Loved

One of the last letters I received from my Dad

I grew up on dairy farm in a small town in western Washington. It was a wholesome, traditional, and humble upbringing where my brother, sister, and I learned to work hard, put others’ needs above our own, rally with the community, and worship together on Sunday mornings sitting between my mom and dad. If scenes from Little House on the Prairie come to mind, you’d be on the right track. I loved my childhood and am eternally grateful for the sweet gift of it. I am sure I have romanticized it to some degree, for even the hardships now seem like the bow on top of an already beautiful package.  One of the things I treasure most from my childhood is the heart-to-heart conversations I had with my dad. I won’t pretend to remember the substance of them, but I remember the heart in which they took place and where they led me.

Many, many conversations with my dad took place in the milking parlor. I still remember what it felt like to sit on the wet, cold cement step watching my dad as he worked. It was not uncommon to see him tear up as he shared whatever he was struggling with or giggling like a little boy over the joke I heard at school that day. His battered hands working hurriedly while the oldies played statically on an old beat up radio in the background; as we would talk about everything and nothing.   I love that we had to yell over the machines at times while at other times, we didn’t need words at all. Just being together was enough. My dad was approachable. My dad was present.

As I grew older, a lot of our conversations took place sitting on the back fence looking out over the pasture while the sun slipped too quickly below the horizon. Dad often would say, “Look at the masterpiece God painted for us tonight”. I loved unwrapping presents like sunsets and sparkling stars and even the aroma of cow pies with my dad. Through his actions, I learned to never take these things for granted, to see them as gifts to be unwrapped slowly, to be treasured, to see God in them and humbly, yet courageously, worship Him. I loved listening to my dad pray.  I loved the feel of his oversized, calloused hand in mine, and the little squeeze he would give me just before he said, "Amen". My dad was humble. My dad was filled with immense gratitude.

I’m a ponder; like my Dad was. I’d like to say I learned it from him, but I think God just wired me like that and used my Dad to encourage me to put voice to my thoughts and questions. I love that my dad wasn’t perfect and didn’t know all the answers. I loved that he lived transparently, passionately, and unapologetically for his beliefs. I loved that he encouraged me to openly wrestle with my faith and not readily accept whatever I heard in church or what he and my mom taught us kids as truth---I can still hear him, “Look it up…that’s how you learn, that’s how you grow, that’s how you discover God for yourself”.  My dad was transparent. My dad was student and teacher.

As I grew older and eventually moved out and married, my Dad often called to ask what I was reading, what I was learning and then eagerly shared what he was learning or wrestling with. I miss those talks more and more with each year that he has been gone.  My dad was my friend.

Shortly after my dad passed away I found a letter he had written me several years prior. I did not like this letter at all and considered throwing it away because it pointed out things about myself I wish had not been true. I saved it because…because I guess I knew there was more value to it than just a reminder of his bubbly handwriting and the odd fact that it smelled like ketchup. His letter began, “I have been burdened for you” and ended with “I am praying over you, Karyn. You have all the Jesus you need, snuggle into Him and rest in His arms”. My Dad was not afraid to speak truth even when it was hard for him. My dad was bold. My dad was an encourager.

My dad sure loved me. I sure love him.

My dad has been gone for four years now. And when I get to talk about him, never once do I define him by what he did for a living, how much money he earned, where he lived, the size of his house, kind of car he drove, or any other material possession he acquired. My dad lived a present, humble life that pointed everyone he met to Christ. He encouraged others by being transparent, vulnerable, and openly wrestled with things he did not understand. He loved others with the love of Christ. We are called to do the same.

Neighboring Up

Her deep set chocolate eyes rested just below her white, knitted stocking hat in an attempt to disguise a pain, a brokenness of spirit as well as body and mind. Her once merry eyes now lacked sparkle, warmth, and gravely defied her youthfulness.  Exhaustion clearly stole her ability to concentrate on a single task, let alone make eye contact or regularly form coherent sentences, causing her to come across as forgetful and disheveled. I could see that she was trying to be friendly, though her infrequent smiles seemed forced.  Understandably, she was outside her comfort zone and who wouldn’t be in this situation.

We spent an hour together in an open air bistro where coffees and mochas sprinkled our table for four while the hustle and bustle of Seattle laid backdrop to the tenderness of our time together. My husband, Dennis, sat by my side and J., the Safe Families Coordinator, sat by hers. No one in those moments, however, could have stolen my attention from her.  My eyes rarely left hers and my heart ached as I tried to comfort a mother who just escaped her husband’s latest rage against her, leaving her penniless, homeless, with a crushed hand in desperate need of surgery and a newborn baby. Perfect strangers:  one in position of great need, the other in a position to help. 

Our conversation began with business. It had been done, the legal ins and out of us caring for her son while she underwent surgery and recovery. In short, Dennis and I would follow a set of rules, laws, and guidelines as would she. She understood that she would retain custody of her son though he would be in our care for X-amount of time. She would also be responsible for any medical bills that may occur, promise not to sue us or Safe Families, etc. if anything unexpected should occur. I studied her face as J. carefully explained these crucial points--points that were meant to put her at ease, answer any questions she might have, etc., but I could see that she could have cared less about that part of it. She appeared to be calloused; yet, I understood her callousness to be a defense mechanism, a survival skill. However, in this moment, she was in a position where she had no choice but to trust.

 Several days ago when Dennis and I learned that we would be bringing this baby into our home all I could think about was him. My own daughters are now teenagers, so I do not have the opportunity to nuzzle cheeks and breathe in the sweetest of scents. I love babies. I am not sure anything on earth makes my heart beat as wildly as babies do. I pulled out crib sheets and blankets, arranged to borrow a crib and car seat, thought about what items we might need to purchase for his stay with us. Without a doubt, he consumed my thoughts and filled my prayers. However, as I sat across from this mom, I found myself more in a state of ceaseless prayer for HER. She wasn’t looking for charity, a free ride. Honestly, I believe, she wished she didn’t need us at all, though she did not say.

I desired to cut to the heart of the matter, to learn more about her, more about her son. In her aloofness, I wondered if she would really open up. Finally, I couldn’t hold back another moment and jumped right in to gush over her son’s grey eyes, his dainty fingers---how proud she must be of such an angel—a genuine smile spread across her face and I knew in that moment there was life just beneath this hard exterior. Twice in our conversation, she paused, fixed her eyes on her sleeping son and apologized for not being what he needed her to be. I bit my lower lip and smiled, understanding the desire to be more, to be better, for my children. Mother to mother, woman to woman, this broken child (and that is what she is) and me, began what I hope is a wonderful relationship of trust and support.

I smiled warmly, hoping to ease the certain inner turmoil, questions, and concerns she might have of us, and talked as if I understood her struggle, her situation, but I didn’t. She never opened up about her personal struggles, never shared more than what was asked of her. In fact, most of her responses were answered matter-of-factly, no inkling of emotion. She never asked questions of us, however, I found myself asking her over and over again, “Who is taking care of you? Do you have a support system? Do you have what you need?” She never answered. She never complained. She avoided these questions, squirming in her seat, adjusting her hat. I knew the answer and it caused a deep ache, burdening my heart severely.  I wanted her to know that though we would be caring for her son, she was important to us as well. Her son was here and safe because of her courage to leave a horrific situation

As Dennis and I drove toward home, I found myself biting the inside of my cheek in an attempt to keep the tears from falling. This woman---this woman had made an impact on my heart. Here, I was eager to care for a baby (my absolute delight) and although we will still have the honor to care for him, my heart now aches for his mother and all women like her.  Homeless, jobless and yet in a better place than they started. I admire her courage, applaud her, but ache desperately for her as I know the road ahead is littered with statistics that will beat her down, rather than lift her up.

A wise and precious friend reminded me of the parable of the Good Samaritan recently. Remember the story where a man of status and great knowledge of the law asked Jesus, “How do I inherit eternal life?” to which Jesus questions back, knowing that this Pharisee knew the laws by heart,  “What is the written law?” The man, I assume proudly shares, the law is to “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind, and, to love your neighbor as yourself”. I picture Jesus smiling as he assures the man that he his right in his response. The Pharisee, still restless in knowing the answer, but not truly understanding it’s meaning, asks, “Who is my neighbor?”

Jesus then tells of a man who had been walking alone along a dirt and dusty road when he was suddenly attacked by brutal robbers.  These robbers took his money, beat him mercilessly, stripped him of his clothes and left him---possibly to die. This man was most likely a Jew, not favorably looked at, not accepted in the Samaritan community. The road was one regularly traveled and soon a priest walked by, he sees the man and crosses the road so as not to bother with him. Soon, another man, a Levite, comes along and he, too, sees the man but takes no pity on him. Time passes, and soon a third man, a Samaritan, enemy of Jews, happens upon the wounded man and swoops down immediately to bandage the man’s wounds, giving him ointment to care for his open sores. Next, he puts the man onto one of his donkeys and walks with him into town to an Inn where he can find rest and recover. The Samaritan has to leave for whatever reason, but not before giving the innkeeper two silver coins and asks him to look after the wounded man. He promises that if extra expenses occur he would reimburse him when he returned.

Jesus wraps up his story there and asks the Pharisee, “Which of these three men who passed by the wounded man was his neighbor?” The Pharisee replies, “The one who had mercy on him”.  Jesus smiles, and instructs, “Go and do likewise”.  Good at its best is when the law of the heart eclipses the law of the land.  Putting stereotypes, differences, status, etc. aside, and seeing one another as neighbors (as brothers and sisters) to show Christ’s bountiful love in a tangible way is what it means to be a Christ-follower.

My friend pointed out that we do not know what happens with these men. Do they become friends? Do they part ways? Does the wounded man attempt to pay him back? Honestly, it doesn’t matter. The point is we are to show mercy, to show love to those in need.  It is easy to care for our loved ones. Caring for our “neighbor” might get ugly, dirty even, and possibly leave us in a place of utter brokenness—a place of absolute dependence upon the Lord. Are we willing to do it anyway?

I can practically hear Jesus’ tender words as he tells us, “Truly, whatever you have done unto the least of these, you have also done unto me” (Matt. 25:40).  Will I walk by/turn a blind eye from the wounded, the hurting, the broken or those in need? Will I make excuses as to why I am not the “right” person for the job, due to time limitations, lack of resources, or if it doesn’t fit or utilize my talents/skills/giftedness?  I will not. I will not! Instead, I will embrace the struggle helping another person may be, the breaking of my heart, I will enter the dirt and grime and put aside everything for the sake of my Father and His glorious kingdom. I will honor Him and show His love to his children.

We do not have the baby boy in our care until tomorrow. It is my hope to show not just him love and acceptance, but his mom too. They are my neighbors after all.