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Engine Failures and Easter

February 28, 2017

A few years ago, right before Easter, my husband and I were on a flight from the East Coast to London to visit our daughter studying at Oxford. We were only twenty minutes into the flight when the right engine blew. There was first a deafening BOOM, and then we saw fire at the right engine outside our window. The smell of smoke started to fill the cabin. It. Was. Terrifying. There was an eerie silence on the plane. Except for one crying baby, everyone was completely still and quiet after the initial shock of the BOOM. My thoughts immediately went to our daughters as I prayed for our safety. The pilot’s calming voice spoke over us, saying we were turning around for an emergency landing. There was no flying over the ocean to drop fuel like you hear about. I think they wanted us to land quickly before the other shoe (or engine) dropped. The pilot warned us that fire trucks would be lining the runway, due to our full load of fuel, and the stress that would have on the brakes when we landed. Obviously we made it back safely . . . but not before this traveler’s heart focused a bit more on eternity. The next day the airline let us reroute our flight plans to Venice and we had Christie meet us there to keep our hotel reservations secure. We and our daughter flew to Venice from two different continents, landed in different airports, and took separate water taxis to the dock for our hotel. When I got off the boat, I scanned the crowd and immediately saw Christie’s blonde hair and smiling face in the crowd coming toward us. Her boat had arrived just moments before. I will never forget that joyful, tearful “hello” after many months apart and an engine failure on our journey to get to her. I wonder if it might be like that in heaven when I see loved ones who have gone before me. We’re told a thousand years here is like only a day in heaven. Perhaps it will seem as if it was “only yesterday” when we finally see each other again. Perhaps—even though she died four years ago—it will be as if my mother also just arrived and I catch a glimpse of her beautiful blue eyes in the crowd as she is running toward me. I am overwhelmed by the hope we…

Good, Good Father

February 20, 2017

My dad has been a wonder seeker of God and His Word ever since I can remember. He prays like a poet with a mighty warrior’s heart. One early morning on a recent visit, he prayed: “Sometimes we can touch just the edges of the wonder of who You are and it leaves us staggered.” I want to be staggered by the wonder of our Father God! I have a favorite, old black-and-white photo of me with my dad when I was only three years old. We were at a wedding together where my dad, the minister, was officiating the wedding ceremony and I was the flower girl. All flower girls think the wedding day is all about them, so perhaps that is why I remember the day so vividly over fifty years later. I remember mama curling my hair, tying my shoes, folding down my lace socks. But what I remember most is the dress. The top portion was soft black velvet and the puffy skirt was scratchy, purple taffeta. I rediscovered this photo just a few years ago in an old box at my parents’ home. What struck me the most is the expression on my father’s face. He is literally gleaming into the camera with eyes sparkling and a big grin. I love how he’s holding me with his strong arm and big hand, almost like I am tucked under his protective care. And I like to imagine he is thinking, “This is my beloved daughter and she is precious to me.” I always think about the heart of our Father God while looking at this photo, now framed in my office. That’s easy for me to imagine because of how my dad fathered me, and the kind of loving father my husband has been to our girls. But I know that isn’t every woman’s story. Unfortunately many of my friends have heartbreaking father stories. The homes they grew up in were anything but safe, protective, kind, and good. For some, it’s hard to even imagine God as a good, good Father. And yet, those same friends have some of the most beautiful relationships with God as their Father that I have ever seen. It’s almost as if they never take for granted that He is good and that He loves them unconditionally. One of my favorite worship songs is called “Good Good Father,” written by singer-songwriters Pat Barrett and…

With

December 28, 2016

I am stunned by the truth that God chose to dwell with us on this groaning earth. I don’t think any of us will ever fully grasp why He chose such pain and suffering this side of heaven . . . all for us! We read scriptures and sing songs about His “withness” at Christmas to the point of taking it for granted. “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given” . . . Isaiah 9:6 “The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and they will call Him Immanuel” (which means “God with us”) . . . Matthew 1:23 God. WITH. Us. What would we have done if He hadn’t come for us? We just spent Christmas week with Rick’s parents in Nebraska. Dad Dunagan was in the hospital recovering from a hip fracture in the midst of Parkinson’s disease. It was heart wrenching to see our very active, independent, man’s man, patriarch of the Dunagan clan suddenly so weak in a hospital bed, fighting pneumonia. His beloved wife of sixty-two years, Roselan, rarely left his side. Her nearness brought him comfort and peace and was such a picture of the nearness of our God. And my husband—their second of four sons—also stayed close; sleeping several nights on a cot by his father’s hospital bed. All of his sons have been keeping a watchful eye over him. As I see these loved ones caring for the grandfather of my children, I can’t help but see Jesus in them. It is such a picture of His loving care for us. His “never leave us nor forsake us” presence, even if we aren’t aware that He is there. This was a different Christmas from the many joyful Dunagan holidays; typically filled with Norwegian lefse, laughter, and opening presents by the fireside. But I have to say the “broken hallelujah” of being with family in the midst of pain was just as beautiful, just as sacred. This year I’ve tried to read through a One Year Bible and stuck with it most days, except when February’s reading of Leviticus lost me. During this last week of 2016, I couldn’t help but linger in today’s reading of the first few verses of Revelation, chapter 21. This is our hope and our future! THIS is why He came for us . . . And I heard a loud…

My Colette

December 26, 2016

(Photo taken by my dear friend, Crystal Rings) I was born the day after Christmas at 4:00 a.m. on a snowy Colorado morning back in 1959, just six days shy of the sixties. As a little girl I always loved having an extra day after Christmas to celebrate with more presents in bright birthday wrapping and bows. By far one of my most memorable birthdays was when our little family moved to Brazil for my husband’s job in 1989 right before my 30th birthday. Our firstborn, Christie, was only three months old and I was struggling with missing family and not being “home” for our baby’s first Christmas and my 30th birthday. But then there was Colette! Colette had also just moved to Brazil with her husband and teenage daughter and she immediately embraced our little family as her own. She invited us to their home for Christmas and then took me on a shopping spree for my birthday the next day. Colette had the kindest, most gentle blue eyes I had ever seen and a smile that lit up the room. She was one of the bravest women I had ever met, moving to Brazil while battling MS and trying to get around on cobblestone streets in her wheelchair. The heat and humidity seemed to escalate her symptoms, making it harder for her to use her hands and arms. In the four years we lived near her in Brazil, I never heard her complain. Colette was at the hospital only moments after our Kelly was born in Brazil. She loved Kelly and Christie as if they were her grandchildren. She is the one who taught my girls to see the person and not their brokenness. Once when Christie was almost three and saw someone in a wheelchair in the airport, she asked, “Mama, do you think that lady will give me a ride on her wheelchair like Colette?” My little girl didn’t see the wheelchair . . . she only saw the person because of Colette. My life was forever impacted by this amazing woman who bravely journeyed through MS for more than 30 years. In December 2002, just a week before Christmas, I received a call from Colette’s family that she might not make it to Christmas. Hospice had been called and her daughter, Darci, said, “Come!” We drove from our Michigan home to Colette’s home in Ohio. I sat by her…

Lamenting Praise

December 1, 2016

I watched as hundreds of birds flew from behind a sun-tipped cloud. It was as though they had been waiting backstage behind the curtain, and came out to perform. They first seemed to be scrambling to find their places—like tiny ballerinas in the Nutcracker escaping from under the massive skirt. They quickly fell in line and formed a magnificent ribbon that spanned the sky as far as I could see—with their “stage” lit up by the brilliant orange and purple paint strokes of the sunrise. I threw back my head like a five-year-old watching them dance over me until they were tiny pinpoints in the distant sky. That early morning scene seemed to shout, “Judy, I see you!” as I began my weekend getaway with God in the Colorado mountains. My life had been hit with storms that included serious health issues for some of my loved ones and broken relationship issues with others. I was reeling, and knew I needed to seek His face like never before. My original plan was to get some answers about suffering as I sought His voice and heart through the Scriptures. I was wrestling with some deep questions and hoped to gain a better understanding about the “why” behind the pain. But God had different plans that weekend… Join me over at Katie M. Reid’s blog for the rest of this post on Lamenting Praise as part of the Listen Close, Listen Well Series.

How Long, Lord?

November 19, 2016

How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and day after day have sorrow in my heart? (Psalm 13:1-2) I love that we can wrestle with our God in prayer. When my mother battled Alzheimer’s for fifteen years there were many times that I cried out, “Why?” and “How long?” to God. It wasn’t until my mother’s funeral in 2013 that He answered my heart’s cry. While listening to my oldest daughter’s tribute to her grandmother, He showed me how much my mother’s story had forever impacted all of our lives. In honor of my mother today, on what would have been her 88th birthday, here’s Christie’s beautiful tribute to her grandmother. . . What I will remember most about my grandma is her unwavering love for her Savior. Anita lived first and foremost for her King; to honor Him, serve Him, and share His love with anyone who would listen. I believe that her love for the Lord was a quality so deeply a part of her spirit—her being—that it was the one thing that could not be erased as Alzheimer’s slowly stole her memories, independence, and mobility. The Lord called Anita from an early age, and she followed Him so faithfully until the day He called her home. What a tremendous legacy to leave her grandchild. I am convinced that if the Lord had asked thirteen-year-old Anita if she would be willing to endure Alzheimer’s later in life in order to teach all those she loved about His faithfulness, perfect love, and grace . . . she would have signed on the dotted line. Perhaps it would have gone something like this. . . Anita, would you be willing to lose your independence and competency one day in order to teach your husband how to love more perfectly? To show your grandchildren what such powerful love looks like? Yes Lord, even still. But would you be willing to lose the faces of those you love, including the many memories they inspire, in order to teach your girls what reliance on my grace and omnipotence looks like? Yes Lord, even still. Would you be willing to give up your love of singing in the church choir and playing the piano so beautifully in order to show hundreds of strangers my love, and share the truth of…

Opening Ceremony

August 7, 2016

I awoke this morning to headlines saying the “highlight” of the opening ceremony for the Olympic Games in Rio was the long walk of a Brazilian supermodel on the stage. Seriously!? I don’t think the millions of viewers would agree, including that model. Instead, I think a major highlight was when ten athletes—all refugees without a country—walked into the arena together to a standing ovation. Or when Vanderlei de Lima was chosen as the one to light the Olympic cauldron to ignite the first Games in South America because he was robbed of a gold medal when a crazed fan attacked him during the race back in 2004 in Athens. But what struck me the most—in the midst of all the unrest and fear across our globe—was the joyful, unified, peaceful celebration among hundreds of nations represented by the elite athletes in that arena. I loved that Portuguese-speaking athletes from Angola were there, and a handful from the country with the whimsical name of Djibouti were there. The team from Bermuda, all in Bermuda shorts, made me smile. And the towering basketball players from America made me proud. The crescendo for me was watching the video of Kip Keino, 72, a former Olympian from Kenya who won two gold medals and is now training young athletes to run in his footsteps. That video showed children gleefully running with their hero through African fields while flying white kites shaped like doves. And then that same hero was live in the Olympic arena, running with Brazilian children with those same white kites trailing behind them (link). (Image Credit: Lars Baron/Getty Images) Even in the midst of an underlying fear that terrorists might target the arena, or the unrest outside those doors as hungry Brazilians protested such extravagant costs for the ceremony, I think I still saw a hint of heaven. The beautiful tapestry of faces from so many nations in joyful celebration together reminded me that one day we’ll be in a similar crowd, with all eyes on Him, worshiping Him together. Yes, I know it’s only the Olympics, and likening that scene to heaven is a stretch. But I found it somewhat ironic that the last camera shot that night was up by the famous statue, overlooking that city of millions covered in dazzling lights. (Fun side note: As I watched the sea of Brazilian nationals smiling in their colorful costumes and heard samba music and…

Standing Ovation

July 25, 2016

Just moments before his murder, God peeled back the curtain of heaven to give Stephen a glimpse of where he was headed. As Stephen looked up, he saw Jesus standing at His Father’s side. I can’t find anywhere else in the Bible where we’re told Jesus is standing at the right hand of the Father. It was if Jesus stood in Stephen’s honor, letting him know He was right there waiting for him. The mob—intent on killing Stephen—was raging, terrifying, insane. One moment they looked like schoolyard bullies with gnashing teeth, rocks in hand. The next like monstrous demons being let out of hell to kill an innocent man. Anyone stumbling onto the scene might have thought it was from a tragic play. It couldn’t be real. But even in the midst of such terror, Stephen was desperate for the crowd not to miss what he was seeing. He tried to get them to look up. We can only hope that he never took his eyes off of Jesus while the rocks pummeled his broken body. While dying, Stephen cried out for God to forgive his murderers. Perhaps he got that idea from Someone else just a few weeks before as He hung on a cross dying for us. Saul, later called Paul, was there when Stephen was being stoned. But he hadn’t yet been blinded by Truth, so he was giving his approval of the murder. I can’t help but imagine that Paul’s life was forever impacted by Stephen’s death. How could a man ever forget such a scene? Perhaps that’s why Paul listened to the One who confronted him on a dusty road just a few days later. Perhaps Stephen’s last words echoed in Paul’s heart when he later faced his own chains, prisons, and beatings. I wonder if God opens up the heavens for all martyrs just before they die. Not all martyrs die like Stephen, with the glow of glory and witnesses to canonize their courage. Some pass quickly in the night or alone in a prison. Some in dusty explosions or crowded camps. I can’t help but wonder if all who die for Christ meet a standing Jesus, welcoming them Home. ___________________________________________________________________________ (I never paid much attention to Stephen’s death until I did a Bible study on the life of Paul several years ago and came upon Acts 7:54-60. When I got to Stephen’s story I couldn’t leave it or skim over…

We Whispered His Name

July 14, 2016

The pastor and his young family spoke in hushed tones while we met in their small apartment in Bucharest, Romania on a cold winter’s night. They knew that the Communist government placed their apartment under surveillance, and openly discussing the translation of our curriculum could lead to arrest and imprisonment. I was just twenty-three years old, fresh out of college, and part of a mission to write and translate seminary-level curriculum for pastors in Eastern Europe. The year was 1983, when Nicolae Ceaușescu—who was likened to Stalin—ruled Romania, then a Soviet-bloc country. His Communist regime was one of the most brutal and repressive, especially toward Christians. As a result, any type of seminary-level training was forbidden except for one government-controlled seminary where only five students were allowed to enroll every two years. Our publishing office was based in Vienna, where we wrote theology and Bible curriculum to train pastors in Eastern Europe. I was asked to go into Romania to teach Christians how to use our floppy disks (remember, it was 1983) to access the files for translating our curriculum. I’ll never forget crossing the border with those disks hidden in my luggage. I tried to act like a nonchalant tourist as the guard looked through my bags. Thankfully, the disks weren’t discovered, and I made it through customs. The next morning we had prearranged that I would go to a neighborhood park and wait on a park bench. A man was going to come up to me with a newspaper under his arm, briefly greet me, and then I was to follow him to his car. True story. As a mother now of twentysomething daughters, I can’t believe it either! That man was the pastor who would later invite me to his family’s home for dinner. He had sacrificed so much to make God and His Word known in Romania. He had given up his medical practice to pastor at least five small underground churches. He had been arrested and beaten many times before I met him. And yet he was risking further persecution just to get our curriculum into the hearts and minds of other pastors and leaders. Decades later, the impact of my visit stays with me. How do you ever forget young families willing to risk beatings, imprisonment, and even death to disciple others? How do you take for granted the freedom to gather openly to worship…

This Wasn’t Supposed to Be My Story

June 24, 2016

There was a time—not so long ago—when the only way I could fall asleep at night was with worship music playing in my ears. I would try to keep my thoughts captive to the truths of the lyrics instead of being overwhelmed by the storms raging in my life. One night, right before bed, I said aloud to my husband, but really more to God, “This wasn’t supposed to be my story!” I felt that I had been faithfully following and serving God for decades, and I didn’t think it was fair that He seemed to be cueing one storm after another, storms that threatened to pull me under in despair. Right after saying “this wasn’t supposed to be my story,” out came the headphones so I could try to fall asleep by listening to a new worship album. I soon heard these lyrics being sung over me . . . Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine! Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine! Heir of salvation, purchase of God, Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood. This is my story, this is my song, Praising my Savior all the day long; This is my story, this is my song, Praising my Savior all the day long. Perfect submission, perfect delight, Visions of rapture now burst on my sight; Angels, descending, bring from above Echoes of mercy, sweet whispers of love. This is my story, this is my song . . . As those beautiful promises washed over me, I started singing the song out loud, tears streaming down my face. I looked over at my sweet husband and tears were in his eyes, too, as he held me close. Just after crying out to God, “This wasn’t supposed to be my story,” He was saying to my heart, “Judy, your true story is that you are an heir of My salvation. You were purchased and washed by My blood. You are born of My Spirit. THIS is your story, this is your song! Even though storms are raging right now, all is at rest . . . because of Me!” “Blessed Assurance” was written in 1873 by one of my heroes, Fanny Crosby (1820–1915). Fanny was blinded in infancy by a botched medical procedure, later married, and had only one child, who died in her sleep soon after birth. Fanny could have easily cried out to God, “This wasn’t supposed…