Broken Alabaster Boxes

Us four. Under the rays of the hot sun. Fresh-dug potatoes in hand. Rubbing dirt, Tossing into buckets. So strange that we assemble in this way. Yet not long ago, not so strange. Strange now because we've grown,  Changed, Life moved on. And we use to rub potatoes together. But now, hardly ever. Now one leaving. Never the same again. Yet would we want to be those four children, Forever rubbing dirt and hauling potatoes? Would we have froze time there? A thousand no's. What would be the joy in that? What would be the lessons and growing? What would be the adventure? No, not to stay there forever. But nether to stay here. To go, not clutching the potatoes and the dirt, But to grasp at the next. The potatoes and the dirt were good. And we're glad. But what came after was good. And what will come is good.  Maybe ...

There is this thing about life in the summer. It's a full out run. Panting, sweating, gasping. Most times it feels like we careen into Sunday and crash into our pew with a sigh of relief. We didn't die. Success. But we as a family have begun to keep a tryst in the crazy summer. A tryst with a fire ring and 8 lawn chairs on Saturday night. Sometimes smores. Sometimes biscuits filled with oozing pie filling and creamy whipped topping still warm and smoky. Always coffee. We sit. We look at each other. No jumping for the canner or powering through the tall green in the zero-turn. Not even one more weed pulled or green bean snapped. Sometimes, in exhaustion, we would rather slumber. Or perhaps that last unfinished project nags. But we choose to sit. To hear. To spend time. Because they are more important than the crazy summer. And our choice evidences that.  So that is what we do. Bright fire crackling. Bird wings whipering.  Frogs croaking. The sun sinking.  ...

Two, so at odds. Sisters, yet struggling violently against the other. Constant pushing, One inch farther, One nerve drawn tighter. Unkind words spoken. Dark looks exchanged. Both limited. The one twelve. The other seven. Sisters. Yet enemies. And she, the older one, in pain. Again. We wonder what's wrong. We will talk to her doctor Wednesday. Until then, our hearts ache. But the younger one asks, "Does your tummy still hurt?" A brief nod. Listless, tired. Then, "I will pray for you." And a cheerful voice, "Dear Jesus, ...Kendra not feeling good... ...yah, Jesus name, Amen." Her faith. I see hope. Hope that the bickering will turn to love, The rivalry to companionship, The frustration to patience. And hope that this child too will know Him.

She toiled away, Shaping her craft. Her speeding hands creating, Gifts of time and love. Countless hours given to make, The beautiful labors for her children and grandchildren. Now there are days when the hands ache, Spent and given in this way of love. But remaining are the crafted gifts, The love given, And the thought evidenced for her descendants. But stronger and better,  The legacy of her faithfulness. Walking as the wife of a missionary and pastor. Through days of poverty, And days of hardship. And later, through days of cancer. Her faithfulness is an example. Given not only in physical, but in the spiritual as well. The gift of her hands and heart.

I am not a mother. So I'm sure I cannot understand truly how it feels to let a child go. But I can imagine. And this is what I imagine. You mothers out there can tell me if it's right.  That letting go, It's not easy. It's not romantic. It's necessary. It can define a child's life. It's those you love the most, That you want to hold the tightest. You want control, to know they will be ok. But though you cling to them as long as you can, The inevitable will happen. And they are gone. You find that whether you choose, Or they choose, They will go, learning to walk on their own. Placing their hand in Christ's, Rather than yours. So the question is not whether to let them go, It's how to let them go. Not in fear. Not in anxiety. But in faith. In peace. In joy.  Faith that He is wiser. Peace, knowing that He knows. Joy, because I trust Him. I open my hand. And let them go.

When we were children, my brothers had a trap line. And I don't mean a trap line in the house to catch those horrid mice, though we had that too. But a real trap line. With real conibears and leg holds. They spent hours walking. And sometimes I would go with them. It was no feat for the faint of heart, at least coming from a child's perspective. We walked on a narrow trail packed through the snow. It wound through the peat moss swamp, around evergreens heavy with snow. Trudging through the forest, we were careful not to disturb anything unnecessarily, careful not to break any twig. Craters in the snow showed where big branches shook loose, sending their burdens hurling down with a wump. We called them elephant prints. Eyes searching the snow-covered ground, we found evidenced weasels, pine-martins, and the ever-present rabbits. It was cold. The trap line must be walked every day despite the weather. The trail must be re-broken if it snowed. My brother carried a backpa...

It was a new place. A different group of people. A community who was unknown. And the mother had been made aware of the stark difference between her child and theirs. She struggled. She cried. She hurt. They had art class together, the children did, and her daughter participated with her age group. The children stared and wondered. They were not unfriendly. But neither were they friendly. They were not purposefully hurtful, but in excluding, they hurt. And the mother heart hurt for her daughter. The day over, the children were directed to find their pieces of art drying on a table to take home. Beautiful black and white silhouettes of wolves, noses stretched upward, and graceful horses, ears alert. The mother searched for her daughters picture among the many paintings. Where was it? Then suddenly she saw it. How could she have missed it? It was a mirage of colors. No pattern. No design. No beautiful picture. A mess of paint. The mother heart cried out. Could not s...

She gave us the recipe, written out in her own hand. And we’ve made them dozens of times, measuring, stirring, scooping; the warm smell enveloping the house, the delicious chocolate morsels enveloped in cookie dough tempting. But they never taste quite like hers. “What do you do, Grandma?” we ask. “I just follow the recipe,” she replies. So, we follow the recipe. Exactly. Yet somehow they still taste different. It's just a small variation. Yet it's difference is huge. Maybe it’s the brand of ingredients she buys. Maybe it’s the quality of flour. Or maybe it’s Grandma, her loving hands dumping ingredients, stirring together, shaping the dough, and finally removing the delicious cookies from the oven to be served to her eager grandchildren. And we savor the scrumptious cookies. Grandma’s cookies.

Adoption. Many envision it as a beautiful, idealistic thing. And it is beautiful. It’s the lonely, hurting child finally finding a family. But it's not idealistic. In reality, adoption is a hard walk both for the family and for the child. Even though the child is placed in a better home, they still long for their real family, their blood kin. Adoption is not what I envisioned it would be. But slowly God is changing my perspective of adoption. He’s showing me what it was like for Him to adopt me. I was not part of His family. I didn’t even remotely belong. I was enstranged and repulsive to the holiness of God. Yet He freely offers adoption. “I want you to be my child,” He says. It’s such a beautiful paradox, a holy God, undgrudgingly offers a sinner a place in His family. This is what adoption means. It’s taking someone who does not belong, who is a complete stranger, who looks at life differently and has a different background. And it’s making them one with you...