There is a mulberry tree near my home. For nearly fifteen years, I have relished her delicious, juicy offerings. Countless children who have graced my life have joyfully partaken as well. Foster grandsons. A surrogate granddaughter. Blissful berry-stained lips and cheeks. Victorious purple fingers celebrating in the shade of this generous, gracious giant. And not only children. My husband, sons, daughter-in-law, mother-in-law, friends all have shared in the unselfish bounty of this massive tree.

I say we have been visiting this mulberry tree for fifteen years, but her owner, who so generously has allowed this jubilant harvesting, told me one day that this tree is much older than that. This behemoth is, in fact, well over forty years old. And it shows. Her branches have taken over most of the front property. One can nestle inside those leafy arms and never be seen. She has grown tall and wide and rather ungainly due to a lack of any kind of pruning. Her trunk is gnarled and weather-worn and bug eaten. During our winter months those branches lay naked and thin and brittle. And I always wonder if she will return in the Spring.

In the past few years, we have experienced our share of severe weather. Two hurricanes in particular have shaken our sense of security and rearranged our landscape. One of those storms dealt what I thought was the death blow to the Tree. Split right down the middle. The aged, fragile lady just couldn’t stand against the fury of the wind. There she lay, exhausted and exposed. Walking past her one day, I expressed to my husband how much I would miss the fruit of her labor and all the delightful smells her cobblers have brought forth from my kitchen. I would miss the purple fingers. And yet, against all odds, Springtime comes and with it Life. Against all odds…

This morning I took my dog for a walk on our familiar route. This included passing the mulberry tree. This was our first walk in way too long, but I am on Spring Break, and now there is breathing room to do a few of the things I love, like simply joining my dog on a nice long walk. He was overjoyed. Around the corner to the sidewalk behind my home. The predictable sniffing of every bush. The crunching of pollen underfoot. The swinging worms….. And yet it is a beautiful day and to be reveled in.  And so we came to the mulberry tree – clothed magnificently in all her green glory. Some of her branches lying yet on the ground. Some of her branches standing tall in the sun.  Some of her branches bent with age. All of her branches laden with splendid berries in all stages of ripening. Apparently she is not done. Not done living. Not done giving. Not done gracing those who partake in her life…

And so, as so often happens, this glorious life set me to thinking about my own. I must confess that as I paused for a moment taking in her relentless tenacity to live, I saw myself in her seasons. There have been times when the storms of my life have bent me low, and I wondered if I even had it in me to keep going, let alone offer life. And yet, against all odds, God whispers, “You and I are not done yet.” There have been times when I thought the fury of the wind had broken me clean in half. And yet, against all odds, the Creator of the wind whispers, “There is yet life in you, and more.” There have been times when the sheer weight of what I have borne on my shoulders – or in my heart – has threatened to snap me, and yet against all odds, the Keeper of my shoulders and heart whispers, “My strength is made perfect in your weakness.”

And what of these days now? I am in a season of relative peace and contentment. No storm threatens. The sun is casting warmth. The love of God, and of those with whom He has graced me, buoys my heart and strengthens my mind. But the weathering of years. Just the passing of years. I can feel it. The weathering. The wearing. The gnarling. And sometimes the weary threatens to get the best of me, to press me to the ground. And then I take my dog for a walk. And I witness the glory of a life sustained and the continuing in the offering. And the Creator of Life whispers in the radiance of a beautiful mulberry tree, “You and I are not done. Rest in Me and drink in My life. Offer your life and the fruit of My love. I will sustain you. And get ready to pick some berries and make some cobbler.” Against all odds…..

We sit waiting in the sprawling nest of the airport terminal, my husband Jan and I. We chat, and I wonder. The years, the tens of years, that have rolled and flowed since we last saw each other. Whole lives lived, but worlds apart. My mind is recalling all the schemes and dreams and late night musings of our new found faith. This friend of my youth. This first-best-friend in a life begun anew. This friend of the deep places of my heart.

The clock tells me the time is near, and Jan says that if we stand “over there”, we will be closer to the gate. We walk together, and I peer through the glass, the last separating partition of time and distance. And out they come, lives delivered safe by those giant silver birds. Lives moving through the cadence of life. And there she is. I see her first. I hear her voice. A voice that has not been changed by the years. I see her, and she is small. Smaller than I remember. Her bags in her lap. Her frailer body accepting the strong arm of the porter who pushes her chair. My heart swells, and I clear that partition and stand face to face in the presence of friendship and love. A friendship that, in spite of time and distance, is sealed safe in Spirit of God. Much is different. And nothing has changed. She is my friend.

And so we spend the hours filling in the blanks of two lives lived so far apart. A friendship begun in our twenties and reunited in our sixties. We ponder and recall the dreams and expectations and ignorance of youth. We laugh – a lot. We agree that though the years have wrought havoc and loss in these bodies of ours, the loss has produced gain in the deep places that sickness can’t reach. We share our stories. Stories of a lifetime. Stories of sorrow. Stories of joy. Stories of when we were strong. Stories of when we were weak. Stories of dreams realized. Stories of dreams buried. Stories of hilarity. Stories of despair. Stories that were never, for one minute, penned without the gracious hand of God. The God who has penned not only the narrative of our separate lives but also narrative of our enduring friendship. Lives and friendship forged in a holy fire.

When we were young (and in years to come), we read an especially favorite book entitled, Hind’s Feet on High Places. It’s a wonderful allegory of the believer’s journey with God. The main character is Much Afraid, who is aptly named. In the course of her sojourn, she will be given another name. A glorious name. Yesterday Colleen and I were talking, and she told me that when we were young, she always saw me as Much Afraid. I told her she was quite right.  And then she said, “Pam, you’re not Much Afraid anymore. You have grown into something beautiful.” And we went on to discuss how it is that these transformations are brought about. How our fearful, or harsh, or selfish, or demanding natures are transformed into something “beautiful”. And we agreed, of course, that it is the molding, loving hand of our Redeemer that brings transformation, but that He often (if not always), uses the difficult, the tragic, the hopeless places of our lives to accomplish this. And we also agreed that we would not trade those places for the transformation they have produced. Transformation we could not possibly bring about on our own. And we agreed (with maybe just a little reluctance) that this stage in life is more rewarding than youth.

And so Colleen will leave in a few days. This may have been our swansong. If so, it has been a song sung to the tune of deep love. Love for each other and for our God. A song sung with the joyful resonance of His Spirit that lives in us and who has graced us with this bond. A song sung to the honor of the One who has granted us life and who has walked with us through every mile. I have told Colleen of the women who also have shared my journey. The women who sojourn with me this path to the Celestial City. Women who have come to treasure the depth and wisdom and increasing dependence on our Father that becomes more clear and more vital with each passing year. Friendships forged in a holy fire. Colleen is every bit one of these women. How utterly grateful I am that we have been able to know each other now on this side of our youth. How much richer it is in our sixties than in our twenties. How utterly grateful I am for Spirit on Christ who binds us together in the beautiful Body of Christ. A Body transformed in a holy fire…..

( Note: This is a piece I wrote more than ten years ago in 2007. After another long sabbatical from riding, today I returned.  It seems fitting to resurrect it.)

Conversations with the Voice of Vigilance

I have lived with relentless pain for some time. Last week the cause was revealed and corrected, and for the first time in over a year, I am pain free. This morning I donned my gear and once again became one with my bike. It has been a very long time. As I rolled down my driveway and out into the street, I anticipated only the revelry of the ride. What follows are the lessons learned from the whispers of my Savior.

Embracing the Joy of Returning to the Path

As I round the corner and pass a group of middle-school students waiting for their bus, I am happy and confident, keenly aware that my body is feeling comfortable and confident. I know it’s been some time since I’ve ridden in earnest, and I acknowledge to myself that I am not out to kill myself, just enjoy the ride. The morning is warm and breezy, and I am on a solitary quest of freedom. “Thanks, Lord, for this gift.”

The Interruptions

I proceed down the sidewalks of my town and am cutting though the local nursing home parking lot. I have done this a hundred times and am riding on autopilot. As I turn through, I hear my cell phone ringing in my saddlebag. With the ever-present reminder that I am always a phone call away, I pull over and reach for the pack. The continued ringing is slightly annoying, but I pull it out and answer. It is a friend (not a crisis with one of my boys, which is the primary reason the phone exists), so I take a moment to chat. She shares some frustration and seeks some assistance and lauds me for being on my bike. Ten minutes later I am pulling away, this time with the Voice.

“See, Pam, it wasn’t so bad to rest a minute. There are reasons I bring interruptions into your life, and you must be willing to listen. Your freedom becomes your idol if I can’t interrupt you. Listen to My voice. Don’t get so self-absorbed with the ride that you can’t be interrupted. Leave yourself available and open. Besides, it’s OK to rest a little. You are now rested for the next leg of your path.”

As real as the breeze in my face, the Lord visits my ride.

“You’re right, Lord. I do feel better, and she needed to talk. Thank You for pointing that out.”

And off I ride.

The Hills

As I clear the parking lot and turn onto the sidewalk, I acknowledge the upcoming bridge spanning the lake. Normally this is my little private challenge; I set my face and take the incline as fast as I can. It’s just a little thing between me and the bridge. Today, I show a little more respect. I’m refreshed but dreading the hill after such a long absence of stamina. Before I can rally another thought, the Voice whispers,

“Listen to my Voice. Be vigilant. Don’t take your eyes off the trail, and be aware of the danger around you. You can push yourself, Pam; I’m here to give you strength. Lean into Me.”

I’m off and I’m strong. Up the bridge with my Lord speaking to my heart. As the crest comes nearer, I hear,

“When you get to the top, don’t just blow through with that internal confidence of how well you’ve done. Take time at the top to look around and rejoice in the height I have enabled you to achieve, and turn to view the depth from which I brought you. Spend a restful moment up there. And listen for Me to tell you when to leave.”

The view from the bridge has never been more satisfying.

The Descents 

I’m eager to get going, yet I am completely drawn into the fact that God is on my bike ride with me. So, I wait for Him to tell me it’s OK to head down the other side of the bridge.

“Go ahead now, Pam. Enjoy the ride. Coast. Revel in the wind and in the ease and exhilaration of the descent. Listen to My Voice.”

The Dangers

As I leave the bridge behind me, the next leg of my ride quickly requires caution. I am choosing to ride the sidewalk along a busy boulevard, and the street is inches to my left. To my right are unending establishments, all presenting their crowded parking lots. No sightseeing here.

“Pam, this part of your path leads you close to danger. The path is full of obstacles. Be vigilant. Listen intently to My voice. Keep your eyes on the path in front of you and the dangers around you. This is vigil. This is concentration. Listen. And do you notice that the strength is returning to your legs? I am with you.”

As I make my way along the sidewalk (again, a route I have traveled many times), I approach the local mall. Though the hazards are not gone, they are different. Instead of riding on a three-foot ribbon, I will be in wide open parking lots.

“The path here is dangerous in a different way. The danger is not so close, but can come from out of nowhere. Relax a little, but be vigilant and listen.”

“You have definitely got my attention, Lord.”

Clearing the mall, the Lord whispers,

“The path is safer now. It is away from the traffic, but there are people sharing your route. Be mindful of their intersection. Enjoy the ride. Be kind and share your joy. You can decide if you want to push yourself or coast, Pam. You are on the path, you are listening to me, and I give you liberty to choose. You are almost done.” 

Home

As I round the corner of my street and coast toward my home, the Lord whispers,

“You have completed your first real return to the path. Rejoice in the renewing of your spirit. Rejoice in the renewing of your body. Rejoice in life. Did you know I would join you?”

“This is the air I breathe……”

 Conclusion

Every bit of the narrative above occurred this morning before I prepared for work. I can’t remember a time when the Lord visited me in such an intentional manner. As I was riding and listening, it became very clear that His conversation with me had very little to do with my bike ride. God was sharing His love and guidance for my life. Our lives are a pilgrimage along the path of salvation with all the experiences that attend our lives. This journey can take a very long time, and will be accompanied by all manner of joys, dangers, challenges and fears. Sometimes we get lost and lose our way. Sometimes we get hurt and must crawl or stop. Sometimes we get mad and leave the way for a time. But we have a most loving Savior Who will not leave us to ourselves and Who, when we are ready or able, will Himself accompany us along the road to restoration and renewal. We may find ourselves longing for the path or dreading the return, but our Faithful Companion will set us back and stay by our side as we step back on. Be listening.

I have just returned from an afternoon spent in a hospital room. I was joined by my older and younger sisters. We were, in fact, on the Hospice floor, and we three together held vigil over my younger sister’s husband. Her ex-husband of many years to be honest. We conversed quietly as he lay in silence on a bed that balances before the Veil – a veil that will tear open in the hours to come. I glanced over several times to look upon the man I once called brother-in-law. A man now small and shrunken and breathing shallow. A man no longer able to inflict harm on a soul. And I find myself watching my sister upon whom that man was able to cast such harm and destruction. Her face is only care and compassion and forgiveness. Her face, like mine, has known the sorrow of all that marriage should never be, and yet here she sits, alone with her sisters to sit vigil over life and death, ashes and beauty. She has chosen to live in the quiet, gentle power of a vulgar cross and an empty tomb.

“He’s made his peace with God, Pam. We’ve had many conversations in the past few weeks.” A bible lies open on the tray next to the bed. She tells me that she began reading Psalm 23 to him, and now she’s on chapter 42. She shares this from a heart that wants only to offer the only thing that matters at this point – the company of a friend and the comfort of living words. All the years of grief, all the battles and bruises and bewildering scars that lodge themselves in the heart of a woman who has been at the mercy of misplaced power have no sway in this room. Banished are the ugly talons of demons that would tear open afresh every blow. There is only love. There in only grace. Grace that confounds the untried and wraps the receiving heart in the warmth of freedom and love. Holy gifts secured in an empty tomb.

An empty tomb. This is the weekend. The weekend we joyously sing and echo in concert “Hallelujah! He is risen indeed!” And we are so relieved and grateful that Jesus  was telling the truth and that He did indeed pay the price of our sin with His blood on that cross and that He did indeed “overwhelm the grave” and that He did indeed arise alive and lives now with His Father.  Hallelujah! A perfect word to express thanks and honor for this glorious, life-saving, eternal gift of redemption. How better can we express it? What more can we say? What words….?

“I forgive you.” ” You are not alone.” “Are you comfortable?” “Do you need a drink?” “Shall I call the nurse?” “I am here for you.”

An unjust trial. The cruel nails. The bloodied cross. The darkened earth. The rent veil. The borrowed tomb. The empty tomb. The result? Forgiven sinners.  Hearts healed and ransomed from the ravages of sin and sinful choices. Souls mended. Risks taken. Forgiveness offered. Kindness extended. Freedom. To love. To heal. To offer. To the ones who have hurt us the most. To the ones who need it the most. Because so do we.

He is risen indeed…and those who love Him bear His image.

Yesterday my husband posed this question to me, “So what do you want for 2017?” Missing no breath, I replied, “Thinner. I want to be thinner. And healthier, of course. Oh, and as always, I want less of me and more of God.” Almost immediately I feel the subtle sting of vain embarrassment for blurting out, “Thinner!” ahead of a more transcendent goal. But, it was what flew first. We were having this conversation in the quiet of our car after a day of sensory overload. A road trip to Orlando to see a Blue Man Group performance (my Christmas present from above awesome husband) which was, by the way, extraordinary. And then on to a secret dinner destination which, to our chagrin, was reservation only. (Didn’t used to be.) Plan B: another establishment. More driving. More walking. Arrived at Wilderness Lodge which is a very favorite of mine. More overload. Senses and emotions saturated. More walking. More exploring. And then the ride home and the question…

As our conversation transitioned to comfortable quiet, the question, or perhaps more honestly, the answer, did not. At least the part about wanting less of me and more of God. Now, I have been following this God for quite a long time, yet in that car, and in my waking hours this morning, I still contemplate what that looks like in my skin. In real time, real life, real me. Favorite mug in hand, I reach for the book on the table and pick up where I left off. It is author Ann Voskamp’s newest, “The Broken Way”, and as with her previous book “1000 Gifts”, I am proceeding slowly and often re-reading.  She offers much to consider, and I take my time. She writes from the caverns of her heart and holds nothing back. All is sacred honesty, and I read with sacred respect. This is her story and her pen is dipped in grace and blood. And then I read the words that move my reading from her story – to mine. I read the words that begin to answer the question….

My eyes read and linger, and I recognize that it is no longer Ann speaking to me but my Father. Here is what He wants me to learn. To know. To remember. To believe. To trust Him for.

“The art of giving is believing there is enough love in you, that you are loved enough by  Him, to be made enough love to give.”
“Learning the art of living is learning the art of giving.”
“For God so loved the world that He gave….” John 3:16

So simple. Feels almost too simple for one who has followed Jesus and reviewed His example for such a long time. Too simple for one who has lived this many years. And yet the voice of Love whispers, “I know you child. I know your frailties and fears and desires to love and give. I know what holds you back. What causes the regret. And this is the answer to the question…

Stunning. This love of a Father for His child. This deep and intimate knowledge of how she is wired and fashioned. He knows me. The quirks. The reluctant attempts to give well and love well. The botched follow-throughs. The ridiculous shyness. The fear of rejection that paralyzes the sincere longing to love with abandon. And yet He knows that the offerings of love and compassion and acceptance and friendship are precisely the things that bring purest joy to me and explode my heart with freedom. And bear His image through me to a waiting world . And so He answers the question for me before I can pull it into view.

“I know your heart, Pam.” I will continue to teach you the art of living. I began this work in you, and I am completing it. The love you long to offer is Mine. I will continue to teach you the art of giving it.  And here is another answer for that other  question”,

“The art of giving is believing there is enough love in you, that you are loved enough by Him, to be made enough love to give.”

Eucharisteo~

Slowly and wistfully I stand gracing my Christmas tree with a lifetime of memories. I swear this tree is the keeper of my heart. And this is my yearly pilgrimage. With each keepsake pulled from its nestled resting place, I once again allow my thoughts to awaken with it. A treasure crafted by chubby hands – hands no longer chubby but lean and strong, bearing the weight of adulthood. Hands no longer reaching up for mine but now reaching down for another set of chubby hands. Another treasure crafted by hands joined in fellowship and ministry – fellow warriors in the battle for the lives of youth. Fellow sojourners navigating our own journeys. And yet another treasure thoughtfully crafted by the hand of a student, reminding me that in every case, they taught me as much as I may have taught them. Treasures to celebrate a birth. Treasures to honor the dead. Treasures that acknowledge whimsy and humor. Treasures that tell a story.

Today I stand gracing my tree in quiet solitude. My husband Jan   put the tree up a few nights ago and draped it beautifully with lights, but this part is mine. In my reverie, I call back the days of eggnog and laughter and children helping and music playing and maybe the windows open, but today I am alone with my musings and my memories. Each ornament unwraps a new one. Each one greets me with a sound or a scent or a smile. Each one hangs as a silent tribute to ages now past. And then I feel it build. Quietly. Subtly. Deeply. That gentle melancholy that enters first as golden memory then moves quickly to tarnish and sadden. I recognize this enticing warmth all too well and before giving in completely, I utter a prayer to shake off this fog. To let this tree and these treasures be what they are – lovingly kept reminders of graces and redemption and love and hope and life.

Without wasting a second, my gracious Father hears and answers my plea – in that way that He does so well. I am just at the point when I put some especially cherished ornaments on the tree. They are three ceramic Native American angels given to me years ago by my oldest daughter. They are cherished because she gave them to me simply because she knew I would love them. No one has ever gotten to place them on the tree but me. They always go on at a certain point when I know I can put them in the perfect spots. They are handled with tender care as I’m sure they could not be replaced. It’s silly, I guess, but these little angels are a tribute to love. And so when one of them slips out of my hand and hits the tile, Melancholy is quick to whisper,

“Well, there’s the end of that. Just like everything else, it all ends up in pieces.”

But even quicker is my Heavenly Father’s voice,

“Pick her up, Pam. She is not destroyed, only broken a little by life.”

Bending down to pick her up, I see that it is true. I have no idea how she survived the fall from the tree onto the unforgiving tile, but here she lies, her broken wings offering a message I need to hear, her tribute now deepened. Next year when I carefully unwrap her, she will remind me of something different. And so will my faithful Father.

What a few know about me, but most do not, is that my Christmas tree holds more for me than ornaments and treasures and memories. Yes it is that, but there is more that those branches have been asked to bear. More that it has been begged to offer. It is a fact that I will arrange and re-arrange those ornaments more than a few times until I feel they are just right. Balanced. Complimentary. In harmony. Happy. Not one of them is expensive, but they are valuable to me. And I want my tree to be just right. Nothing broken or hurt or out of place. Exactly what I longed for as a child growing up in a very broken family. Exactly what I longed for and tried hard to create for my children as they were growing up. Exactly what I will still try to create now if I do not look to God to remind me that perfect is not yet and broken happens and grace is real and He is the Healer and I am not. And it is okay.

And so as I sit in my rocking chair and lovingly admire my Christmas tree, I do so with more satisfaction than I ever have. In fact, I don’t think I’m going to get up and re-arrange anything. It looks pretty good. And if my eye happens to spy a gap or not enough light in one spot or too much of whatever, I’m leaving it. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Those memories are mine, and the broken parts are my story. Oh, and the broken angel? She’s perfect……

I have much for which to be grateful. Much that makes me happy and fills me with joy. I am blessed with close and faithful friends who would – and do – lay down their lives for me. Friends who continually and lovingly call me up to a walk that is worthy of the calling I have received in my Redeemer. Friends who risk with me. Laugh with me. Pray with me. Adventure with me. Go to battle with me and for me. If not another blessing came my way, these would be enough. Three-fold cords.

I have much for which to be grateful. Much that enriches my life. One year ago, almost to this day, my husband Jan and I followed the leading of God and stepped back into the life of the local church. It felt like emotional risk. After three years of growing and healing in the safety and intimacy of a home fellowship, “going to church” felt foreign and socially overwhelming. I felt unknown. A sea of faces and stories I did not know and had not shared. Today as I step through the doors of Grace Christian Fellowship, I am home. I greet faces and friends and stories that I know. I am known. I share in the struggles and in the victories. God is knitting together. Three-fold cords.

I have much for which to be grateful, and yet tonight a sense of sadness invades and forces me to look beyond my world of blessing. Compels me to feel. Compels me to acknowledge. Mostly it’s the stories of children that invade. Abuse. Neglect. Abandonment. Death. It’s difficult to watch the news. It’s difficult to admit that I have a knee-jerk reaction to look away. To retreat to my world of gratefulness and blessing. And yet when I look, I see what my Savior sees. When I feel, I feel what my Savior feels. If I am to “let the light of knowledge of the glory of God shine in my heart’; if I am to “let the life of Jesus be manifested in my body” (2Corinithians 4:6,11), then I must look and I must feel. And I must do what He would ask me to do.

I have much for which to be grateful. I am alive, and I am able to do what Jesus would ask of me. I have opportunities to be the hands and feet and heart of Jesus. I am part of a local Body that is the hands and feet and heart of Jesus. My son and daughter-in-law have opened their hearts and home to offer the love of Jesus to children who need to be loved and valued, and I get to love these children as my own. I see the love and rescue of Christ all around me. But tonight, tonight He asks me to look and to see what He sees. Tonight He asks me to feel, to leave my heart exposed and to feel in some tiny, infinitesimal way what He feels. Tonight He asks me to do what He does – in this body and mind and spirit that is me. Three-fold chord.