Tears of Joy

 

With some understandable trepidation, I set the satnav for LAX. It’s an easy drive up the coast, until you get there. ‘Stay left,’ she instructed, ‘stay on Airport Way’ – only there weren’t any signs for Airport Way (if that was the name – I can’t remember now!). I stayed left, as far left as I could, which turned out to be too far left.

‘Make a u-turn,’ she said.

What?

I did it and soon was headed in a new direction of concrete flyovers and traffic speeding. I prayed like mad. I had no idea where I was going. Finally I was in the horseshoe: terminals on the right, parking on the left. ‘Turn left,’ she said. I did, but too soon it turned out. Soon I was again headed into unknown territory. Help!

Somehow I found myself back in the horseshoe, this time on the Departures level. Determined to park and walk. Which I did, and it turned out I was very close to the international arrivals, just up two floors. Easy.

I stood with others eagerly awaiting the arrival of their loved ones. I wiped away tears as I heard the sobs of joy as grandparents clasped their grandchildren. I waited. For nearly an hour, a sea of humanity rolled by me, from every corner of the globe.

Finally I saw that familiar, much-loved face. Don is here. I could breathe again.

So many people pouring into LA. And God knows every one. Every one has a story, a joy, a sorrow, a need, an ambition. I continue to be blown away by God’s love and provision. In the midst of a tsunami of need, needs much bigger than any I may have, he continues to hear my cries for help, and guide and protect me.

Gratitude. With my arms held high, I will worship the God who is always there, always available, whatever the need. The God who weeps tears of joy when he sees his children approaching, who weeps tears of sorrow when he sees his children’s heartbreak.

Gearing up for a return trip to LAX this afternoon. This time for Doug from Brisbane. Haven’t seen him for nearly two years. Expecting tears.

Waiting at the Screen Door

 

Bella sprawls in front of the screen door, her nose twitching as she picks up smells, her ears in motion as she strains for intriguing noises. She is ready, willing something to happen, someone to arrive, a passing dog to bark at.

I approach from behind, to exit through the door, and she is up, alive, wiggling a greeting, nosing my toes, barely restraining herself from jumping all over me. I know I am loved.

A year old now, Bella is my cousin’s dog. She is definitely ‘in your face’ when you approach.

Not everyone likes dogs, but there is something so attractive about that unconditional love of a dog. You could be out all day, and still get a warm greeting when you arrive home. No cold shoulder.

All a dog wants is something to eat, some exercise, and some playful interaction with their human. A little bit of time.

God is not in my face. He is much more restrained and polite, ready to respond to my overtures, and probably disappointed but not surprised when I miss his.

May I be attentive today to every whisper of my Saviour, to every whiff of divine fragrance in my day. May I linger in his presence for no reason other than to enjoy his company. May I appreciate the awesomeness of the fact that the omnipotent God bends down and waits, as it were, at the screen door, hoping for a little attention.

I scarce can take it in.

 

Older, but wiser?

 

So. Older but maybe not much wiser.

I’m in a kind of holding pattern, having put into train lots of things that can’t be completed until the death certificates come. Awaiting the arrival of the first of my dear family, Don, who flies in tomorrow afternoon. Yay!!

So a long walk at Redondo again yesterday, but stupidly I went out in the midday sun. I caught a little too much. I’ll wait til later in the afternoon today, and maybe wear a long sleeved shirt despite the temp. Maybe a little wiser.

I have a form to fill in, a long form to be mailed or delivered once the death certificates arrive. But it’s confusing, demanding proofs of things and I kind of feel defeated by it.

Trying to distract myself reading. Picked up Tolkien’s The Fellowship of the Ring at Heathrow because I thought it’s a book I ought to read. I am plowing through it, still seeing it as a book I ought to read. I doubt that I read any more in the series. It’s just not my thing.

So now, I pray that God helps me to bring his wisdom to bear on this form I’m struggling with, and that all the steps I need to take while I am here for another week, I do take.

As James counsels, for any who lack wisdom, we only need ask God and not doubt that he answers that prayer. I’ve asked. So here I go.

Have a great day.

May it be so

 

He was waiting for us out in the hot sun, on the steps into the historic church. We’d asked for a site meeting before Mom’s funeral next week. He explained the history of the wee church. It was the oldest church in San Pedro, and had fallen into disrepair. The homeless had moved in, sheltering there. Something beautiful about that.

But two years ago, whoever owned it decided it was time to give the little church a new lease of life, and so it was sold to the cemetery. They had it moved into its present position, on a green hill overlooking Los Angeles harbor and San Pedro. In moving it, the old, stained-glass windows broke. They were repaired, some technology was installed, air-con put in, and it began to be used as a venue for small celebrations of life.

I was so pleased to find inside such an air of intimacy and reverence. This is a building with history, familiar with deep emotions, with suffering, with sorrow and pain. A place where the word of God can bring solace and comfort. A perfect place in which to celebrate Mom’s extraordinary life.

We went from there to the gravesite. A small, yellow flag, inscribed with Mom’s name, fluttered in the breeze above the headstone bearing Dad’s name, which will soon have her name as well. Preparations for the final resting place for her remains.

It’s a constant tension between the oh, so sad separation death forces upon us, and the oh, so joyful assurance that Mom has moved into real life, light and love. My prayer is that all who come to celebrate her life, and those who might watch the livestream link, will be touched by the presence of the living God and drawn into his kingdom.

That would be a fitting culmination to a life lived trusting in the Lord for everything. Her final act of witness. May it be so.

 

Blast from the Past

 

I stood, staring out at the beautiful blue Pacific, stretching and healing in the hot summer sun. Behind me, a young couple whispered and laughed, enjoying the vibrancy of youth and companionship. It added texture to my experience; the beauty of God’s creation, the beauty of relationship and love.

All of a sudden, I was startled by a ragged line of pelicans swooping west to their nesting places out on the peninsula. Looking like some sort of throw-back to the dinosaur era, they moved in silence and speed, soaring and swooping, not fishing but heading home.

This was once land on which native Americans made their home. Before that, maybe others. I stood still, feeling like I stood still for awhile, but on reflection, recognising that my presence there was but a blink in the history of this place.

A thousand years in your eyes, God, are like a day gone by.

My life is but a flash in the sweep of history, and yet every second of my life has possibility, has meaning, has life.

Small adjustments can result in significant outcomes. Little tweaks to the steering wheel in driving a car result in crashes or clear driving. Little movements to the rudder or the sails of a yacht can have major outcomes to destinations or disasters.

May the nanosecond of my own prayers today help alter the tragic trajectories of the nations. May I have faith and confidence to believe that God himself hears the cries of my little heart, and answers.

Those pelicans. Swooping along the coast as they have for centuries, for eons perhaps. Seen by people I can only imagine.

Designed and orchestrated by the God who is pure love. For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son Jesus so that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.

So grateful that Mom is now blessed in that eternal presence.

Footprints in the Sand

 

I took a walk in the sands of Redondo Beach. It’s not so easy walking in sand. Must be good for the glutes. I didn’t want to walk down where the water had compacted it into an easier surface to traverse, because I remember the tar which can come up along this beach, and it is not easy to remove from feet or shoes.

Walking in sand, though, is exhausting.

On a wall in my living room, there hangs a beautiful poem lovingly embroidered for me by Mom, many years ago. It is the famous Footprints poem, recounting an imaginary dialogue between a believer and Jesus. As the believer looks back at the trail of footprints in the sands of her life, she is disappointed that at times the two sets of footprints – hers and Jesus’ – reduces to one set. Sadly, she wonders why Jesus left her at those difficult times.

Jesus’ reply is that no, she has misinterpreted the evidence. The footprints reducing to one set came from the times when Jesus carried her. She was never left alone.

As I look back at, particularly, these last eleven years when Mom has been in three different assisted living facilities, I see one set of footprints. I have been so out of my comfort zone, so weak and lost to know which way to go, and that has drawn me to press in, to lean in to God. He has carried me through all the changes, all the agonising decisions, all the downsizing and distribution of another person’s lifetime of memories even while she was still alive.

I’ve written this before, but as I drove back to Josie Avenue for another load of possessions when we moved Mom into the first home, I was in tears. I remember which intersection on that road I was stopped at, tears flowing, when Jesus whispered into my mind, ‘In every teardrop there is a rainbow.’

The rainbow is the closer walk with him enabled by the weakness I felt. As Paul wrote, when I am weak, I am strong because Jesus empowers me.

My prayer as my steps begin to head out of the valley of the shadow of death is that I would not assume greater strength than I have. I want to continue to lean into God and not become self-sufficient and cocky.

May those parts of my trail where there is just one set of footprints, define the rest of my life. Totally dependent on my Saviour.

Ode to Mom

 

With polite professionalism, the Banking Relationship Specialist said quietly, ‘I’ll just have to ask you one security question. What is the name of your oldest best friend?’

Our meeting went on and finished.

This morning, I woke up thinking that the real name of my oldest and best friend is Marilyn. For seventy-five years, Mom was always the one who could listen carefully and then, in that quiet, diffident manner so characteristic of her, she would offer a few pearls of wisdom.

As a teenager, I remember sharing with her about the mother of a boyfriend who I thought was wonderful. The mother, according to the boyfriend, was a nightmare in various ways. Mom looked at me and quietly said, ‘Just remember, he is his mother’s son.’ I found out the hard way that she was right.

She always put herself after everyone else. She took the smallest piece of pie. She wore the same old dress while buying, or probably making, new ones for Judy and me. She didn’t return to the higher education she’d had to forego during the war until Judy and I were independent enough to manage if she were away in classes, or studying.

All with such good grace. With no thought of being the ‘sacrificial martyr’. With love.

I can’t say enough how grateful I am for the blessing of such a Mom, my oldest friend. Always in my corner. A gift from God to me, to the world. She left her mark on all who had the good fortune to know her.

‘That smile,’ one of the care team said to me. ‘She had that beautiful smile.’

Nobody is perfect, but she was pretty close to it.