The Man on the Middle Cross

Happy Birthday, Jenny. I was coming home from Jackson this afternoon and, pulling into town, I couldn’t help but drive over to the cemetery and pay a visit. All day today I have thought about you. And still, I shake my head in wonder that you are gone. It continues to be so surreal. As I pulled in to the drive of the cemetery, I tried to get my head to wrap around your death. It is still so unbelievable to me at times that I have to say out loud - my big sister is dead. Though, it’s more like - my big sister is dead? I found your spot and parked the car and walked over. I knelt down and ran my fingers over your name and your birthday and said them out loud, so it would feel more real, and I cried for you. I promise, I will never stop missing you. 

Fittingly, Dad sent me a You Tube last night of a portion of an Alistair Begg sermon. In it, he argues against faith plus works gaining us our salvation. He describes how he imagines it may have been when the thief on the cross was gaining entry into heaven....

An angel, questioning him, “What are you doing here?”

The thief, “Uh, I don’t know.”

Angel: (stammering) “Let me go get my supervisor.”

Supervisor Angel: “Ok, let’s ask a few questions. Are you clear on the doctrine of justification by faith?”

Thief: “Never heard of it in my life.”

Supervisor Angel: (stuttering) “Uh... and what about the doctrine of scripture?” 

Thief: (staring) 

Supervisor Angel: (frustrated) On what basis are you here? 

Thief: The Man on the middle cross said I can come. 

Alistair Begg says and more importantly, the Bible teaches, that is THE ONLY answer any of us can give. Our salvation, our entry into eternal bliss, is based solely on the merit and work of Christ on the cross. It is based on nothing I have done or can do..... 

So... back to your birthday. Birthdays make us think of gifts and since there is no more giving gifts to you on yours or even you giving gifts to me on mine, let me just say this - though we may no longer exchange any tangible gifts, your death, while heartbreaking and so deeply, deeply sad, has been and will forever be such a gift to me. Because I think of my own death so much more. It may sound morbid, but.... what a gift - to be reminded of death every time I think of you, which is daily. I am going to die. I had better be preparing for it. And claiming the cross of Christ every day until and especially ON that day He calls me home. And if (or when) I am asked, “On what basis are you here?” I will point to Jesus and say, “The Man on the middle cross said I can come.”

Love for the unlovely...

(2016)

You loved beautiful things.

An old, worn out book.  A lace trimmed handkerchief. The perfect shade of nail polish. Flowers and gardens and herbs. A well-written sentence. Antique furniture. An ornate doorknob. Simple stationary. A hand-knitted scarf. Timeless jewelry. Children.

You loved not so beautiful things. 

An outsider, hard to be around. A forgotten Labrador, with much life and love left to give. The friendless. The betrayed. The left out. The tone deaf. The teased. The alarmingly imperfect. The ostracized. The beaten down. The underdog. You loved the underdog.

How many times am I reminded of you in the day, and an old, familiar aching burns in my soul. A burn that longs for you to be here, to be a phone call, a short drive away. And I find myself longing to be there with you even more than I want you to be here with me. Imagining you taking me by the hand and showing me around and not even being able to catch your breath for all the wonderful you have to share with me...yet, we have an eternity to share it...

Lauren, these strawberries! Have you ever tasted...

Oh wait, come quickly! I can't wait for you to meet....

Stop - the singing - do you hear it? Did you ever dream it could be ...

This! This, we must go right this minute -- it's so much fun, you've never had this much fun...

Oh Lauren, there is so much to see and do and taste and love and feel. If you weren't here to experience it, you would never in a million years believe me!

But in reality, here I am on earth. So I'll go on imagining. I'll imagine you can see me hold my baby girl and wonder with me, "Is there anything in all this world quite as sweet and pure and innocent and lovely as a baby girl?"

I'll imagine you're laughing with me when Mac sings This Little Light of Mine and instead of "hide it under a bushel, no!", Mac is emphatic that his light will not be hid under a bush "hell, no!"

Or that you're here to run your fingers through Fowler's curls and agree with me that they are sheer bliss, and we are never cutting that baby's hair. And that smile...yes, that smile. God himself painted that one on.

You're with me every time Amazing Grace is sung and, with tears in our eyes, we belt out "When we've been there ten thousand years ... Bright shining as the sun ... We've no less days to sing God's praise... Than when we first begun...."

I was reading earlier today about a girl’s ability to find and love things in the most unassuming of places. Some of the things she loves others think are frivolous, petty, silly. It reminded me of you. Not the frivolous part but the admiration for the beautiful found in the seen AND overlooked parts of life.... And I was reminded that you loved not only the beautiful but you loved what so often the world calls ugly. And isn't that exactly what Jesus did? He loved the unlovely. He loves me, and oh how unlovely I am. How much lovelier is He for stooping down to live as Love amongst the filth. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jenny. For showing me the importance of loving the truly lovely AND the unlovely. For teaching me to look for the overlooked and to love them. 

Monsters

There are things that randomly, so randomly, spring to mind. And I’ll only be able to remember the tiniest fraction of the memory, and I need you back so bad to help me remember more of it. One sprang to mind recently...This one I didn’t really need you for but I thought you would appreciate it. I was very little, 4 or 5, in Mama’s upstairs bathroom in the “white house”. She was “getting her face on,” and I was standing by the window that overlooked the backyard. It was morning and cold and dark and gloomy. I was watching rain drops run down the window. They looked like they were racing, starting slowly at the top of each pane and then picking up speed until they were careening past each other near the bottom. I got bored with that game and started blowing my breath on the glass to make it sorta foggy, and I wrote my letter “L” in the fog and then wiped it clean and started over again. I think I was waiting to go to school. In the memory, we have somewhere we are supposed to be, and I’m not sure where so I’m thinking it was school. I love that memory. There is absolutely nothing remarkable about it but I love remembering how warm and cozy it was in her bathroom and the sounds of her make-up opening and snapping shut and clattering as she rummaged through her bag. There is no loss in my little world at 4 or 5. In that world, everybody I’ve ever known (or at least everybody that meant anything to me) in four or five years is still alive. Things feel whole and complete and safe, untainted and just as they should be. 

Another memory came to mind tonight... when we would stay with Granny and Grandaddy, Grandaddy would play hide ‘n seek with us. He would hide all around the house and we would go looking for him. It would go on and on, with him sneaking through the house and us on the hunt, until he would finally jump out and chase us, wildly screaming, into the bedroom where Granny was studying her Sunday school lesson. Oh my, but did we LOVE for him to scare us like that. What a thrill! I was much more easily scared than you, and I remember thinking my legs were going to fall off I was running so fast from him. Why was I so scared? It was just Grandaddy. I don’t know. Little kids are funny. But we didn’t call it hide ‘n seek. I think we called it Monsters. And that’s what I needed to ask you tonight. I remember thinking that something about what we called it didn’t make sense. So was it Monsters? Because that wouldn’t make sense to call it Monsters (plural) when he was the only Monster. So that’s what makes me think Monsters is right. Because the name was “off” a little bit. It’s a little sad to think y’all are all gone. You and Granny and Grandaddy. It’s very sad to not have anyone to help recall and retell the memories that only us four had - like Sunday afternoon drives and Monsters and lemon ice cream at the Dixie Cream and Lawrence Welk and sitting  at the kitchen table, all four seats filled. I miss you and her and him. I love the memories I have with the three of you, all four of us together. It feels like a lifetime ago. I am so thankful for you all. I am so glad for the memories. It was called Monsters. I’m sure of it now.