Saying Goodbye to Grandma

It was very early this morning, still dark outside, when I heard the pitter patter of rain on the roof.

Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled ever so quietly. And then for a moment, there was stillness. I lay in bed with my eyes open and wondered about that. I wondered if, four thousand long miles away, my mum had opened heaven’s gates and stepped inside.

And she had.

She wasn’t my real mum, but she might as well have been. Her other daughter-in-law affectionately calls her Joanie, but she was always mum to me.

She made the best breakfasts…of bacon, and eggs, and tomatoes and mushrooms. She had a special plate that was just for me. And she always told me I ate like a bird.

It was her who came to stay each time I had a baby. She would knit them hats that were far too big, and bounce them affectionately on her knee.

When our four sons were young, it was always to her big house, in the sunny south of England that we would go for our summer holidays. We would pack up the car with our six bikes hanging off the roof and drive, like the Clampetts, for two weeks of fun at Grandma’s. And even though she scolded us when we tramped the red sand of the beach in on our shoes, she loved us being there. And even though it sometimes rained, we always remember the sunny days.

She would walk with us down the little stony path, through the woods to our favorite Elberry Cove, where we would sit on the pebbly beach and eat our crisps and salmon butties. Once we clambered together in a blow up boat and rowed around in the shallow waters. I remember her laughing in her floppy hat.

Sometimes, we would go out walking together at night. She loved big houses and when it was dark, you could see in peoples’ windows.

She was full of energy and life, and was often found to be doing her ironing and dusting at one o’clock in the morning. Even when she retired, she cleaned houses in her spare time, and even though she didn’t have much money, we always found a few pounds tucked away in the envelope whenever she wrote to us.

She could paint with two hands, and loved to water color. She could magically grow any plant from the tiniest shoot or seed; and outside her kitchen window, there was always a row of flower pots standing proudly on the little stone wall, spilling over with fuchsias, or sweet peas, or carnations. She talked to them every day, and always knew what they needed.

She loved to go for rides in the countryside, and was always the first to notice and name the yellows and purples of the wild flowers that danced in the Devon hedgerows. One day, she wrote about them in my diary.

And I think about time, and life, and how fast this one, precious gift passes us by.

And how we must snatch it, and hold on to each moment, and cherish the memories of summer days, and floppy hats, and wildflowers that dance in the hedgerows.

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? Mary Oliver

The Happy Place

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No-one knows for sure if the cave I stand in front of is the real tomb where Jesus lay. But I like to think so. Of course it helped that the sun was shining that day; that birds were singing high in the treetops; that blossom was blowing in the wind; that voices were raised in song, echoing around The Garden Tomb in Jerusalem and filling it with peace. We wait patiently in line for our turn to step inside. I see the small doorway cut out of the rock; I see a huge circular stone standing nearby, like the one that would have been used to seal the entrance; I see people stepping out of the tomb. They are smiling. And then it’s our turn. We step inside. It is quiet. And empty. And for a moment, we don’t say a word. But when we do, it’s my sister that says, This is a happy place. And I laugh at her perfect pronouncement. She is so right! And I don’t feel like I have to whisper in here, as I have done at most of the holy sites. And I don’t feel like I have to tiptoe in here, like I did as a child in the graveyard, afraid to step on the tombs of the dead. This is a happy place! This is not where we find the dead, but the living! The tomb of Jesus is a happy place.

And we step out through the open door, just as Jesus did, two thousand years ago, where sunshine waits to greet us, and promise whispers in the air. We step from darkness into light, and celebrate with every spring flower who has pushed her way out from darkest earth to find the place where she can bloom. JESUS IS ALIVE!

The Stones Under my Fingers

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Even though the sun is shining today, it’s cold in this pit. I knew it would be. I already had the chills when I read the sign announcing One Way Crypt.

We’re underneath the house of Caiaphas. descending into its lower depths by the stone circular steps. But this is not the way Jesus came in here. There was only one way in for him. And only one way out.

Jesus was lowered through a narrow hole in the roof. There would have been nothing careful about it. He was dangled on a rope, dropped in the darkness on the cold stone floor. And left. Alone.

This is the pit where Jesus spent the last evening of his life. It’s just one of the many prisons underneath the house of the High Priest. But it’s the deepest. And probably the darkest.

And as I run my hand over these rough, icy stones I wonder…if they could speak, what would they tell of a young man from Galilee?

Did he run his hands over these same stones too? Because those were powerful hands!

Weren’t they the hands that first molded the mountains and swelled the seas? Weren’t they the hands that scooped up dirt to give sight to the blind; that commanded a storm be still; that healed the lame with just one touch?

And if all that is true, then surely this pit did not need to be a One Way crypt at all. There would have been several ways out for Jesus. He could have dissolved the stones with his little finger; molded a stairway in an instant, or commanded the pit disappear.

But he didn’t.

I doubt if he even curled those powerful hands into fists and pounded on these walls, as I surely would have done.

In a moment I’ll climb those steps and leave this horrible place. I will probably sip on a cappuccino and maybe browse the gift shop, as tourists do. I’ll sit in the sunshine where it’s light and warm. My escape from the pit will be an easy one.

And his could have been too.

But instead Jesus chose to wait until they hauled on that rope, and dragged him through that narrow hole, his body banging and scraping and bleeding against those icy stones….on his way to the cross.

And it’s not until I’m actually here, in this horrible pit, that I realize the enormity of the choice he made.

The one way. The only way.

And that it was for me.

So When Does Lent End?

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So when does Lent end?

Forty days just seems like a long, long time to me. And it’s not even as if I have given up chocolate, or cookies, or anything related to my stomach.

I simply gave up Facebook for Lent, and along with that, I committed to being on my knees at 7.03 every morning, along with hundreds of other women who are inspired and challenged by Ann Voskamp to do the same.

I’m not doing very well with it. If truth be told, I’m not a morning person. I reluctantly, and sometimes downright begrudgingly, crawl out of bed two minutes before seven, and plop to my knees in between the curtains at the front window. It’s dark out there. And cold. And I love my bed. And some mornings, I never even make it.

But God is always there, covering me with grace, and goodness, and forgiveness; waiting there to greet me.

And every morning, I look out of the window into the quiet street before the sun comes up where the street lamps are still lit.

They shine on a big, grey heap of snow on the ground that refuses to melt.

I look at my neighbor’s house, where the Sale Pending sign hangs. They have lived here for 28 years. But it’s time to move into assisted living.

And I look at my other neighbor’s house, the one that always looks so pretty from the outside. But inside, behind the door, I know there are tears, and fear, and sadness, brought on by a sudden, unwelcome diagnosis.

And there I kneel, on the hard wooden floor, feeling sorry for myself because I had to get out of bed. Feeling sorry for myself because my knees feel a little like they did when, as a teenager, I crawled in the dirt for that one week when I picked potatoes on a far-away farm.

And I can’t quite figure out how it is, that God can continue to bless me in so many ways, when I am such a pathetic pretender.

How God can step in with wonderful and undeserved surprises such as the news of my first book becoming a finalist in one of the most prestigious Christian Book Awards; or being interviewed for the first time about being an author.

But I can only assume that this is my God of grace.

And it’s enough to keep me on my knees.

When You Meet Two New Brothers in Jerusalem and You Realize That You Belong to the Same Family

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His name is Fadi. In Arabic, it means Redeemer.

Fadi lives above the busy market place in the streets of old Jerusalem. His father has a shop, as many do, where he makes a living by selling olive wood ornaments, and jewelry, and icons, and beads.

We meet Fadi as we are shopping on the Via Dolorosa. He is a Coptic Christian, whose family came from Egypt. As we talk, I am mesmerized by twelve stone steps under a big arch that lead up to a hidden courtyard. I can see plants. I can hear laughter. I know that this is where Fadi must live. I take a photograph, and I ask, falteringly:

Would it be okay if I just go up those steps to take a picture?

He laughs, and nods, and says:

Come, see. I will take you all up there. Come up to the rooftops of Jerusalem. Come see my home where my family has lived for hundreds of years.

And this is what we do. All six of us. We follow Fadi up those secret steps and onto the roof of his house, where birds fly high over Jerusalem’s Al Aqsa mosque and the famous Mount of Olives rises in the distance. We have a private tour of Jerusalem that surely no American or British tourist has been treated to before.

And then he takes us into his home. He opens wide the door, as delicious earthy smells emanate from a tiny kitchen. His mom steps out smiling, brushing her hair from her forehead with the back of her palm and wiping her floury hands on a well-used apron.

Welcome, welcome to our home, she says, as if foreign visitors invade her house every day.

And he takes us through the tidy bedroom, where huge grape leaves lie drying on newspapers draped over the edge of the bed; and into his living room, where dried pomegranate skins sit in a silver bowl – looking, and smelling, far more wonderful than any store-bought potpourri.

The small front window looks out onto the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the holiest Christian site in all Jerusalem…one of the places where it is thought that Jesus died and rose again.

We stand in Fadi’s home. Next to him. We are strangers; we are foreigners; but we are treated like family.

His name is Issa. In Arabic, it means Jesus.

Issa sells scarves in a tiny stall on the Via Dolorosa. He is young, and shy. He is not pushy, as some of the other vendors can be. He tells us he is studying journalism at university. When he graduates, he will seek work in Dubai. We buy our scarves, and Issa says:

You would like coffee?

He disappears while we shop and reappears holding small cups of strong Arabic coffee, roasted with fresh ground cardamom seeds. It’s not Starbucks. It’s delicious.

And suddenly, he smiles with his eyes and asks:

You want to see something special?

Well of course we do! He opens a door in the walls of the street just near his stall and whispers to someone inside. Above the door we see the sign that denotes the eighth station of the cross – the place where Jesus fell under the weight of the wood.

And seconds later, the door is opened to just the six of us. We step inside and our breath is taken away. It’s a tiny church, hidden inside the city walls. While shoppers buy, and haggle outside; while hustle and bustle reigns beyond these walls, we lift our voices and sing in the quiet…

Spirit of the Living God, fall afresh on me.

And it does.

We say goodbye. We carry on walking, and laughing, and shopping, as tourists do. But I turn and run back to Issa, whose name means Jesus. And I ask. I just want to know. I am interested:

Issa, are you Christian, or Muslim?

I’m Muslim, he says, touching his heart. Is that a problem?

No, no! I reassure him. You’re Muslim. I’m Christian. You’re my brother. I’m your sister.

And Issa smiles, and touches my arm. He is young. But so mature.

Here in Jerusalem, he says, we don’t ask. We just live together…as one.

And every time I wear my scarf, I will think of Issa, whose name means Jesus. And every time I see my olive tree ornament that says Peace, I will think of Fadi, whose name means Redeemer.

And I know I have two new brothers who live in the old city of Jerusalem.

What Happened on a Sunny Afternoon at the Jordan River

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I’m only nine years old. She is not yet twelve. She takes my hand and we step up to the altar and fall to our knees in surrender.

The preacher places her hand on our young heads as we kneel side by side. We don’t really know what this means. We are just girls after all. We will not remember her words. But we will never forget the moment.

I’m fifty-five years old now. She is not yet fifty-eight. She takes my hand and we step into the river and fall back in surrender.

We’re much, much older than the day when we knelt at the altar. Many things have changed. We’re no longer girls, but grandmas. We have gray hairs where blonde used to be. We have laugh lines and wrinkles and our knees cannot bend quite as fast as they once did.

But our hearts have not changed.

And God’s Holy Spirit, who first drew us to the altar all those years ago remains the same. It still whispers to us and calls us by name and echoes through these four decades that have passed so quickly by.

And when we emerge, dripping and sodden, from the exhilarating cold of the Jordan River; in the very same place where Joshua crossed the waters to claim the Promised Land; in the very same spot where Jesus waded out to John the Baptist; on this sunny afternoon in the company of blue skies and bulrushes, my sister and I turn to each other and laugh, and hug.

And as we rise from the river, three white doves fly overhead. ..

Just as if someone had opened heaven’s doors and set them free.

Where Hope is Hiding…

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I sit in front of the window on yet another freezing cold Michigan morning. Snow lies thick and deep outside, as it has done for weeks, stretching as far as the eye can see, and covering the ground in a blanket of white. Winter is not yet ready to release her grip, and the shovel and snow blower stand at the ready.

But underneath that icy blanket, hidden deep in cold and dark, hope is living. She is simply asleep, waiting for her cue. And when the time is right, when she feels that little bit of warmth that whispers Spring, she will push her way through the dark and out into the light.

And she will not be alone.

When the snow is still melting, and the grass is beginning to reclaim her green, thousands of little shoots will rise. Like the advance of an invincible army, they will bravely break the soil, and daffodils and tulips will stand together and dance in the wind. And although it’s hard to imagine that now, it will surely happen. They are just waiting for their time.

And where would be the surprise of Spring without the weariness of Winter?

Where would be the beauty of the butterfly without the cold of the chrysalis?

Where would be the reality of resurrection without the grip of the grave?

And so we wait.

Through Lent.

Through Winter.

Through snow.

But we wait in hope. New life is on the way.

Taken in The Garden Tomb (Resurrection Site) Israel 2013

What I wished I had known When I was Little…

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When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a farmer’s wife. I wanted to emulate the lady in the apron who came swinging cheerfully through the kitchen doors carrying a steaming hot platter of roast ham and new potatoes for the kids whose adventures I loved to read about in the Famous Five.

The Farmer’s Wife was always happy. She was everyone’s favorite. You just had to love her. She was popular; she was treasured; she was special. And I wanted to be her.

But it didn’t take me long to realize that I couldn’t cook. And all farmers’ wives can cook. I couldn’t grow vegetables either. And all farmers’ wives grow vegetables.

When I was a young teenager, I wore my skirts short and etched my eyes in deepest kohl. I wanted to be like my friend…the one who always had a boy holding her hand. The one who was chosen; the one who was beautiful; the one who was loved. I wanted to be chosen, and loved, and beautiful too.

But no amount of makeup could mask my pimples; no high heels could make me as tall as her; no expensive conditioner could make my hair as smooth.

And even though I was raised in a Christian home, the voice of the world was always louder than the Voice of the Word. I just couldn’t hear when God tried to whisper hope into my heart.

And even though I had a Bible, and knew all the exciting stories it contained, I somehow missed all the wonderful promises that were just waiting to be discovered within its pages.

And I wish, when I was that long-ago girl, I could have read a book like Love Letters from God. Because maybe if I had, I might have heard God whisper:

You will be my special treasure!

Maybe then I would have known that I do not have to be a good cook or grow vegetables to be popular or special or treasured in God’s eyes.

And if that book had been mine, I would surely have cherished every letter that bore my name, and claimed every promise when God told me:

I have chosen you!

I will hold your hand!

I have loved you with an everlasting love!

And maybe if I had truly believed those wonderful words, I would not have needed to strive to be beautiful in the eyes of the world. Because surely then I would have understood that I am chosen by One whose enormous love for me would last beyond all my time; whose strong hand would always hold on to mine; and in whose eyes I am beautiful indeed.

But it is never too late. And that is why I wrote the book—so God’s letters could be read, so God’s promises could be claimed, so God could gently whisper hope into our hearts.

Will you get a Valentine Card this year?

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I can still remember the feeling just before Valentine’s Day- slightly excited, somewhat anxious. Would I get a Valentine card this year? Would my secret admirer (or if I was feeling really optimistic, admirers) surreptitiously slip that coveted red envelope adorned with kisses into my locker, or maybe inside my desk?

It was always a proud moment when that happened, especially if my friends were with me. That way, they would see how popular I was; how much I was admired; how pretty I must be.

The trouble was, I don’t actually remember those moments. What I do recall is the feeling of disappointment; the kind of ‘shrug-it-off-who-cares’; ‘I-actually-never-even-wanted-a-card-from-him-anyway’ pretense that I was so good at.

When you are thirteen years old, in a competitive school, surrounded by pretty girls and handsome boys, Valentine’s Day can be a cruel twenty-four hours to get through.

But girls grow up. They mature. They somehow survive those brutal ‘will I get a Valentine card or not’ days. Sometimes, they might become grandmas. They can shake off all that teenage silliness; all that emotion; all that comparing yourself with others business; and if they are really good at it, they can pretend they don’t need to be loved.

Except they do.

And as I wander through the stores, two weeks away from Valentine’s Day, surrounded by row upon row of red hearts, and red envelopes; red boxes of chocolate wrapped with red ribbon; red balloons flying above my head and red roses standing at my feet, I think about the color of love.

And if the cross had a color, what color that might possibly be?

No one has greater love than the one who gives their life for their friends. John 15:13

When Love Letters fly all over the World, and end up in Places you never would have Imagined…

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In the entrance hall of a little Primary school in northern England, Love Letters from God sits quietly on a podium. It has pride of place next to the school Bible. My sweet nephew, Jake, proudly placed it there.

In a dementia care unit in Grand Rapids, Michigan, Love Letters from God sits on a bedside table. It is being read to an elderly lady as she slips in and out of awareness. The reader is her daughter, a lady who does not know God…yet.

In an orphanage in Botswana, Love Letters from God is being shared with children who have no home, no parents, and no books to call their own.

In a small New York apartment, Love Letters from God belongs to a fifty year old man who struggles with mental illness. He smiles when he hears the familiar stories, and clutches his photo of the author as if she were a celebrity.

In a house not far from my home, Love Letters from God is owned by a young boy with special needs. His parents tell me that when he lifts the flaps and hears his name, he squeals with excitement. He knows that those letters are written to him.

In a home in Paris, Love Letters from God sits on a bookshelf. Given as a gift, my ministry colleague left it there for the host she stayed with on her travels. Inside the book, Laurie wrote words of hope, healing, and comfort. It was the day after the Charlie Hebdo shooting.

And for every book that has been bought, for every story that is shared, for every place where Love Letters has flown, I am awed, and humbled, and thankful.

For the teenager who found hope through the story of David and Goliath when he was being bullied at school; for the mom who heard God speaking to her heart as her young daughter read the letters to her and inserted her mom’s name into each one; for the grandchildren who beg to hear their love letters each night; for every story of grace I hear, I am awed, and humbled, and thankful.

You pick up the pen. You begin to write. You create a Storybook Bible for children aged four to eight, for this is your target audience. And then you watch what God can do…for God’s target audience is the world.

All authors have a target audience, but God’s target audience is the world.

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You watch as God picks up the book, and flies it all over the world: to Botswana, and Italy; to England and France; to Australia and Switzerland.

In schools and churches; in hospitals and orphanages; on bookshelves and bed-side tables, God is placing this book in the hands of those who need to read it, and touching the hearts of those who need to hear it- no matter their age, no matter their circumstance.

God is at work in the world.

Do you know someone who needs to hear God’s Love Letter to them? Enter this free giveaway here.