My Mother's Greatest Gift

It was Christmas. And I was six. First grade half done, and I could now read. I was proud, and I loved all my books. I loved my little Sunday School papers. Letters, the alphabet, words. . . . They all came together for me, opening up a whole new world.

Early in the morning light of that Christmas day which we all impatiently waited for, we found a pile of gifts wrapped in brightly colored paper. Simple gifts --- like a roll of white shelf paper and a box of crayons. I thought I could color my way around the world with that much paper! A doll from my namesake aunt who lived so far away. It was dressed in a crocheted dress that my grandmother had made.

But the gift I cherished most of all was given to me by my Mother. It was a Bible. I loved the smell of that new book with the thin, crisp pages. But what made it so special was my name in gold embossed on the front cover. Inside, in her beautiful handwriting, she wrote my name after the words, ‘This Bible belongs to. . . .” and after the words “From” it said, “Her Mother.”

I carried that Bible every.single.Sunday of my childhood. It wasn’t until my Junior year of High School that I got a new Scofield Reference Bible ---- THE Bible to have at that time. But I kept my old Bible. It was special. My first. And it was from my Mom. And she was gone. Forever. It was all I had of her heart. I had no picture or momento that would link me to her. Only my Bible.

I kept that Bible no matter where I went. And sometimes I went far. As far as a wandering heart can take a Rebellious, proud, prodigal daughter. I always knew where it was. I wanted it close -- just in case. I knew my way around it, where to find certain verses that would win an argument, where to find my way back, where to find the cross, where to find grace and forgiveness. Within its covers were memories -- some so sweet, others so haunting. I won “sword drills” with that Bible, memorized verses and chapters, did my Sunday School lessons, and looked up verses in Junior Church. It convicted me, comforted me, and sometimes, confused me. But it laid out a roadmap, always showing me the right way, the old way, the one way that was well traveled, deep with ruts made by those who had gone before. That way always led by the way of the cross.

Now? Maybe 50 Bibles later -- all sizes, colors, versions, paraphrases, --- I still have my Mother’s Bible. It’s stiff now, the binding cracking and brittle (kind of like me) as it gets older. But it never changes. Its words, its message, its power are still all they ever were, and will remain so through eternity’s ages.

Sometimes a Mom doesn’t know the importance of a gift slipped under a tree on a frosty Christmas morning. She didn’t know that a few years later she would be taken suddenly from me. No good-bys, no last words, No hugs --- but she left the greatest gift of all. All I would ever need to get me through the good times, the bad times, up the steepest mountains and down into the deepest of valleys. It brought me safe thus far, and it will bring me safely Home.

Thank you, Mom, for the greatest gift a Mom could give. I am forever grateful!

And if you thank YOUR mama on your blog and link up with Ann VosKamp — you will help support a mothering educational project in Haiti just through your gratitude. The 1000 Moms Project is about 1000 people standing up and thanking their mom publicly (what mom doesn’t want a gift like this for Mother’s Day?) – and we’ll match your honoring of mothers by funding a Maternity/Child Survival Program in Haiti for a whole year. (You can read all about it here)

Thank you, Emmanuel!

Emmanuel -- The God who is with me. Several days ago, someone was talking about this Name of God, first prophesied in the Bible (Isa. 7:14) as the Savior who would come, and then fulfilled in Matthew 1:23. “God with Us!” Born in human flesh, walking on the earth with us!

Each of the names of God gives us a little more insight into the character and qualities of who He is. This name, Emmanuel (Or Immanuel), is perhaps the most personal and draws Him close to each of us individually. As I thought about this name this past week, I began to make a list of all the times He was with me. Somehow, I could just hear the whisper of His name as I wrote each of these down. My conclusion? He has always been there! Even in those times before He was my Savior, He was there, drawing me, calling after me, protecting me, knowing that one day, I would turn my face upward, and He would draw me out of the pit I had dug for myself.

Thank you, Lord, that

631. You were there with me when I was born, knew my name, knew my end from my beginning, and loved me.

632. You were there with me when I contracted spinal meningitis as a three month old baby, sparing my life so that one day, I would know that You loved me.

633. You were there, sending a pastor to sit by my father’s side - one he did not know, but changed the course of his life and mine, putting me on a path where I would find out that You loved me.

634. You were there, protecting me as a child, as I rode my tricycle into traffic and other dangerous places because, as a Father, you loved me.

635. You were there with me, as I held a dead sparrow in my little chubby hands, questioning all the why’s of death -- and you loved me!

636. You were there with me, as I innocently walked through streets in neighborhoods that were not safe, and you loved me!

637. You were there with me, the night my mom went Home to You, leaving a deeply grieving dad to care for five bewildered children, and you wept with us, and loved me.

638. You were there, in the closet with me, hiding from a relentless abuser, and you felt my pain, and you loved me.

639. You were there with me, when I knew I was a sinner and received your cleansing and promise of eternal life, and you welcomed me home and you loved me.

640. You were there, as I struggled with guilt and painful memories, secrets, and burdens I wasn’t meant to carry, and you constantly reminded me that you loved me.

641. You were there, sadly looking on as I walked away from you, thinking I could do life on my own, but still, you loved me.

642. You were there, with tears of joy as you watched me come back home to you, and you told me that still, as always, you forgave me and loved me.

643. You were there, the day I realized I was not a marred, useless, broken vessel, but rather, a princess of a King and dressed in beautiful, royal robes of white, and looked into my eyes, and told me you loved me.

644. You were there, the day I was diagnosed with cancer, orchestrating the whole scene to bring me the care I needed, and held me up and told me you loved me.

645. You were there, through the hardest days of chemo, surgery, and burning days of radiation, always holding me up, helping me take the next step, to do the next thing, and told me I could do it with your help, because you loved me.

646. You were there, saying “I can” when my heart cried, “I can’t,” and gave me strength while you whispered that you loved me.

You were always there! My Emmanuel! My God who is always with me and will never leave me, nor forsake me! Why would I doubt His presence in my tomorrows? Think today of the times He has been with you, make a list, and thank Him for being the God who is with us, always there, always yours, who will never forsake you!

Sometimes, we thank Him for what we see in our every moments of the day. But sometimes, we reflect on what we see in our rear view mirrors --- the places we were, the roads we traveled, the rivers we crossed and the mountains we climbed. And there, in the reflection of that rear view mirror, we see we were never alone. Emmanuel, My God who is with me, is there, and I see His image in it all. And so, my list of gratitudes are for these places in my life which made me stronger, and planted my feet steadfastly in a hope that will not disappoint. Joining a community of wonderful people who are also counting their gifts at:

To Be In Control -- On Your Heart Tuesday

Coincidence?? I think not! Over the past few days, I have had the privilege of “running into” several dear souls who have struggled hard to lay aside weights that hold them down, and I am humbled by their determination, faith, hope, and victories. I introduced you to Vanessa, a real hero and tremendous friend. Yesterday, I find out that my friend, Nacole, over at sixinthesticks will be sharing her story about the struggles she has had with anorexia. If ever there was a talented writer, she is one, and well worth your trip over there. You will not come away untouched. And again today, I find a new bloggy friend over here. Another dear one who seeks to be all that God would have her to be.

I mention these heros because I not only admire their victories and the strength they have shown in their battles, but I have also realized today that I have left this part out of my posts and my stories about myself. I’ve looked long and hard for reasons --- perhaps I don’t FEEL like I’m strong, that I’ve gained a true victory over things, and that if I DID shout praises of success, that I might shame myself in falling again. It all boils down to pride, putting forth a picture of myself that is better than it is, making you think I have it all together when I don’t. . .well, you get the picture. Strange that I would tell you about abuse, a hard childhood, mistakes I’ve made, etc. That was easy. It’s easy to talk about what OTHERS do to YOU, but when we have to talk about what WE do to OURSELVES, it’s a whole ‘nuther ballgame.

Food is my addiction. It has been as far back as I can remember. I scrounged for pennies and spare change and ran three blocks to Prescott’s corner store for penny candy. One day, as I drooled over the candy counter, another boy came in with a brown bag full of soda bottles. He handed them to the cashier, and she gave him a quarter! My jaw dropped and my eyes were wide as marbles!!! Remember those days when soda came in glass bottles, you paid an extra five cents deposit on the bottle, and then returned them to get your nickel back? Well. . .that was the day I went into business for myself. I went everywhere, checking gutters, garbage cans, around the parks. . . Anywhere people drank soda, you would find me looking for bottles. And every.single.bottle I found turned into a candy bar. This was my start in the world of addiction.

I was a skinny kid growing up. Always made fun of, always last in line because I was so tall, always picked last for kickball, always dressed in in hand-me-down, old clothing. I never had the stylish, cute hair-do’s that the other girls had. My only claim to fame in grade school was that I was the playground champion of jump rope! I have my older sister to thank for that.

I can’t remember if I was ever really hungry as a kid. But I do remember always wanting food, and especially sweets. My Mom died when I was eight, and everything began caving in after that. I felt myself becoming smaller and smaller in what was then my little world. I didn’t want to be seen or noticed. I would not answer questions in class, or give reports or participate in anything. I hid myself away. And the older I got, the more alone I wanted to be. Away from the endless teasing, from all the things I could not make right, from a relentless abuser and his threats, and later from a step mother who really did not care for me as a person. There was no place whatsoever in my life that could say I was in control. Even the kitchen was off limits and food was eaten only at meals, and often dished out on my plate. No choices, no yes please or no thank you --- I ate what put in front of me.

As I entered Junior High and High School, I continued scrounging for change. My one control, my secret, my one source of satisfaction. I’d clean my older brother’s room once a week and look for change on his dresser, in his dirty pants pockets, under his bed, etc. I would use this to buy an ice cream sandwich in the lunch line or a candy bar after school from the vending machine at the bus stop. Again, my grades suffered greatly because of my lack of participation in class. I refused to give reports, give an oral book report, or answer questions in class, even if I knew the answers. I was a day dreamer --- drifting off into dreams of a better life, running away, what if I had been born to different parents, maybe being an only child, etc. etc.

I lost myself in reading -- Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys, Elsie Dinsmore, Christian novels, biographies and missionary stories. When I read my first collection of Christian poetry, a book written by Ava Christianson, I perked up. I thought I could write like this. And I began to write and write and write. I lost myself in writing, but would always throw it all away for fear someone would find it and make fun of me.

Somehow, I stayed thin all the way through High School, therefore, no one knew of my obsession for food. Perhaps it was the exercise of walking 2 miles each day and vigorous Gym classes 4 days a week. So my secret was well kept and my habits continued as long as I could find change or babysit now and then.

I was in big trouble when I worked for a summer at the Montrose Bible Conference in Pennsylvania. I was in the kitchen as a helper there. That wasn’t too bad, as there were people around all the time watching, but I managed to get a good share there. But when they asked me to run the snack shop after the evening services each day, I thought I had died and gone to heaven! Junk food heaven! Soda, candy, chips, and hamburgers and hot dogs. I became addicted to Tab, the diet soda.

After High School, I left home, went to Bible School, and continued with the same habits, craving food 24/7. I never thought of it as an addiction. I thought everyone was like me. But when I left Bible School, found a job and a place of my own, I knew I had a problem. Now I had my own source of funds to buy whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. As the years went by, the scale went up, and I didn’t care. I became a drive up junkie, going through all the hamburger lines. This was also the time when all-you-can-eat breakfast bars were so popular, and believe me, they didn’t like seeing me walk through the door. It wasn’t long before I was well over 300 pounds, probably pushing 400.

It wasn’t until I was in my 30’s that I began to think that this was a problem. I’d go to bed at night thinking, “tomorrow I’ll start a diet.” It was always tomorrow. Every.single.night --- tomorrow. Once in a while, I would start with some fad diet of the times. I’ve been on them all. I would lose some. Gain some. Lose some. Gain some. I did manage to bring that top weight down quite a bit, but never really lost it all. . . . Until. . . .

In the mid 80’s, a group of ladies in my church got together and we formed a weight loss group to try to encourage each other in our efforts. This was good for me, as there was some accountability and . . . A weekly weigh-in. One day, after a morning service, someone asked me if I was losing weight. That was encouraging. . . Until I turned away, and heard one say to the other, “She will never make it!” Everything changed at that moment in my life. I knew right then that I WOULD make it, even if it killed me! And so began the worst time of my life as I began using laxatives, eating 600 calories or less each day, using a treadmill, taking my dog on long, long walks, and weighing myself about 3 times a day. The weight came off fast and furious, and I was sick. I was dizzy and felt faint all the time and lived on the toilet. But I told myself that I was now in control of my life, and thought this was a good thing.

Here I was, skinny once again, just like I was in High School. And I was as miserable as when I was fat. I looked in the mirror and saw myself ugly and fat. I bought a million new outfits, but none satisfied my desire to look good. There was not one mirror in the house that reflected anything below the neck. I didn’t want to see it.

My unhappiness took me from Florida to Virginia, and I was there for four years, hiding away on a farm in the middle of nowhere. Slowly, but surely, I put all that weight back on, telling myself I was happier eating than when I was skinny and miserable. And for ten more years, I ate myself into the darkest time of my life.

It was during this time that I found a lump in my breast. My past blogging tells the story of that journey. Since I had no insurance, and no way to pay for any type of treatment, I let it go, acting like the stoic that didn’t care about life, death, cancer, etc. When I finally did go for help, I weighed in at a whopping 367 pounds. I remember the day that my oncologist spelled out to me that my weight dictated a much higher dosage of chemo, that this would be hard on my heart, and that there were risks to all of this. Also, he told me that my cancer was hormone positive, meaning that it was fed by hormones, and fat produces hormones. He did not hound me then, in fact, never mentioned it during treatment, which I appreciated so much. During those 9 months of chemo, surgery, and radiation, I lost a little, but nothing significant.

Then one day, I got the lecture. I knew if I was going to have any kind of life and do my part to keep the cancer away, I HAD to make some decisions. I had already done a lot of soul searching during thos 9 months. I knew I was a control freak. Isn’t it great how the Lord attacks the one subtle area of our lives that keep us from being all we could be. Food wasn’t the problem --- it was my way of being in control of me and my whole life. I knew that I built walls with food. It gave me a way to keep people at a distance. It didn’t matter if no one liked me -- I had food. For some reason, I really believed no one liked me. When you receive a diagnosis of cancer, there is that feeling of being out of control, nothing you can do to change things, and your life is dependent on someone else making the right decisions. I felt that sense of panic of not being in control, that I could not choose the outcome, that I could not choose to eat or not eat to make it all better. . . And ultimately, what I didn’t want to admit but knew all the time. . . That only the Lord was in control Of my future and what would ultimately happen to me.

And so began the journey of weight loss -- at first, because I knew I would have to face a cranky oncologist with a scale, but later because I knew this would be the only thing I could do to help fight the recurrence of breast cancer.

Eating disorders are as different as each person who struggles with them. Each pain hidden in the heart is different. Some choose not eating, others over eat. Some hide their secret, others flaunt it. Some admit it, some live in denial. But all hurt. I’ve lived long enough and listened closely enough to see and hear the pain behind the masks of smiles and in the hollow laughter.

I am happy to say that for two years now, I’ve been able to control this and have lost 120 pounds now. I took a risk in sharing my heart with a few who love me without strings attached and who encourage me in so many ways. Someday soon, I just may buy a great big mirror --- one long enough to see all of me. I’m not there yet. But I have been willing to take a glance now and then at my reflection in a big window. That’s a start, right?

But ultimately, it is looking at my heart. It is what God sees, not this aging, sagging body. It’s about letting my eyes look up into His and know that He loves me, no matter what. It’s about finding forgiveness and grace without judgment or discrimination at the cross. It’s about new starts, new beginnings, new walks down old paths and good ways. It’s about becoming. . . Becoming a lady who can whisper grace to others just as He whispered His grace to me. It’s about holding out my hand and lifting up another hurting soul. It’s about walking out of darkness into the light of life.

Linking up with:

Getting it Right

Keeping secrets can be the hardest thing in the world to do, especially when you are a child. But when fear is attached to that secret, and threats hang like thunder clouds over your head, it comes much easier. And as time passes, the winds of time blow more and more dirt and sand over things to where nothing can be seen.
And we think it no longer matters. It’s past. Long past. . . Until someone comes with a shovel and begins digging right where we buried the secrets!

It was a Saturday night, the end of a week of evangelistic meetings in our church, and this was Youth Night. As a group of young people, we all sat together just as we always did. We grew up together since cradle roll. We were all friends. The music was great and we sang lively songs for that time period of the early 60’s. And then came the message of the evening. The speaker gave a message about purity and God’s standards for our lives concerning sex and marriage. It led up to an invitation that would change my life forever, something that God never meant to happen, I’m sure. I will never forget that horrible night as long as I live. Even now, I can feel that nervous stomach, that lump in my throat, the hot eyes, the quivering of my lips. I hoped no one noticed. The man in the suit with arms outstretched begged each of us to come forward and promise before God and those present in the audience that we would remain pure for the one we would one day marry. Sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? Who wouldn’t want their teenager to hear that and respond????

I stood there and in those few moments of decision making, my life flashed in front of me. As quick as a flash of lightening, that covered grave of secrets burst forth, up in my face, and I knew I could never make that promise to God. I had never heard about abuse, never heard it spoken. I was sure that this had happened only to ME! I only knew I was unclean, impure, used, and dirty. Could I just stand there and say no while everyone else went to the front of the church and said yes? I found my way. I thought it was God giving me an escape. I COULD make the promise -- all I had to do was promise God I would never get married, and that way I would never mess up any nice Christian guy’s life. And so there I was, in all my mistaken understanding of who God was, making a life decision in secret between me and Him. And I’m sure Satan himself smiled!

For years and years I kept that secret. No one ever knew and surely I would never tell. But there is something so precious and amazing in how the Lord works to make sure one day we just get it right. We don’t hear with our ears --- or even our hearts at times. Most of the time, what we hear is filtered through the experiences of our lives, and we interpret things to fit where we have been, what has been done to us, who we know, what we have been taught by parents and teachers and peers. If it doesn’t fit just right, we don’t hear it.

But then it happens. And the Lord takes me by surprise. One day, as I was sitting in church, we were singing the song, “My Hope is Built on Nothing Less than Jesus’ blood and righteousness.” I think I knew that song all my life. I didn’t need the hymnbook --- I knew all the words to all the verses. So there I stood, singing away, when all of a sudden the words to that verse hit me like a spear through my heart: “Dressed in His righteousness alone, faultless I stand before the throne.” Could that be??? Could that POSSIBLY be???

My pastor at the time was doing a series of messages called, “On These We Stand.” He did a wonderful job on going through the main doctrines of salvation, justification, sanctification, etc. But I will never forget that same day, he spoke on how we stood before God and how He saw us as perfect. Dressed in white. Pure. All because of Calvary. I knew that. But why didn’t I KNOW that????

Do you know what that means to a little girl who thinks she’s dirty, unclean, used, and broken??? The little girl who wondered if the angels were watching? The same little girl who stared at the mural on the wall of the cross that bridged the chasm of sin and Hell? I had carried a burden of untruth for so long that I was never meant to carry. Since that day, my whole life changed as I saw God -- not as my stern, strict judge, but rather as my loving, compassionate Father who loves me and sees me perfect. Isn’t that the most amazing thing???!!!! Even more amazing is what it cost Him. To think that price paid was His only Son, just so I could wear a spotless robe of white. . . Thank you, Father!

Are You Shaved?

During that summer of playing on swings in Mrs. Gravendyk’s back yard, my sister and I met a strange man. Strange to US, anyways. We would bound up those big steps and run down the walk and up the slate steps of the big, wrap-around porch. And there he was. Not just once or twice ---- but every single time we arrived, he was coming out of the big double doors with the oval, glass window panes. Maybe he had breakfast there, or was just passing time, I don’t know, but it seemed that we just couldn’t avoid him. We soon found out that he was waiting for the bus which would take him into New York City. Every single time, he told us the same story: How God had called him to tell the Jewish people of New York City about Jesus and that He was their Messiah, along with a whole lot of other “blah-blah-blah” that made no sense to a 9 and a 7 year old. Then he would show us the tracts that overflowed out of his pockets and explained how he gave them out. We would stand there politely, looking at our feet, saying “uh-huh”, wishing we were a million miles away . . . Because we knew what was coming!!! He would always end his speech with a big, booming, “ARE YOU SHAVED?????” (yes, it sounded like “shaved” but we knew he meant “saved) with piercing eyes, pointy fingers, wrinkled forehead, etc.

I think we would mutter “yes” or something, but I KNOW mine was never very convincing to him. It couldn’t have been. I knew I wasn’t good enough, clean enough, important enough for God to save me. But he would leave, catch his bus, and we were free to play on the swing. All I wanted was to get inside that house and look at the mural on the wall --- the cross that led to the city of gold and the angels that protected those crossing over.

I wish I had a recording of that man’s voice. To this day, if I were to ask my sister, “ARE YOU SHAVED????” in that . . . . Voice . . . . She would know beyond the shadow of a doubt who I was talking about. We never forgot him. I wonder why???!!!!! He was probably the first who personally confronted me about my soul. Maybe not the best presentation for a 9 year old to hear, but convicting and soul-piercing, nonetheless. Now that I think of it, up until this point, not one person had ever cared to ask me. Parents, family, Sunday School teachers, Christian School teachers, Youth leaders, Pastor, etc. NO ONE ever once asked me personally if I knew Jesus as my Savior. Yes, I knew the way of salvation as it was explained many times in group settings. And yes, later I DID make that decision to accept Him.

During the past few days, I’ve thought a lot about this odd man and the lasting impressions and memories he had on my life. No matter when I hear of a ministry or of anyone who shares their faith with a Jewish person, I think of him. No matter when I’m asked if I’m a Christian or if I’m saved, I hear his booming voice asking that embarrassed, uncomfortable little girl the same question. No matter when I find myself in the position of presenting the way of salvation, I DEFINITELY think of him, and have better ways of presenting God’s gift of salvation than he did. But. . . . . . It still all boiled down to. . . .

“ARE YOU SHAVED????”

Angels and Kool-Aid

She was a slender, tall, older lady with a big smile and immediately welcomed us into her home. We were standing on the porch, looking through the glass double doors of the great big house. Her wavy, gray hair was pulled back into some kind of twist in the back, and there was a sparkle in her eyes that drew me in. Her accent was Dutch, and there was a sing-songy way in which she spoke. She had a gold tooth which sparkled when she smiled. Her dress was always long and flowing, covered by an apron with a big bow tied in the back. She stepped out onto the porch where we were standing, bent down to where she could look straight into our eyes, gave us each a hug and welcomed us. It was genuine. I could just feel it. And I liked her immediately. I was about 9 years old. And I needed someone to like.

Mrs. Gravendyk was her name. She and her husband lived in a big, old Victorian home and had started a house church there. And I was there for Vacation Bible School --- about the third one of the summer that I had been sent to. My younger sister came with me, along with a few other neighborhood friends. The house was set back, giving room to a big front yard. A few steps led from the city sidewalk up to the walk leading to the house. A huge wrap-around porch with a white railing graced the front of the house. Big, heavy slabs of slate made the steps up to the porch interesting and inviting. It was here we waited each day for Mrs Gravendyk to open the doors. 9:00 am. No sooner. No later.

The meetings were held in the basement of the home, so down the steep, narrow steps we went. There were several rooms divided off, and one had lots of little chairs, a piano, and a flannel graph board all set up and ready to go. Pipes ran along the ceilings, and someone had already attached strings to these pipes. I felt important when I found a string with my name on it. Mrs. Gravendyke came over, put her arm around me and told me that I had “caught” 5 fishes for my string as I had brought with me 5 people. I felt sooooo important! The theme of the week was “Fishers of Men.”

I loved it there. I loved the new songs I learned. ( Of course, we sang, “I will make you Fishers of Men“ at least once every day ---- with all the hand motions!) I loved Mrs. Gravendyk’s enthusiasm as she played the piano and sang. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone play “The Assurance March” like she could! I loved her Kool-aid and cookies, the little crafts we made and the way she told stories. But most of all, I loved the little church --- the sanctuary that I had supposed was once a large library or living room. I stood in awe of what I saw there, and I’ll never forget it as long as I live.

Mr. Gravendyk was an artist and painted murals on the walls of this home. All of them portayed some Bible scene. The one in the sanctuary was my favorite. There were two cliffs divided by a very deep cavern. But stretched across this cavern was a cross. And there were all these little people walking on this cross across the cavern to the side that portrayed the city in gold. There were angels protecting those who were making the crossing. I don’t remember much of what went on when we went into that sanctuary. I was taken by the mural on the wall.

Vacation Bible School came and went, but my sister and I continued to visit with this unique old lady. She gave us permission to play in her huge back yard. All that was there was a tire hanging from a thick rope and we would swing for hours on that thing.

And then, like clockwork, she would come with a few glasses, a pitcher of Kool-aid and some cookies, and we sat on her steps and enjoyed her company and treats. Sometimes we would go inside. And she always let us see the murals.

I felt safe there. There is no other word to describe it. Perhaps it was the ONLY place during that period of my life where I did feel safe. In the darkest of nights, when I closed my eyes so tightly, I saw that cross, and the shiny gold city, and the angels -- and I wished that just one had been there for me.

We moved away shortly after this summer of tire swings and Vacation Bible school. But I never forgot Mrs. Gravendyk. Angels? Perhaps it was this very lady who was sent for such a brief time to add a little light and safety to my steps. I know one thing: Every time I sang the song, “The way of the cross leads home,” I could see that painting on the wall, and I thought of one little old Dutch lady who was faithful to her Lord with Kool aid and cookies.

It's All In A Name

I was the middle child of five -- a brother and sister older, and a brother and sister younger - right smack-dab in the middle. What do they say about middle children???? We are peace makers, good listeners, see both sides, hate turmoil, get lost in the crowd, make good baby sitters, etc., etc. We have nothing that we can call our own --- it’s either handed down to us or it’s taken from us and given to the next one down. We share bedrooms. We are either being taken care of or taking care of someone else. All of these things describe ME. And a little of all these things are still there.

I look at pictures of the 5 of us and I think of a litter of puppies. A few bigger, a few smaller, but you just knew we belonged together in the same doghouse, in the same backyard, on the same street. There on the couch sit three girls with the same haircut, the same dresses, the same shoes, and the same socks. Everything the same --- except the sizes. The up side? I knew I belonged somewhere. The down side? I was just number three.

It even spilled over into my name. I hated my name, and I still do. Typing it here is even hard --- CORNELIA. There. I did it, but didn’t like it one bit. For one thing, it isn’t one of the modern, feminine, trendy names like girls had back in the 50’s. My friends were named Candy, Susan, Nancy, Judy, and other “normal” things. Secondly, I was once again just one of three. Both grandmothers on either side were “Cornelia” so it wasn’t even an original pick. The worst thing of all was when I looked up the meaning of my name. My interpretation was, “Old Maid.” The book said, “Maiden of God,” but since I was single and not liking it, I took this as my predestined confirmation of my marital status in life.

Such big problems for a 5 year old facing kindergarten, aren’t they? Yet, I can still remember worrying about what they would call me --- Cora or Cornelia????? Both were terrible, but please, NOT Cornelia! My poor grandmother was so hurt by this. She could NOT understand why I didn’t cherish the fact that I was her namesake. I cringed every time she brought it up.

Little wonder, then, that I was less than thrilled later in life when I found out that my name was forever carved on Christ’s hand. I stewed about that for a long time. Then it all turned to guilt: How in the world did my name become such a big, important issue??? ME, of all people, thinking that my name meant anything to anyone at all!! Most of the time, I was called everything BUT my name. My parents had to go through the list of all 5 to get the right one. But usually, I was called, “Sneaky Pete”, “Pony”, “Stallion," "bean pole," "corn stalk” and the crowning name of them all, “Dirty, Rotten, Lousy, Stinkin’, good for nothing Bum.” It’s amazing how, as I type those words, I can feel the knife turn in the heart of the little child in me. As adults, we laugh now about those name-calling times. But isn’t it true that what we are called defines who we are? There was a period of time that I thought perhaps it was one of these nicknames that was carved on Christ’s hand.
Maybe it was true --- that I was all of these things.

I HATE name calling. Call it what you will --- I call it down-right bullying, belittling, heart-breaking, tear-jerking, rot. And when I look into the puddles forming hot in the eyes of a child who has just been “renamed” like this, I feel it burn in my own.

Someday, I will meet Him. And He will reach out His hands to receive me. And I will quickly look to see what is carved there -- Cora or Cornelia? I’ll settle for either of those. But then, surprise of all surprises, He will bend down and whisper in my ear so only I can hear --- A NEW NAME! Something just between me and Him. And there I’ll be, dressed in white --- my very own robe all trimmed in gold -- His hand holding mine. And in my other hand? A stone. I turn it over carefully, and YES, it’s true. There, carved perfectly just for me is my new name. It just makes me wonder. . . . . . . What DID He see when I sat on that couch and posed for the picture? What DID He call me?????

A Story to be Told?

Over the past few weeks, I have been reading (and rereading!) Dan Allender’s book, “To Be Told.” I can’t remember where I heard about it, but whatever it was that I read, it sparked enough interest in me to order the book AND the workbook. I thought I was over that. I can’t tell you how many books (AND the workbooks) I have purchased that I thought would “fix” my life. I don’t think I ever once wrote one word in any of the workbooks. And I’ve come to realize that probably no one ever does. Most of them can be purchased on Ebay for less than half the usual purchase price, and they all say they have NO WRITING in them. And along comes another sucker like me, pen ready to go as soon as the mailman delivers my books.
And there I sit with what I hope will be my new bag of fairy dust that will fix whatever is bothering me at the moment. Reality check!!!!!! THERE IS NO FAIRY DUST!

So why this book? First of all, it nipped at my heels because I like to write. I’m not polished, not an author, and probably not that good at it, but if given a choice, I’d rather WRITE it than TELL it. So when the back of the book tells me that I have a story that God wants me to tell, that He has been writing the story of my life up to this point and would like me to pick up my pen and help Him finish the story ---- it got my attention. The author believes that our main purpose and goal of our life is to magnify God’s character and each of us does that in a unique and original way. And once we discover what it is about Him that He wants to show through us, then we find the real and true purpose of our past, our present and our future.

I can’t get away from it. I started with chapter one, reread it to make sure I “got it,” and then went to the workbook. These were not just little “answer the questions to see if you got it” type questions. These were “projects!” Things you need a notebook for. Memories. Lists. Descriptions. OK --- I’m in. I began with a list of the “players” on the stage of my life where my first memories can remember. Just doing that made me take a trip down memory lane.

I’m telling you all this because I think I will post some of these here on my blog. You know, I just love it when some of you have taken the time to tell your stories --- where you grew up, what your grandparents were like, what school was like, your Sunday school teachers, your parents, etc. Those posts just draw me in. It lets me know who and why you are what you are today.

So just in case a story pops up out of the blue about something that took place in my life, you will understand where it’s all coming from --- and where it’s all going. I am so curious! If God wants to show the world just one thing about Himself through ME, what would that be????


Pick up your pen, Lord,
Turn the pages in my book called, “Life.”
And write your Story!
All for your Glory!
And when it all is written
Of what You want to say,
And somewhere in between all the messes I have made
I see grace on every page,
Sign your Name, Lord.
Sign your Name.

Little by little,
Tell of how You loved me.
Fill all the pages others would erase.
And where I tried to write it all my own way,
Cross through my words with ink so full of Grace!
And write Your story!

Little by little,
Tell of how You found me --
Pages of a life all filled with shame --
Write with inks of love and deep compassion,
And when You’re done, sign each and every page!
And tell Your story!

Little by little,
And one soul, then another --
Write Your story for the least of these!
Fill my book, Lord,
Let there be no empty pages,
Pick up your pen, and write about Your peace --
And tell Your story. . .

--Cora Eelman