I made it myself!

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Every parent has witnessed a child’s twinkling eyes as their 5 year-old approaches with her hands behind her back. “I have a surprise for you!” she says through a wide grin. “I made it myself!”

Focusing with laser intensity on her parents’ eyes with the hope of holding their gaze she says, “Are you ready?”

And out from hiding comes a painted plaster bird or a tin-foil ornament. Her parents oooh and aaah over the wonder of this creation, and the child smiles with a sense of ownership and pride. The fact that she is willing to give it away is true love indeed.

I wonder if God feels that way about all he’s made, from invisible atoms to immense stars. Master Creator that he is, he’s probably deeply attached to every piece of the universe as its Designer. He owns it all. And yet he’s given all of its parts to us in an expression of true love.

Last week I found myself walking through the glass-walled rooms of the Frederik Meijer Botanical Gardens, a wonderland of all things green and growing. Browsing through a maze of greenhouses, I felt like a child on a treasure hunt, searching for each wonder pictured in my brochure. Even the children’s garden dusted off the hidden kid in me.

Also fascinating was the people-parade, each person charmed by endless botanical wonders. The plants and flowers were a fascination to everyone from youngsters in strollers to oldsters in wheelchairs, who all chose this as their go-to place on a cool, overcast day.

I’d like to think they were there because God’s work is too spectacular to resist. Although Frederik Meijer was the benefactor of the greenhouses and acreage, God provided the filler. Without his broad array of happy plants, the whole venture would be lifeless.

Some Scriptures tell us God created with words alone, but I like to imagine him more involved, ingeniously designing everything from Azaleas to Zinnias. Might he have envisioned a bird not yet created while fashioning the Bird of Paradise? Or thought of Bethlehem as he shaped the first Star Fruit? Or pondered the food chain when putting together the Venus Fly Trap? Or sighed as he crafted the Bleeding Heart?

Surely he’s pleased as he watches people of all ages roam a garden bursting with his creativity, appreciating it as a living art gallery. But none of us need to buy entrance into a botanical garden to value what God has made. His artwork surrounds us, and there’s no better time than spring to express gratitude.

Thinking back to creation immediately after he’d made the world, God didn’t hide it behind his back but eagerly gave it away as soon as he’d made the first human being.  Might he have delivered it with a twinkle in his eye?

I’m sure of it.

God said, “I give you every seed-bearing plant on the face of the whole earth and every tree that has fruit with seed in it. They will be yours…” God saw all that he had made, and it was very good. (Genesis 1:29, 31)

Grave Thoughts at the Graveyard

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As is true every Memorial Day, we visited Rosehill Cemetery. Eleven of our loved ones are buried there, the first in 1911, 100 years ago. And eight empty graves lie waiting, a troublesome thought.

Mom’s ancestors didn’t enjoy cemetery visits, but Dad’s family made it a tradition, particularly on Memorial Day. In the early 1900’s they toted picnic fixings to Rosehill for lunch and watched a parade of period-dressed Civil War characters. Canons were fired and actors played the parts of soldiers, complete with grieving widows dressed in black.

Today as we assembled around the Johnson family plot where Nate is also buried, we heard the canons fire on the other side of the cemetery near the Civil War graves. But our focus was on what had occurred to cause one of our empty graves to be recently filled.

Nate’s burial took place 18 months ago, and I wasn’t sure how it would feel to revisit his grave. This would be our first look at his headstone, made to match that of my Dad’s family a few feet away. Birgitta and I arrived first, and when we saw the marker, we couldn’t hold back our tears. Last year, six months after Nate’s death, our Rosehill visit was traumatic, but there was no gravestone then, and it didn’t impact us then like it did today.

Mary, our excellent family historian, brought along her Memorial Day binder with its documents, photos and clippings, all in reference to the relatives buried at Rosehill. Lars read an old blog post written two weeks after Nate died, reminding us aloud that God gives us victory over death through Jesus Christ. (1 Corinthians 15)

As we continued to talk about our ancestors and mostly about Nate, the sorrow of missing my husband welled up and spilled over. I couldn’t stop crying. But as Nate told me when I cried during his cancer, “Crying lets out some of the sadness.” And out it poured.

Every widow is lifted when others miss their man. Our family grouping, though small this year, was a special bunch whose shared tears meant a great deal to me.

Days pile into years, and we all know the empty graves will bring us back to Rosehill with other sad stories of loss. But Scripture details the togetherness of our future on the other side of death. My nephew shared a thought about the shortest verse in the Bible, “Jesus wept.” (John 11:35) It happened just minutes before Jesus raised his good friend Lazarus from the dead.

Andrew told us of the original translation of the word “wept” and of Jesus’ intense distress over death’s presence in our world. Although he will one day kill death permanently, for now we’ll all experience it and continue to suffer deeply when those we love are taken.

Waiting for Christ’s ultimate victory over death isn’t easy, but God keeps his every promise. One future day we’ll watch his prediction come true as he puts an end to all grave scenes in graveyards.

“The last enemy to be destroyed is death.” (1 Corinthians 15:26)

Late for Church

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I woke this morning to my mother, whom we fondly call Midge, knocking on my bedroom door.

“Birgitta, are you up yet?”

I rolled over sleepily, wondering how it could possibly be morning already. She kept knocking.

“Church starts at 10:30. We need to leave here by 10:20!”

I glanced at the clock: 9:45. Unable to speak this early, I dragged myself out of bed in annoyance, wondering why she continued to pound on the door instead of just opening it as she usually does when I’m at the cottage, where my alarm is somehow much less effective.

I yanked the door open to let her know I was awake, remembering that I’d locked it the night before to prevent Jack the dog from bashing his head against it in order to open it so he could come and go as he pleased.

Midge, already in her Sunday best, left my doorway upon seeing me vertical. I turned on some music to get ready, as I do every morning, and hurriedly rummaged through my messy pile of clothing, quickly selecting a dress to wear. After showering, I headed back to my room to find I couldn’t get the door open. Locked. Quickly noticing my dilemma, Midge looked up from the book she had been reading in her La-Z-Boy.

“Uh oh,” she said as she got up to offer assistance.

“How is this possible?” I said angrily as I jostled the doorknob. “I didn’t lock it!”

“That’s strange,” Midge replied. “Maybe we can get it open with a screwdriver.” She disappeared into her room and quickly returned with an array of sizes. We each repeatedly attempted to unscrew the lock, but the door wouldn’t budge. “Maybe we need to pound the lock in from the outside,” Midge suggested. “I have just the thing!” She pranced downstairs and came back with a tool from the basement. Again we both banged against the lock, even using a hammer, but it was all to no avail.

“What am I gonna do?” I whined. “I can’t go to church like this!” Remaining calm, Midge thought for a moment.

“I know,” she said. “I’ll go out on the roof and get in through the window.”

“What?!” I squawked, envisioning Midge slipping down the steep slant of the roof to the concrete 20 feet below. “No, Midge. If anything, I should go out there. Not you!” But she insisted.

“No, no, no, honey, I wouldn’t want you to fall. I can do this.” And with that she slipped off her shoes, hopped up on a chair, and began climbing out her bedroom window onto the roof.

“Midge!” I yelped as I stuck my head out the window behind her. “You should not do this!” But she had already scaled the slippery slope like a pro and was standing in front of the window to my bedroom, devising a way to remove the screen from the outside. “Oh gosh,” I muttered as I clutched my phone, ready to call 9-1-1 in case she should fall.

“I just need a little screwdriver to get this screen off!” She yelled back to me. “My dresser, top drawer!” I ran to her dresser for the screwdriver, wondering who I should call second, after 9-1-1.

“Here!” I shouted as I leaned out the window to hand it to her.

“Perfect,” she replied, taking the screwdriver, not the least bit worried. I watched in amazement as she popped off the screen within seconds and leapt through the window.

“Thank you, Midge,” I said gratefully after she had unlocked the door and I had reentered my bedroom. I resumed getting ready, realizing that after almost 21 years as her daughter, I never knew what a risk taker Midge was!

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Birgitta’s narration of our morning reminds me of John Lennon’s line, “Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans.” This morning’s lock-out made us very late for church (we actually missed the whole service), and similar sidebars happen daily to each of us.

But we have an excellent model of how to respond. Jesus’ ministry was one interruption after another, yet he always acted with grace, seamlessly weaving each unplanned set of circumstances into his rearranged day. He paid attention to the moment and turned each disturbance into an opportunity to do good.

May we do as well.

“All of us who look forward to his coming stay ready, with the glistening purity of Jesus’ life as a model for our own.” (1 John 3:2)