Roses in December

Today I gathered around a table with women I dearly love. During the year we meet each week to study, to ponder and to help each other live out the teachings of Jesus. They are my "go to gals when life gets tough" as my North Carolinian friend puts it.

We are moms, singles, aunts, grandmas, and great grandmas. We come from different faith traditions. We love a good discussion. We like to use our minds as well as our hearts. We love to laugh. We love to welcome a newcomer.

Twice a year we gather to celebrate with feasting and gift giving.

The gifts we bring are simple but come from our hearts. Today, one brought a poem. Another a dramatic reading of a lost sheep and his shepherd. One shared a picture of her father who passed away this year. Another brought chocolate croissants.

And another gifted each of us with a fragrant rose and an herb bouquet from her winter garden.

Gifts of love. Gifts of friendship. Gifts to enjoy today.

The roses were fragrant and vibrant. I imagine it was a sacrifice to cut them from her garden at this time of year and share them with all of us. Yes, I live in a climate that has roses in the winter. But this will be the last of their blooms until spring. The roses must have looked stunning in her garden. But instead of keeping them for herself, she cut them and brought them to share.

My rose is in a vase on my dresser. I can smell its sweet scent as I write. It is with a deep appreciation that I enjoy its beauty because it came at a time when a garden rose is a rare gift.

I wonder how often I am given gifts but don't fully appreciate them because they seem common place or ordinary. And yet when given out of season or in a season of pain or grief, they become a lifeline. They become God's gifts of grace at just the right time.

My dad died on December 4, 2004. When we came home from the hospital after his passing, four long stemmed red roses sat in a vase on the kitchen table. My dad had given them to my mom just a few days before his tragic accident. There were four of us who entered the empty house. My mom, brother, husband and I. It was as if he was saying one last time to each of us, "I love you."

On the first anniversary of his death, I bought four roses to put in my home as a way to honor my dad. I now do that each year on December 4. I love that the red roses are part of my holiday tradition. They remind me to focus on what really matters during the holidays. I need that reminder as I can quickly feel overwhelmed by all I think I need to do. I need this reminder all year long!

I was given more than a rose today. I was given a gift of grace. 

For my dear friends who are in a season of waiting or grieving and who are struggling during the holidays, I pray that they too will receive the gift of a winter rose.  The gift of a hug, a phone call, a meal, a note, a prayer. Something that will remind them that they are loved.

Linking up with Tuesdays Unwrapped  

The Oboe's Song

I came across this rendition of Gabriel’s Oboe. Yo Yo Ma plays the cello. Amazing. And I have always loved the oboe. It's like sweet laughter. Yesterday, I just closed my eyes and let the music fill the room. 

You may wish to do the same. Listen before you read the post. Just pause for four minutes and enjoy. 

This piece moves me. It reaches deep into the soul. I am amazed by their artistry. I am inspired to find my own expression of creativity.

There is something that happens when I allow for creativity to flow into my life. I never realized it until I was walking through the grief of my dad's death. He was a man who loved to create but was hindered by a disease. He loved photography. He loved to cook. He would start with a recipe and then become inspired to add his own touches. He loved to write and often wrote for local political campaigns.  

For those who know me, you know that I love photography, to cook with a variety of exotic spices, and to write. It wasn't until my dad's memorial service that I realized that he and I shared so many creative outlets. I never saw it before because I didn't give my life any margins to be creative.  I was too busy being productive. I also couldn’t see my dad beyond his disease of addiction. I only saw the struggle and not the man behind the disease. I struggled to see his creative heart. 

My dad gave me my first camera. He taught me to cook my first meal by his side at the stove when I was in kindergarten. I felt so proud when we delivered it to the table together. He loved to share his writings and help me with my grammar. He was such a stickler thanks to his high school English teacher, Mr.Killion. 

As I grieved the loss of my dad, I found that when I allowed myself time to explore my creative outlets I was more able to feel a connection not only to my dad, but also to myself and to God. The God I worship, I believe, is a Creator God. He loves to create. I see that every time I look at a sunset – A new canvas of color every evening. I don't need to know how all the molecules collided to make it happen. I can just stand and gaze and enjoy its beauty. 

When I take time to be creative, I believe I become more connected to the God who created me. Maybe it's because when we create, it comes from our uniqueness. It reminds us that we are not a face in the crowd, but we are a beautiful child of God created in His image. 

Gabriel's Oboe touched my heart in a way that it reminded me of my life's journey.  For me, the cello is life as I move through its ups and downs. Life in all its emotions. Life in all its complexity. The oboe is those places along the way that surprise me with joy and punctuate the cello's notes. I now know that they do come and often when I least expect it. And finding creative expression is one way I can help my life hear the oboe's song.

Creativity can come from so many places. 

Experimenting with a new recipe 

Trying a new spice

Planting a vegetable garden, rose garden, or herb garden

Picking up a camera 

Making something out of Legos, wood, play dough or fabric 

Writing a poem 

Knitting a scarf 

Playing the guitar, piano, or recorder

Painting with oils, crayons, watercolors, or finger paints 

Learning a new sport

Dancing

Singing

The list is endless.

My children remind me that creativity and using our imagination is how we grow, celebrate, and discover who we are meant to be. Today, I need to remember that I don't have to master it. Just try it and enjoy the process of discovery. What do you enjoy? Add a comment and add to the list. Let's discover together.

Waiting

When I was a college student, I worked as a staff counselor at a summer camp in Sebastopol, California. I vividly remember Steve, the lead staff counselor, gathering a group of counselors together at the base of a hiking trail for a training session. We were getting ready to work together with high school students in an intensive two-week camp and needed to be able to rely on each other.

Goat Rock at the Sonoma Coast

Steve loved to challenge us physically so that we couldn't do things on our own but had to work together. Trust each other. Listen to each other. The week prior it was a hike up Goat Rock at the beach so named on the Sonoma coastline. I dreaded these training times. I never realized until that summer that I didn't like being pushed out of my comfort zone physically. I liked to play it safe. I had fear of heights. Steve loved to get us up high!

On this particular day we were divided into groups of three. Two of us were blindfolded while the third was the leader. We were to hike up a narrow trail with our leader guiding us. The trail was steep, narrow, missing steps with rebar (steel bar) jutting out. I joined my group of three, put on my blindfold, and listened to our leader as he asked us to hold hands. His voice then guided us where to place our left, then right foot, as we made our way up the trail.

At one point in the journey, our leader stopped us on the trail and said, "Kim, you'll have to wait here. I can't lead you both at the same time. Wait until I come back to get you."  I stopped and waited while he led my friend on up the trail. I waited and waited. I knew this trail. Just last week I had been with the team rebuilding steps. I thought, "I can go forward by myself". With my blindfold on, I bent down and started to use my hands to feel the steps. They were missing. I had no idea what was up ahead. I only tried for a few seconds and decided that I needed to wait until I could be guided by someone who could actually see.

What struck me about this moment was that I even considered going forward at all. Why couldn't I just stand there and wait? Why did I hate waiting so much? Why was I so determined to move forward even though our leader promised he'd come back for me?

I have come back to that experience many times in my life when I have had to wait. I know a lot about waiting. I waited month after month in hopes of a pregnancy. Those months turned into years. I waited for doctors to tell me if the procedure was successful for a pregnancy. I waited for paperwork to be approved for the adoption process. I waited for the pain to lesson from a failed adoption. I waited for the courage to try again. I waited for the phone call that said we'd been chosen. I waited for the baby to arrive and be placed in my arms. I waited for the adoption to be finalized. And then I did the adoption process all over again a second time.

I know waiting. Waiting that is filled with wishing and longing. Some days I waited with hope. Some days with fear. Some days with surrender. Some days I waited in tears.

During my years of infertility, I asked God for a miracle. I wept. I pleaded. I waited. I wrestled with God and asked him why he didn't give us a miracle. When I looked to the Biblical narrative, I found many times when God's people had to wait. But I struggled as I looked for comfort and only read of barren women who all got their miracle -- a pregnancy.

But there was a place that gave me comfort. It was a place that surprised me. It came from what was not written. I was drawn to the silent years of Jesus' life. The Gospels give an account of Jesus' birth, of an event when he was a young boy, and then when he began his ministry when he was around 30 years old. He then began to reveal himself and do miracles. But Jesus lived for years in Nazareth before anyone knew who he was. He must have known people he had grown up with who were sick, dying, hurting. And yet, he had to wait. It wasn't his time to reveal himself. He didn't heal them even though his heart must have longed to do so. He had to wait until it was His time. Even Jesus had to wait for God's timing. This gave me profound comfort in the midst of my waiting.

God's timing is a mystery.

Sometimes the journey of waiting presses in on how I see God. Is he truly loving and good all the time? Sometimes it pushed in more than I thought I could bear. God's timing is a mystery. And somewhere along the way, I began to live in the mystery.

That doesn't mean that I ignored my grief and pain. But I had to learn how to live in the midst of the waiting. For me that meant living one day at a time. I had to choose to stop living in "if only I had a baby, I will be happy."  Slowly, I found I could do one day at a time. When I looked at tomorrow, it was too scary. Some days I did that better than others. Some days I needed to be gentle with myself when my empty arms were too heavy with grief. But slowly, I began to choose to start looking for the things that were good and beautiful in my life in the midst of the pain...one day at a time.

I have friends who are waiting. For a baby. For a job. For a spouse. For an end to chronic pain. For an adoption to be finalized. For a family member to choose recovery. I wish I could tell them how long they will have to wait. I wish I could tell them that they will get what they are waiting for. But I can't. And I don't know what they need. But I can ask. I can listen. I can wait with them and pray with them and let them share their pain. I can walk with them.

I still don't like waiting. I still want to rush through it and try to find a way out. Steve knew what he was doing that summer in 1989. He knew that we needed each other to help us up the trail. We can't get very far when we try to do it on our own. We don't have to wait alone.

Perpsective

I posted this picture on Facebook this week. Some of you enjoyed it too. It made me giggle and think about the warm molten chocolate cake at my favorite restaurant in town. You got a favorite too?

The same day I posted it, I had a very difficult conversation with my son as I was putting him to bed. His vocal tic was very active that day and interfering with speaking. As I said good night, he said, "Mom, why do I have Tourette's? It's like God spun a wheel and it landed on me. Everyone else got one millionth of a chance of getting it and I got it all. It's not fair."  I gave him a big hug and said, "Nope. It's not fair."

Right now life's doesn't feel fair to an eight year old boy. I understand. I had the same battle inside when I was struggling to get pregnant month after month after month. It was especially difficult on the days when a friend would announce she was pregnant and include that extra detail that it only took one try. And it didn't help when people would tell me, "Oh it will happen. You'll get a baby one day." I wish I could tell my son that some day his tics will go away. But I don't know that. So I don't say it. Some one has already said it to me though. Ugh.

Some days feel better than others for my son. On another night last week, he wondered what it would be like to meet other families with kids who have Tourette's. He said, "It would be like a 'Tic Band' with all of us doing our tics on the table." We both burst out in laughter as we tried to imagine the sound. It felt good to laugh together. My son needs to have the freedom to get angry, to grieve, to laugh and to find acceptance in his own time. I think we all do when life gives us more than we can handle.

As a parent, I want to walk this difficult road for him so he does't have to. But I know I can't. That night when I left his room with a heavy heart, I realized that because of my journey through infertility, I can be the mom I need to be to my son.  I don't have to try to fix it. I can let him feel his feelings. Another unexpected gift to come out of the "yuck" of infertility. That was God giving me some perspective.

I wonder if one day my son will see the connection between his journey and my own. Will he realize that I wouldn't have him if I had given birth to a child? What will he see in the years to come that his life has been given because he has Tourette's? Will he be able to see those gifts?

Right now, I am asking God to give me the wisdom to accept the things I can not change and the courage to change the things I can. For me, that usually has a lot to do with changing my attitude or my perspective. And it would was good to be reminded this week that humor is a great place to start.

So enjoy your favorite dessert this week and maybe a good laugh too.