Childhood Haven

A paradise on earth! A place of wonder, a place of joy! That was Grandma and Grandad's homestead on the outskirts of "Smalltown," Idaho. As my dad turned our shiny new 1957 Ford up the pebble-paved lane toward the old farmhouse, my heart raced in anticipation of the fun time ahead. Turning onto the dusty driveway, I beheld their little log house shaded by a jungle of quaking aspens. The leaves quivered and rustled in the breeze with the muffled din of a hushed audience before the play begins. Scattered throughout the large aspen were pine trees that firmly stood as bulwark giants pointing toward heaven. Bounding out of the car in little-girl fashion, I hurried toward the walkway, which was surrounded with fluffy, pastel carnations neatly lined up like pretty maidens. Their sweet fragrance permeated the old-fashioned porch that led to the front door, as if to lure me further inside. Eagerly darting through the front door, the flowery scent dissipated as I was overcome with the inviting aroma of Grandma’s homemade rolls. After a few warm, snugly hugs from my apron-clad grandma, she dashed back to her old wood-burning cook stove to finish the meal she was preparing. Seeing the dust from our arrival, Grandad, in his striped overalls and scruffy beard, began making his way to the house. He usually entered the back door just in time for dinner. Grandad smelled of hard work and Skoal chewing tobacco, and I couldn’t wait to get closer to him! I took a running leap toward his outstretched arms. How I loved to snuggle close to him and just…SNIFF! As I tried to curl up on his bony lap, his whiskers scratched my face, but I didn’t mind. Whisker burns on my cheeks were a symbol of honor, because it meant Grandad loved me! True to form, Grandma’s piping-hot rolls melted in my mouth. Her cooking was fit for royalty, and the scrumptious meal left me feeling satisfied and ready for a nap. As the adults sauntered into the living room for a more relaxed visit, I headed for my favorite place to doze: Grandma’s lap! She was as spongy and cushiony as Grandad was hard and stickery. Oh, the comfort of nestling into Grandma’s pillow-like form. The gentle, rhythmic creek of her old gray rocker, mixed with the beat of her heart, lulled me into a hypnotic-like trance. Aunt Marijane softly played “The Old Rugged Cross” and other favorite hymns. As I slumbered against Grandma’s breast, the simple melody of the piano was transformed into a heavenly symphony, and the quiet conversation going on around me was as angels’ voices from afar. Refreshed from my afternoon snooze, the greatest challenge of my farm experience was to begin. Grandma draped a basket over my arm and sent me on a “treasure hunt” for the next morning’s breakfast. With the driven energy of a pirate in search of a precious stone, I trekked to the favorite hiding places of Grandma’s prized hens. High-spirited after my discoveries, I would proudly present my “egg-shaped” jewels to Grandma and wait for words of praise to stream from her lips. When it was time for Grandad to trudge out to the pasture and bring in the milk cows, he was accompanied this time by a chattering granddaughter, besides his usual companion, a black cocker spaniel named Sparky. Four of my steps equaled two of Granddad’s. Sparky scurried ahead, stopping periodically to check on us with tongue hanging out and tail wagging, as if urging us to hurry. Along the way, we could hear the quiet lowing of the cattle as they contentedly grazed on the rich green meadow. Grandad’s gruff voice interrupted their blissful indulgence as he hollered “Here, Bossy, Bossy, Bossy!” In a few minutes we heard the familiar “clang, clang, clang,” from the cowbell around Bossy’s neck. This meant the promenade had begun in obedience to Grandad’s call. We turned and headed toward the barn, with the lumbering bovines behind us. As we left the freshly-rained-on grassland and approached the barnyard, the distinct and pleasing whiff of the damp earth, the wet hay, and a cow pie or two, became more dominant. Once inside the barn, milking time was to me what a trip to Dairy Queen is to kids today. As soon as Grandad lined the cows up in their stalls and pulled out his three-legged stool, I knew it was time for me to scamper into the house and ask Grandma for my little aluminum cup. Back in the barn, with a cheesy grin, I boldly positioned my cup directly under the cow’s udder as Grandad squirted the white frothy liquid into it. It tasted better than a milkshake, and I guzzled to my heart’s delight. Then, for the cherry on top, Grandad pointed the nipple toward me and squirted the raw milk directly into my mouth. Grandad’s barn had Dairy Queen beat without a doubt! After a day of vigorous exercise, exposure to farm life, and a warm lavender bubble bath, my body felt limp as Grandma lovingly tucked me into bed. Her lilac perfume, mixed with the line-dried sheets, were a sharp (but pleasant) contrast to the outdoor scents I had been enjoying all day. What seemed like seconds later, a friendly salutation awakened me; it was Hector the rooster, who was as dependable as the army bugle boy. Following a hearty breakfast, we began the daily chores. Grandad, donned in irrigating boots and shovel in hand, lumbered out to the field to dig corrugates with a happy-go-lucky granddaughter skipping alongside him. The deep green, dew-coated alfalfa became an emerald lake as it glistened in the first light of day. While waiting for Grandad to finish corrugating, I sometimes wandered over to a nearby ditch to watch the industrious water skippers magically scoot from one side of the trench to the other. They seemed to be competing in a rousing sport unknown to the human species. It was grand entertainment for a little girl enchanted with her grandaddy’s farm. The days ahead were full of numerous adventures that exposed me to “real life” and instilled in me a love for the land. Though a few days later I was back in the 1957 red and white Ford, returning to the doldrums of city life, my heart stubbornly remained behind. A tear dribbled down my cheek as I waved goodbye to my haven on earth. I was sure that I saw Grandma dab at her eyes with her apron too.

I Love to Tell the Story

It was our last morning with our healthy, energetic ten-year-old son, and the first day of school -- his fifth-grade year.  

Ryan came bounding into the bathroom where I was fixing his sister's hair.

He was radiant. His face was glowing.  
I asked his sister, "Lindsay, do you see what I see?"  

She said, "Yes, Mom, Ryan's face is glowing!" 

We stared at him in bewilderment, and then I said, "Well, all I can say is, 'You must have scrubbed your face extra hard this morning!'"

Then he skipped out the door...
                            ...and out of my life.  

I waved him off with a thumbs up saying, "It's going to be a good year, Bud!” 
Those would be the last words I would speak to my boy on this side of eternity.

Less than a minute later, I heard the screech of brakes, and our family would never be the same.

But there is a silver lining to this dark cloud. 

A week prior to that day, Ryan and I had had a conversation about Jeremiah 17:7-8. He had disappeared into his bedroom for a time and had come out and presented me with a picture that he had drawn of that passage.

I didn't know it at the time, but it was a prophetic message straight from the heart of God.
Unbeknownst to me, I was about to enter into a "year of drought," and He was telling me that I would need to extend my roots to the stream ... 

the stream of Living Water ...

and that He would see me through.

I did.

And He did.

It wasn't easy.  Not at all.

There were hard days.

Many of them.

But God.  (There are those two words again.)

By His grace, I did not cease to bear fruit in my year of drought.

In His Word, I found healing and the will to go on.

The Word of God is my sustenance.

It is living and active,
and sharper than a two-edged sword.

It is life-changing.

I need His Word more than I need      

      food,
                     water,
                                or air.

He is my Restorer (Joel 2:25-26).

And He is yours.

I will spend the rest of my days telling others of His tender care during my dark night in the desert. 

That first trip through the calendar is tough.  
But, oh, how He did comfort me!  I grew to know Him in ways I never had before. 

He is a multifaceted God -- beyond human comprehension. 

He is holy and powerful
... and, yet, compassionate and tender.

I cannot help but tell the story of Jesus and His love …

If I didn't, the rocks would cry out.

With joy and honor, I will tell the old, old story
… until the day Ryan and I are reunited.

And so I wait.

To hear the song, "I Love to Tell the Story," click here.

The Plant

When Jesus walked this planet, He loved to convey the deepest heavenly truths with the simplest earthy examples.  The vine and the branches.  The fig tree.  The parable of the sower. 

And Jesus still delights in teaching us through the School of Nature!   

He gave me a dead plant to prove it.

The Plant.  It was browning around the edges.  I poured myself into bringing it back to its original grand state.  Does it have enough water?  Too much water?  Is it getting too much sunlight?  Not enough?  Maybe it needs plant food!  I had even heard that playing classical music near a garden helps the veggies to thrive, so I cranked up Beethoven and Chopin to see if it was true. 

But all of my efforts were futile. 

The Plant was dying. 

I tenaciously nursed it until all hope was gone.  Eventually, there was absolutely no sign of life anywhere. 

All I had was a dead stick protruding from the soil. 

Reluctantly admitting defeat, I placed it in a cardboard box along with various items that I was not quite ready to part with.  

I thought, “At least I’ll salvage the pot and soil for another time.” 

Tucking the box in a dark storage room, I turned and walked away.

Fast forward to a year or so later.  Rummaging through our basement, I came across the box.  Curious to see what I had put in there, I began pulling the salvage out layer by layer. 

Was I ever surprised when I got to the bottom level of potential “throw-aways” and saw a hint of GREEN popping from the crusty soil! 

                                                       

What?  How can this be?  This little guy hasn’t had a drink of water nor a speck of sunlight for well over a year! 

Staring in disbelief, I touched it, thinking it might be a scrap of paper that just “looked” like a little nubbin. 

It wasn’t paper. 

It was a nubbin! 

A favorite passage flooded my mind:
Jeremiah 17:7-8.  Blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord, and whose hope is the Lord.  For [she] shall be like a tree planted by the waters, which spreads out its roots by the river, and will not fear when heat comes; but its leaf will be green, and will not be anxious in the year of drought nor will cease from yielding fruit.

My God is a big God. 

He provided water from a rock! 

He spoke light into existence! 

How hard would it be for Him to provide light for this castaway lying at the bottom of a darkened cardboard box? 

Not hard at all. 

He did it. 

I can identify with this little lesson from nature.  I’ve been there myself a few times in my life. 

But God. 
(My favorite two words in the English language.) 

Isn’t it true that He specializes in restoration?  Regeneration?  New life?  That is my God!  The One who causes our withered and wilted souls to flourish -- even in the year of drought.   

I brought this speck of life upstairs and tried my best not to hover over it (as much as I wanted to)!  After all, hadn't God taken care of it in the worst of conditions? 

I considered the lilies of the field ... how they grow.  They neither toil nor spin.

Could I not trust Him to complete the work which He had begun in this little sprout?   

Here is the answer to that question:

The plant reminds me every day of God’s care. 

He feeds the birds of the valley. 

He clothes the grass of the field. 

He specializes in making something out of nothing.

Is this not encouraging? 

Whether we see Him or feel Him or not, He is carefully attending to our every need.  

He tells us in Jeremiah, “Their souls shall be like a well-watered garden, and they shall sorrow no more at all … For I will turn their mourning to joy, will comfort them and make them rejoice rather than sorrow.  I will satiate the soul of [my chosen] with abundance, and My people shall be satisfied with My goodness." 

He wants to rain down all that He has for us, so much so that our hearts will rejoice, even in sorrow. 

Do you want to be a plant in His garden?  Not an ordinary plant, but a flourishing, healthy plant?  One that shouts of His love and reflects His glory?  I do! 

If we stop “hovering” over ourselves – i.e., die to ourselves -- and let Him be Lord (He is anyway!) -- then we WILL flourish! 

Did my dead little plant sit in the dark, wringing it's hands with worry over what was going to happen to it?  

No.  It just ... "was."

And while it "was," God's life-giving force flowed naturally into its withered, lifeless stem. 

What a miracle!  What a lesson! 

Sometimes I have felt like this parched plant. I can think of three times in my life when I was sure I was on the brink of death from the anguish of my heart.  

But all three times, my faithful God poured down showers of grace and burst through the darkness like a torch in a cave ...

...and to whom much is given, much is required. 

Hide it under a bushel? No! I’m gonna let it shine!  I have to tell others of His mighty works (Psalm 40:1-3).
                                                                  

Have clouds eclipsed your sun? 
His Light dispels the darkness.    

Are you wandering in the wilderness in search of water? 
There is a Well.    
Remember … The Plant.