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You introduced yourself to the world with a healthy wail one Wednesday in autumn. Birthing a noisy baby, it’s music. I gasped at all that dark chocolate brown hair framing chubby chipmunk cheeks and a button nose. A perfect candidate for one of those little pink onesies that say ”Adorable” across the chest. And everybody agreed. On our first family vacation, the resort offered us a free t-shirt for advertising purposes just because you’d look so cute in it.

Whether by temperament or birth order you earned the award for “easy baby” with your contented, self-soothing rituals. Quietly you’d lie in your crib on your tummy with your little bottom raised in the air, methodically gyrating up and down until sleep prevailed. And I can still hear the hum of the motor on the baby swing and see your sisters gently working your bouncy seat. My favorite mental snapshots have us together in a rocking chair connecting skin to skin. Toddlerhood revealed new strategies for navigating your world. At the first sign of distress, the right hand pointer went in the mouth while the left one twirled the hair. Then, you learned to pump, and it was swinging that brought solace.
Mobility meant you could tag along with your big sibs in their imaginative adventures. Those Diamond days of circuses, dollyhouse, and dress up the dog also featured dramatic presentations of Peter Pan, Winnie the Pooh and American Girls.

Just before there were four candles on your cake, we gave you an early birthday present called Starla Rose. Right after she came home from the hospital, you answered a phone call and spoke authoritatively.
“I have a baby sister.”
“Her first name is Starla. Her middle name is Rose.”
“But we haven’t decided on her last name yet.”
That new role of big sister revealed lovely facets of your personality as a nurturer and defender. It’s one of your many endearing qualities—your staunch loyalty to family.

You savored childhood with intuitive wisdom, understanding that we only get to ride this merry go round once and so you avoided the race horse and you eyed the mysterious terrain of adolescence with wariness. That led to our ultimate adventure overnight at the B & B where we sat in the hot tub stargazing and exploring your most pressing questions about growing up for so long that we also picked up a stray fungal infection in the process. That was a doorway leading to monthly mommy/daughter talk time dates. Most of them in the Starbucks parking lot.

You’re turning 15 now. 14 was a monumental escapade into the unknowns—body, soul and spirit. Chronic illness exposed your mettle and I discovered you are amalgamated with grace and courage and hope.

So, I’m musing about this girl God gifted me with to nurture and love. And, at the risk of sounding cliché, I am counting the ways I adore her.
How about 15 in honor of her self same birthday?

Robyn is
Intuitive.
Insightful.
Dramatic.
Observant.
Artistic.
Nurturing.
Devoted.
Candid.
Witty.
Pretty.
Stylish.
Social.
Courageous.
Fierce.
Tender.

Your hugs are trademark because you never let me go.
Your keen observations about me are typically like arrows hitting the bulls eye.
“I’m sorry” and “I forgive you” are free flowing dialogue between us.
So, it’s your birthday but I’m who gets the gift. And it’s the privilege of being your mom.
Love You Muchly.

First time to don my recycled Goodwill parka on this chilly late October evening.
Watching the trees shed.
A blanket of leaves today, snow tomorrow?
Soon, shovels replace rakes.
Dark shadows descend before dinnertime.

Buckled in my back seat three lively, talkative friends do the math on birthdays for Leap year babies as we drive to swim class. We arrive at the local middle school where I’ve been a seat warmer in the bleachers for 20 annums watching my Aqua babes grow into level 5 graduates one year, one level at a time. Familiar spaces possess their own unique aroma fingerprints. I take my place in the stands and smell that I am home.

So we are on the cusp of fall turning winter here. Just one more gusty night will blow the last of the leaves, golden trimmed in red, off our maple out front.
Old man frost nips at our heels and the clock is about to steal another hour away from our Midwestern daylight.
Farmers plow feverishly, harvesting the last of their produce. The apple trees at Robinette’s are pretty near stripped.
Canada geese squawk overhead in migratory parade.
Corn stalks are shriveled and barren. Dying.
The wind whips up a gale on the great lake, waves crashing over the pier.

I feel like a patron at an art exhibit.   On display: The glory of God. It’s everywhere in the sights and sounds of autumn and after thirteen years away, the child in me has awakened and I am all awe and wonder at the fresh new mercies gift wrapped by my loving Father for each new October day.

The Teacher tells us in Ecclesiastes, “For everything there is a season.”
Something begins and then it ends.
And it’s not just nature that repeats the cycle.
All of life synchronizes around beginnings and endings.

A few weeks ago, Lily and I packed duffles, waved goodbye to the mitten and ventured down to Northern Indiana’s Amish country one Indian summer afternoon. Sharing the road with horses and buggies and the plain clothes people who ride in them, I glanced over at Lily in the passengers seat, ready to explore together a lifestyle mysterious to me, but she was sleeping , breathing deeply, methodically. That day, she was riding shotgun but sometimes she’s in the drivers seat. Wasn’t it yesterday I buckled her into her car seat after a knock down drag out struggle of the wills? Safety versus freedom. And in my world, safety always wins. Back then I could overpower her with size and strength. Not now. I glance at myself in the rear view mirror. There’s that silver crown again and it’s mine. So are the creases between my eyes and the flabby chin. But she’s beautiful, long and slender with a silky, golden braid and a chiseled chin. And she’s bright and talented and hard working. So much potential. A future and a hope.
She’ll graduate in May.
Another ending and then beginning.

So we’re on a mission, searching for a place to spend her next season.
Where she will fly to when she jumps out of our nest.
Where she discovers herself as a distinct individual.
Where she shares that person in community.
The next place where God will meld His fresh, new mercies for each day with her particular story.

So I drive
and remember
and project ahead counting how many nights I have left to walk into her room and kiss her sleeping cheek goodnight. In ten months, that Michigan bedroom she prayed for all those years will be empty and she’ll be gone.
And I remind myself to savor what I have while holding it loosely, because the winds change,
And I’ll have to let her go….

And I hear Nichole Nordeman singing:

Even when the trees have just surrendered to the harvest time,
Forfeiting their leaves in late September and sending us inside,
Still I notice You when change begins and I am braced for colder winds.
I will offer thanks for what has been and what’s to come
You are autumn.

And I breathe in, Beginnings and Endings….
And out, Endings and Beginnings….
And I recall the mercies, fresh and new for every morning.
Like the first snow of winter falling gently, settling into the deepest crevices of my spirit.
I know it’s true that
He makes everything beautiful in it’s time. Eccl. 3:11

Goodbye Dallas.
I won’t miss the traffic jams and the long commutes.
Or the endless miles of dilapidated wood privacy fences.
I won’t miss cracking foundations or attic storage.
I won’t miss all the streets that are a strange hodge podge of tire shops and used cars establishments advertising in Spanish.
I definitely won’t miss all the mega power lines.
Or the fire ants.
Or the oppressive heat for months on end.

But I will miss the sunshine lapping through my windows,
And the sunsets from the vantage point of my porch swing.
I’ll miss warm moonlit night swims at the community pool.
And the Arboretum , my own little slice of heaven in the urban sprawl.
I‘ll miss The Cheesecake Factory. Not that I go very often. But it’s just nice to know it’s here.
And I’ll miss the diversity—neighbors from every continent and color.
And the friends we’ve forged alliances with.
I’ll definitely miss our counselor, Bruce. Don’t know if our marriage would have survived without his patient guidance.

Most of all, I’ll miss the holy space where I’ve listened to my children sing God’s words countless times these past 13 years. Our most treasured family traditions have been crafted around the activities of the Children’s and Youth Choirs at Park Cities Presbyterian Church. I never tire of listening to the organ, or gazing at God’s story depicted in stained glass. In that place, together with other choir families, we’ve raised our children with the catechism of song under the capable shepherding of their choir director, Lynda Fray.

I sat in on every rehearsal that first year in Dallas. In the midst of my own personal chaos, those moments, I heard angelic little voices singing and tasted heaven.
That gentle woman in front, guiding them with skill and love, touched my mother’s heart deeply.
So the following summer, I sheepishly sent her a letter and asked her to be my mentor. To my delighted surprise, she agreed.
We started talking on the phone each week.
And we emailed.
We talked and prayed.
Then we started meeting after rehearsals.
Next came dinner together at La Madeleine where we’d close down the restaurant a few times a year.
And we talked and prayed.
And she was the first person to greet my new little princess, Starla, at the hospital.
And I hosted her first “Grandma’s Shower”.
And we lost parents together….
Faced down family tragedies…..
I raised a teenager with her as my sounding board.
And we talked and prayed some more.
And when she got really technologically savvy, we even texted.

Such has been the beautiful fluidity of our sweet friendship this baker’s dozen years that our stories have intersected.
I can’t even imagine who I would be, where I would be and what would have become of our children without her life melding with ours.
And so it is with the bitter-sweetest gratitude and sadness
I say,
Thank you, Lynda Fray, for being my Friend……

The last stitch now sewn on Lily’s crazy memory quilt, I paused to appreciate my labor of love. Initially observing the workmanship, my attention diverted to the individual pieces and the story they tell about my dear Lily.

This quilt is a gift—one of four that I’ve committed to make. It’s a part of each daughter’s rite of passage from girl to woman. I start when they begin high school. I unpack the trash bag full of by-gone favorites—dresses, skirts, event t-shirts and fabrics that depict what they have loved and start cutting, arranging, sewing, piecing and remembering—the turtle dress dad bought her at the zoo when she was 4, the Winnie the Pooh shirt that evoked tantrums when she had to take it off for laundry even after wearing it 5 days straight, the camouflage tee that became her Peter Pan costume, the plaid skirt where she made her acting debut as Susan in “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe”. And then there’s the event t-shirts—soccer team, family reunion to Disney World, the annual screen printing wearable art project from Festival and Worship Arts Camp uniforms from 7 years in a row, and fabrics that depict her passion for animals—cats, dogs, horses.

One piece at a time, I connect the fabrics just like a puzzle—no two the same. Like growing up, each girl on her own unique journey. Gradually it takes form—the quilt and her life.

In the center, I strategically place a worn, well-loved remnant of a gold t-shirt with a large brown cross to remind Lily that the ultimate answer to this crazy life is found in that symbol and the love it represents.

I fold up the quilt top, prepare to hand it off to the professional quilter who will machine assemble the filling and backing then sandwich it all together with stitches that form repeating heart patterns all over the quilt. It will come back to me to bind and then it will go to Lily, first on her bed at home, then far, far away.

I pray it will remind her that she is one of a kind, a custom design, cherished.

And always covered in love…..

Like a tree maturing with age, new rings forming each year, its stump widening, becoming stronger and more substantial, so is the cyclical nature of life one year after another. Every concentric circle evidence that the tree did more than survive, it grew in the care of its faithful Creator who tends the plants he has made. And it is a miracle!

In the course of a single year, there were winter resting phases where quietness, wondering and waiting marked time. Ornamentation was absent and the true form of the tree fully exposed.

And there was spring. New growth appeared–tender, fresh green leaves, full of hope and promise but battered at times by harsh seasonal storms where the wind howled and blew. The rain and hail pelted against the virgin leaves and yet the tree did not snap. It leaned into the wind and let it pass according to its Creators design. Some foliage was lost, even a few small branches—a pruning of sorts, that removed the weak limbs, the vulnerable places and retained all that is needed, all that strengthens, all that is healthy. The gardener pruned intentionally too, trimming away the extraneous growth that distracts and chokes out nourishment from the most fruitful limbs of the tree.

Later in summer, even through a drought, the tree stood majestic, fully clothed, a shelter from the scorching heat of the sun to all who took refuge under its canopy. Underground, in the deep, dark places no one can see, its roots were constantly searching for nourishing water to sustain it. They grew toward the nutrients that preserve health. When they tapped into that underground spring, life giving liquid travelled uphill from the deepest root through the xylem to the tip-top branch fortifying the entire tree in the process.

And when the days grew shorter and wet, cold air covered the foliage like sparkling diamonds at the break of day, the tree celebrated wildly all that is and has been. Ablaze with color, custom mixed on the artist’s palette, each leaf shouted delightedly, “Glory to God”.

And then, with all its energy spent, its task complete, the leaves began to fall. They released gently, carried by the breeze to the places God set them to cover the ground, to enrich it as they decomposed transferring their nutrients to the soil below. A beautiful process signifying another annum finished, done, complete.

And I reflect on what God says about my life. How He compares me to a tree planted by streams of water, designed for his pleasure and glory to do what trees are designed for in my own little sphere of influence. And I see the parallels. There were times of rest, of wondering, of waiting and storms that threatened to snap me but rather pruned away what was weak and unhealthy. God came along and thinned out other places in my soul as well, skillfully, carefully shaping me according to his design. In the thirsty, parched times, he nourished me from his limitless resources of nutrients– His sprit, His people and His word. And there were those glorious moments that defy explanation and could not have been anticipated where I stood aglow, basking in the delight of his kindness toward me.

2014 is now accessible only through the rearview mirror of reflection and so I am quieted again, like the tree whose form is exposed, whose leaves have been released and are nourishing the ground.  And I find myself with two pervading musings:

First, that His mercies have been and will be fresh and new every morning, abundant for each day, evidence of His great faithfulness. As I open my hand to receive them with gratitude, I interrupt worry and anxiety about the future and I don’t dwell inordinately on the past with its mistakes and regrets. I am learning to live under the canopy of His peace that passes understanding.

And secondly, change is in the air. It always is for all of us because we can’t ever predict how God will write His story on our lives in the coming year—the sweet surprises he has in store and the dark, stormy nights that threaten to uproot us except that he stands in the gap as a buffer protecting us from total destruction. And so I wonder….

How will 2015 unfold?
How it will shape?
Strengthen?
Define?
Delight?

And I cannot predict, nor can I prescribe. Instead I will live it one day at a time, which in turn becomes another annum every 365 days. And like the tree, I will lean into God’s story being written on the essence of my form, growing strength and substance to my character, stability to my core and confidence that my identity is rooted in His loving kindness. And in that journey, repeated year after year, there is hope.

Today I celebrate learning.

Thank you Father, for the kaleidoscope of opportunities to learn, to grow, to exercise the minds that you’ve given us, to mix and sift, to knead head knowledge around thoroughly enough to shape it into a worldview that has you large and in the center.

I am grateful for all the ways our lives have intersected with institutions of learning.
It is an honor for Brian to be shaping students preparing for kingdom building work.
And our own little home is a center of education. It has been a privilege to individually craft a home school plan for each of our daughters. I have loved the fluidity of learning at home. Today I reflect gratefully on countless pajama morning math lessons and cuddles in an oversized chair for read aloud time. Thank you God for the ways that home schooling has provided a safe haven for the girls during their most vulnerable and formative years. I am also thankful for the abundance of resources that fill educational gaps like co-ops, classes and play groups we’ve benefitted from along the way. It’s been a beautiful journey for our family and I am grateful.
Thank you for college education. I love Wheaton College! Thank you that it intersected with our family’s life through Angela. What a blessing it has been to listen online to chapel and to converse about topics Angela and her friends are dissecting. I am grateful for your provision one year at a time.
And it has been an unexpected delight for me to audit classes on mental health and counseling this year. What a privilege. I hope beyond personal growth in my own journey of faith and hope, I will bear a greater resemblance to You as I listen and support my family and friends who are struggling.

Grateful today for all that has been learned this past year.

All feels intact in my world this moment when our hands are joined, encircled around the dinner table and we bow our heads and speak words of gratitude to God
for food,
and company,
and life,
and whatever else comes to mind…..
And the sixth seat is occupied.

Contented mama sighs.

While it’s not my brown haired firstborn keeping it warm on Thursday nights anymore, it’s younger sister’s blonde haired buddy who routinely adds her delightful presence to the chaos before a rousing evening of square dancing with the old folks at the Senior Citizen Center.

“Why is it so important to me to fill every chair?” I muse. I’m happy to add the piano bench too. More is better but less is unsettling– sad even…..

I project forward and imagine fewer seats with warm bodies in them. And contentment goes south replaced by heaviness in my chest momentarily. Then I’m interrupted by banter ramping up around the table.

One kid says, “The guacamole is great tonight. What’d you do different?” While another chimes in, “Can I have another taco?” Robyn interjects randomly, “I think 75 is the perfect age.”   “And, I hope everyone I love dies at the same time so I don’t ever have to be sad.” Wow, Robyn. You got 2 whole sentences in a row set out without interruption. Amazing! Then, there it is, the next free flow of consciousness expressed as the youngest emphatically states, “It is biblical truth that Sunday is the first day of the week!”

In the course of 30 seconds we’ve covered all the basics–food, the Bible and life…. Meanwhile, I’m half listening to the Bluetooth speaker in the background playing,

….Pain has come and taught us to fear.
We’re gonna need some grace now to fill the air.
…….We need eyes to see
How You’re working beauty even out of ugly things.

You break me to bind me.
You hurt me, Lord, to heal me.
You cut me to touch me.
You died to revive me.

 You do all things–You do all things well.
Father, You do.
You do all things well.
(Tenth Avenue North: You Do All Things Well)

And I am distracted by thoughts of
The mom I know with 3 teenagers, cancer and a broken leg all at the same time,
The single dad caring for 3 young children while his wife is in addiction rehab and my friend raising 2 boys alone because her ex changed his mind about the definition of a marriage covenant,
Innocent children turned adults, gnarled and twisted in their sexual identity as a result of abuse,
The delightful 3 year old in my music class with a port in her chest for chemotherapy,
Unrelenting Depression pummeling body and soul more than one person I love,
Orphans in Haiti who long to go home with forever families but can’t because paperwork has to be processed by lazy, corrupt politicians,
Marriages stuck in “winter but never Christmas”,
And my own girls groaning through their own growing pains—physically and emotionally as they metamorphise into womanhood,
And all the waiting, which wearies me most….
Plus, the long list of daily annoyances that grind on my nerves like traffic jams, never ending errands, home repairs and drought.

I find myself in a silent but animated conversation with God while the banter at the table becomes white noise.
And I ask, “Really God, Really are you doing all things well?”
“You break me—Yes, I can agree with that.”
“In order to bind me? Hmmm…. That sounds severe. Is that really necessary?” And then I reflect on my modus operandi for  life-my propensity to figure everything out myself, make my own way, forge my own path and I admit–Maybe it is. I guess we both know I’ll cut and run self-protecting my empty ambitions unless I’m securely attached to You.”

“You hurt me—Oh, I’ve been hurt all right.”
“In order to heal me? Maybe…..I guess I wouldn’t have known you were the great physician body, soul and spirit without all those pain receptors screaming for relief that only comes from your restorative care.”

“You cut me—And it’s not just blood that flows, it’s festering infection being exposed and released.”
“In order to touch me? ……Why would you even want to handle that mess?”
“You expose it to touch it? First, you clean me up. Then you place that bandage gently over my wound or carefully sew one stitch at a time. And it is your touch that sets my wound on a regenerative path.”

“And you do all things well?”
“Let me think about that….”, I say as if I am the judge of what is good…. Funny. Absurd even.

“You died—Yes, I believe that. You were broken, hurt and cut.”
“In order to revive me from my own spiritual death?”
“That’s the part that leaves me scratching my head.”
“Why would you do that? “
“God, that’s really not a very good deal for you.”
“You overpaid for what you got in return.”

And then I sigh and pause from all my silent speaking and listen. He responds tenderly,
“No, I got just what I wanted, just what I loved.”
“I got you.”
“And since I died to define love, I get to decide how that love is meeted out.”
“All that hard stuff you can’t make any sense of, I’m doing something in that too, making beauty out of ugly things- and you can trust me with it.”
“You can trust me with cancer
and depression
and single parenting
and hurting children
and broken marriages
and abuse
with traffic jams and droughts
and the never ending errands.
You can trust me when there are only 2 at the kitchen table and there is no banter and then maybe only one.
And you can trust when you’re 75 …..

And there I am again, this time sitting at my kitchen table, but my feet touching holy ground. He has met me and in that moment.  Faith trumps doubt and lament morphs into worship. Through the lens of my spiritual reading glasses, the ones God graciously placed over my eyes here amongst the chaos at dinner, clarity replaces a blur.
And like the song, I respond, “You are indeed working beauty out of ugly things.”
“I’m not sure when and how but I know that You really do-
All Things Well.”

If you think that most conversations I have with my family members are beautifully articulate, grace filled experiences like my last post, think again. The vast majority of my relational holy moments start out ugly and gnarled and are a gift I’d like to return. They become sacred only after processing them raw and real. Sometimes the redemptive part is about a decade later and through the rear view mirror.

Which brings me back to that wretched topic of driving. I don’t know what it is inside me that triggers such anxiety about car travel. Thankfully, God’s loving compassion has no time limit and He’s at work transforming and healing the broken places in His children until the moment we cross over into eternity. I am not the same as I was 10 years ago and that’s good. I am not entirely different and that’s good too.

Back in those days an ambulance siren blaring in earshot caused a physical response in me. My muscles tightened, worry alarms sounded off in my head, and I begin to project catastrophic possibilities for my family members who were out on the road. Maybe it’s a result of generational influence. My mom flipped her car one Thanksgiving Day when she was in her late 30’s. The large bowl of cranberries that splattered bloodlike all over the car, left a stain on her confidence and she never drove again. Or maybe it was the traumatic car accident my aunt and uncle were in when I was 16 and all my memories of hospitals, tracheotomies, comas, vegetative conditions and subsequent death. Only God fully grasps all those secret complexities that imprint on our tender psyches and settle into our vulnerable places. But we spend our lives re-dressing ourselves in the whole armor of God to resist the devils attacks regarding them.

When the girls were young and we built our dream house and moved out to the country, Brian’s work commute increased. Winters were icy on country roads, watching out for deer was as common as avoiding armadillo in Texas but more dangerous. We lived in earshot of a busy 2 lane highway that was famous for fatal collisions. Hardly a day passed without hearing sirens screaming and fighting that tightness in my stomach.

It got dark early in the winters and in those days I actually fed my family dinner at a reasonable time. Brian’s work demands were grueling and required long days. Around 6 p.m. each night, the girls were crabby, whining, hungry. I hoped that every seat at our table would be filled with a warm body but was often unsure when Brian would be joining us.

These were the days before our family technologically immersed in the 21^st century and all its immediate connectivity. Communication was via land line.

My phone conversation with Brian nuanced my recent interaction with Angela at its core. Fear propelled me to grasp for control.

“Call me before you leave the office so I know when to expect you.” I said in a demanding tone.

He responded, “I’m not going to commit to that. It’s not my tendency to remember those kinds of things and anyway, I’m not going to be an enabler for your worrying.”

In case you are tempted to judge Brian harshly, give him a break. If you’d been married to me for nearly 15 years and been submerged into my vortex of anxiety, I’d dare you to do better.

Still, that moment didn’t feel very relationally sacred to me, nor did it foster deeper connection or greater trust.. But God is faithful. He’s always up to something redemptive and what I’m discovering is that the raw, ugly struggle of processing relational disappointments with God is consecrating too. Perhaps more so because it costs something to embrace it—its currency is humility, forgiveness, resisting the urge to repay hurt with hurt and substituting truth for lies about my identity in Christ.

I have to take off my smelly shoes and stand barefoot in His presence. And He meets me there. At times, the ground beneath my feet feels like lush well watered bluegrass and sometimes it burns like sun baked sand on my soles.

Either way, it’s still holy ground.