to cars, I don’t embarrass easily. Bird poop on windows, stained floor mats and slightly dinged-up back bumpers don’t bother me at all. But over time, the rattle started getting on everyone’s nerves, including mine. It was so bad that Molly once correctly identified our van coming down the street before she even saw it.
We had resigned ourselves to the fact that we’d probably have to spend a lot of money on some difficult engine issue, but we hadn’t scheduled a service appointment yet. Then one Saturday, Randy decided to give the problem one last-ditch troubleshooting effort.
“I’m just going to look in there and see if there’s bolt rattling around,” he told me.
He didn’t find any bolts, but he did find a socket that must have been left there when the belt was replaced last August. He removed it, and—much to everyone’s relief—the rattle disappeared.
The moral of the story is this: Sometimes, to solve a persistent and annoying problem, you just have to find and remove the leftover socket that you didn’t even know was there.
That’s my list. What have you learned this spring?
♥ Lois
When you pray and ask God to show you what you need to see, He does. Share on X