Uncategorized – Page 2

A Mighty Fortress

August 28, 2018

Twenty years ago, our family of four lived just outside Beijing, China due to my husband’s job. One autumn day, we caravanned with a few other families to a remote part of the Great Wall in our cars, Jeeps, and sidecar motorcycles. To make it even more of an adventure, we decided to bring our tents so we could camp on the Wall that night. My husband drove the motorcycle with our two little girls and their lop-eared rabbit, Moses, tucked in the sidecar. I followed behind in our car loaded with our tents and cooler of food so we could have a BBQ on the Great Wall of China. Arriving at our favorite portion of the Wall—free from crowds and tourists—Rick pitched our tents while the girls and I climbed some steep stairs leading to a part of the Wall that resembled a remnant of a castle, surrounded by a high and strong rampart which is defined as a “wall forming part of a defensive boundary.” Our four-year-old Kelly started singing a Disney movie song, pretending to be a princess, while our six-year-old Christie twirled ‘round and ‘round inside her “castle.” Later that night as the sun began to set, we grilled chicken wings and then roasted marshmallows until the harvest moon lit the outline of the Wall as far as our eyes could see. Though it’s a memory we will never forget—and it sounds like a magical, storybook life—our three years in China were actually some of the hardest years on our family. Kelly, tiny for her age, battled many illnesses that often gripped my heart with fear for her safety. Rick’s job was extremely stressful, and just navigating the traffic in Beijing often made me wonder if he’d make it home alive after work. The enemy was also stepping up his attacks on me, especially in the area of escalating fear, and there were days I thought that he would win. Years later, when our family was long settled back in the States, I found the pictures from our camping trip on the Great Wall. One of the images was of our two small tents right in front of a portion of the Wall that included ramparts, shelters and strong towers. I realized that for most of my time in China I lived like someone in a tent, fearful and vulnerable to the storms and attacks…

Home

August 14, 2018

I just discovered the beautiful song “North” by the group Sleeping at Last. It’s the kind of song that makes me want to get away in our mountains with my journal and write while the song plays quietly over me. Or, it reminds me of the songs that close epic films that truly move your heart to tears and you don’t want to leave the theatre until the song ends. It’s about Home. The song begins with these lyrics . . . We will call this place our home The dirt in which our roots may grow Though the storms will push and pull We will call this place our home We’ll tell our stories on these walls Every year, measure how tall And just like a work of art We’ll tell our stories on these walls Maybe it’s because we moved about every two or three years while our girls were growing up, or maybe it’s because we now have an empty nest that this song brings the tears. But mostly, they are grateful tears for this season—and Home—with my Rick. Home has changed a lot for us in the last four years. Both of our darling daughters married just three months apart in 2014, then they moved hundreds of miles from our Colorado home. Our nest didn’t empty gradually; it was more like a whirlwind swept it out. But we’ve never seen our girls happier as they pursue their new lives, and Home with their dear husbands. It’s what we hoped and prayed for them when they were little girls. And now . . . this Home is growing into our favorite season of our marriage. There were times in our thirty-four years together that we wondered if we’d make it this far, so it’s even more sacred to call this place . . . Home. __________ How about you, what makes you feel like you are truly . . . Home? I’d love to hear from you so please leave a comment! __________ (According to sleepingatlast.com, “North” is the first track of Land, inspired by singer/songwriter Ryan O’Neal and his wife moving into their very first home: “My wife and I recently bought our first house. In the first few days of moving in, I took a break from carrying boxes and wrote this song. It felt only fitting to write a song about our new home, as the first…

Anita, Nessa & Eliza

April 13, 2018

Now in their sixties and me almost there, my two older sisters and I felt like we were little girls again as we huddled together looking at old slides, projected on the wall of our parents’ room. The Kodachrome slides from the ‘50s and ‘60s still held their vibrant colors, making it seem like our parents were back in their twenties and still living among us. We oohed and aahed as the wonder of old memories—long forgotten—seemed to fill up the whole room with the click of each new slide. First, we looked through the slides from the ‘40s, when our parents met and fell in love. Then came the photos of us three little girls, all born in Denver in the fifties, and blondies like our daddy. We’d all forgotten the time we wore new pastel dresses and our auntie curled our hair when we were reunited with our parents after their long ministry trip overseas. Mama had brought us dolls from Paris, and we each held them up proudly as we smiled our crooked teeth grins of little girls. But the photo that made us gasp was the one filled with the images of our mother in her thirties and both of our grandmothers, just in their sixties back in 1964. Two trusted mentors are also there. Nestled among our mama, grandmas, and mentors are us three little girls, just 11, 9 and 4 at the time. The photo looks like it should be in a magazine, filled with splashes of different hues of blue—the mountain range behind us, the light blue ’63 Buick Roadmaster, Grandma’s flowered dark blue dress and scarf, Rhonda’s sweater, and Donna’s teal blue dress. Our other grandma rocked matching white shoes with her white purse. Donna, the middle sister, is huddled by Mama on the far left while Rhonda, the oldest, is to the far right by our Grandma Nessa, a farmer’s wife, and Grandma Eliza Christine, from Chicago whose parents were immigrants from Denmark. I love that four-year-old me is lost in her own little world, oblivious to the love, protection, joy, and beauty that hovers over her. Even my big sisters were my protectors at this stage in my little-girl life. This photo is even more treasured because just ten years after it was taken both of our grandmothers would be in heaven, Eliza dying of cancer, and Nessa in a car accident.…

Goodness and Mercy

March 30, 2018

I tried going to Psalm 23 for comfort and hope in the midst of my father’s suffering from cancer, just weeks before his death. Those familiar words that have brought comfort to so many rang hollow to my grieving heart . . . The LORD is my Shepherd; I shall not want. . . Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me . . . Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life . . . Those promises seemed to mock. Peace was elusive. God seemed distant . . . far away . . . uncaring. One morning as I tried turning to Psalm 23 to read those promises over my father while he was in hospice care, my Bible opened to Psalm 22 instead . . . My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, from the words of my groaning? O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer, and by night, but I find no rest. In you our fathers trusted; they trusted, and you delivered them. To you they cried and were rescued; in you they trusted and were not put to shame. The psalmist’s cries were the same cries of my heart for my own father. But then as I kept reading, I knew those ancient words weren’t about our suffering, but a prophecy of what our Messiah would endure . . . for us. But I am a worm and not a man, scorned by mankind and despised by the people. All who see me mock me; they make mouths at me; they wag their heads; “He trusts in the Lord; let him deliver him; let him rescue him, for he delights in him!” They have pierced my hands and feet— I can count all my bones— they stare and gloat over me; they divide my garments among them, and for my clothing they cast lots. Suddenly my heart was no longer questioning and groaning for my father, but bowed at the foot of the cross as He bled and died for me. Tears were in my father’s eyes and mine as I finished reading Psalm 22 aloud over us . . . and then I finished by reading Psalm 23, which crescendos to. . . Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the…

A Still Christmas

December 12, 2017

My dad passed away only five weeks ago. We just returned to our home in Colorado after being near him in Phoenix the last few months of his life. And, Christmas is coming. It will be simple and quiet this year. A still Christmas. I think Dad’s suffering and death has put the fray of the Christmas season into a new perspective for me. I haven’t purchased one gift yet, and the only Christmas decoration I’ve put out is a treasured manger scene, reminding me our Immanuel is with us. What I love, is that is all okay. A quiet, still Christmas is an unexpected gift. As empty-nesters—with our daughters with their in-law families this Christmas—we’ve chosen a simple Christmas. And in the midst of an especially busy season at work leading right up to Christmas, I’ve given myself permission to . . . Breathe. Grieve. Embrace the quiet and simple this Christmas. I give you permission, too, to find the quiet in your Christmas. (I found this manger scene back in 1982 when I was in Warsaw, Poland, and that country was behind the Iron Curtain. It was like a breath of fresh air—and Light—to find this handmade treasure in a communist country right before Christmas.)

Covered in Hope

November 15, 2017

My father, Mark I. Bubeck, was “promoted to Glory”—as he liked to say—on Monday, November 6, 2017. For the weeks leading up to his death, my husband and I were able to be near Dad in Phoenix, and we had the sacred privilege of being by his side when he was called Home. While watching my dad suffer greatly these past months, I often thought about a story he shared in one of his books about how he was rescued in a snowstorm in the mountains when he was a young man. It is such a beautiful metaphor of how God rescued him from his suffering when he took him Home on November 6th, just ten days ago . . . While on an elk hunting expedition, I once got lost for the better part of a day. As we left camp that morning, our guide pointed toward a basin several miles above timberline and explained that we would meet there sometime in the afternoon. If any of us got separated from his hunting partner, he was to head for that basin. He promised to meet us there and guide us back to camp. We were instructed to keep a couple hundred yards between us so that we might better stumble onto an elk. But that made it difficult to keep one’s hunting partner in view, and it was not long until my partner and I were separated. The forest was so vast I could no longer see that distant basin. On top of that, clouds covered the sun, and my sense of direction was gone. My only encouragement that I was going in the right direction was that I kept going uphill. After several hours of walking and climbing, I was not interested so much in hunting as in just hoping that someone would find me. I did not have a clue as to how I would ever find my way back to camp. Finally, I broke out above timberline, saw the basin, made my way there, and sat down on a large rock to wait. Several hours passed, but no hunters appeared. To add to my anxiety, the sky darkened and it began to snow lightly. I am sure that at that moment I would have panicked if it had not been for one fact. I had hope that my guide would come for me. He had promised. He had told…

Sticks and Moves

July 28, 2017

Before his death, the old man went on a nostalgic road trip to Memphis with his thirty-something son to show him where he had grown up before it was too late. They drove with the windows down and talked of days gone by. The trip was risky as the father had only weeks, maybe days to live. Knocking on the door of his father’s childhood home, the son greets the owners: “My father grew up in this house, and we’re wondering if we could take a quick look around.” The somewhat surprised homeowner nods a nervous yes, and the father walks straight to the fireplace and removes one of the old bricks. As though discovering a long forgotten time capsule, the old man finds a few small items hidden behind the brick that he’d placed there decades before. He says to his son, “My treasure—a few toys and three quarters! I put them here once, and after all these years later, they’re still here. Isn’t that something! Isn’t it strange how the world sticks and moves like that?” While watching that scene from my favorite television show This Is Us, I couldn’t help but be wistful for such a road trip with my own father, now housebound and no longer able to travel. Many of us Baby Boomers are facing that “sticks and moves” time of life. It’s harder than we thought it would be, yet more beautiful than we could have ever imagined. My husband, Rick, and I are in that season of life where our fathers are nearing the end of their earthly lives—both more nostalgic about days gone by—while our first grandson, Liam, is just beginning his days. While his great-grandfathers are negotiating walkers or wheelchairs for the first time, Liam will soon pull up to a standing position in his crib for the first time. While I wonder how much longer I’ll hear my father’s voice . . . first words will soon be spoken by my new grandson. The groaning of the aging process in this life—mixed with the beginning of a new life—is how it should be. Both are beautiful and sacred journeys for the people we love the most. The lyrical Psalm 139 comes to mind. I memorized those stunning words when I was pregnant with my first daughter, Christie, now Liam’s mama. And I love how those same words resonate just as beautifully with my…

Praise Talk Movement

July 11, 2017

I’ve been to many funerals where I’ve wondered if the family spoke words of adoration over their loved one while they were still living. Sadly, we often wait until someone is gone to speak praise about them. Oh, we might write encouraging notes, or say “I love you” or “I’m proud of you!” But how often do we push pause and speak paragraphs of praise over those we love the most? When my mother no longer knew me, or even her own name due to Alzheimer’s, I was speaking blessing over her one day. I told her what an amazing mother she had been: filling our home with her joyful singing, delicious meals, and compassionate love. She looked at me with a blank expression and said, “that sounds wonderful,” not knowing I was talking about her! Thankfully, I spoke much praise over my mother while she was still living and able to understand, but I wish I had done it more often than not. My husband would tell you that his favorite birthday gift ever was when our family shared what he meant to us. Months before, our nest had emptied quickly when our two daughters got married just three months apart and moved hundreds of miles away. Christie and Kelly Skyped their dad on his birthday and began to speak blessings over the father they adored. They thanked him for how hard he’d worked to save money for their college and weddings. They reminisced about their daddy-daughter dates where he’d take them hiking, four-wheeling, or dirt biking through our mountains. Both talked about how they knew what to look for in a husband because of how their dad treated them while they were growing up. We all cried happy tears together as we celebrated the man we love so dearly, and when the call was over my Rick said, “best gift ever” on his fifty-seventh birthday. What if we started a movement where we choose to speak blessing or praise over at least one person every day? . . . over a husband who works so hard to provide for his family. . . . over an elderly parent nearing the end of her life. . . . over a single dad, telling him he is a good, good father. Let’s take time to tell a middle-aged grandma she’s beautiful and a little girl that she’s brave. Marvel at a child’s…

Baton Drop

May 14, 2017

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses . . . let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.” Hebrews 12:1–2

Prince Liam & King Arlo

April 4, 2017

(This story was inspired by my grandson, Liam Dean, who is two months old today. I wrote it on Sunday morning on my plane while flying to be with him. It’s in honor of Liam and his trusted German Shepherd, Arlo. These are the adventures I imagine they will have together one day when Liam is a wee bit older). ONCE UPON A TIME there lived a little prince, named Liam, and his faithful dog, King Arlo. They loved to go on exciting adventures together from sunup to sundown. Everyday they’d run through the meadow behind their castle to get to the forest of trees as fast as they could. It was there that the adventures would truly begin. As they entered the forest through a tunnel of trees, all the woodland creatures would come out of their sleepy hiding places to greet King Arlo and Prince Liam. Rabbits would start hopping, squirrels started chattering, while owls began “who . . . who . . . hooting”—to welcome the King and Prince to their forest. A canopy of colorful butterflies and magical hummingbirds danced above their heads as Prince Liam and King Arlo ran to their favorite spot in the middle of the forest. There, a deep blue pond, where bullfrogs croaked their greetings, awaited them. Prince Liam found a favorite stick and pretended to hunt dangerous wolves one minute . . . and then turned it into a fishing pole the next. He hoped to catch the biggest rainbow trout that ever had been caught in that neck of the woods. King Arlo sat on a huge rock in the sun, carefully watching over Prince Liam who was trying to catch slithery salamanders or slimy snakes at the edge of the pond. King Arlo watched over the activity like a regal shepherd, guarding his prince from any danger that could be lurking in the woods. Though he never saw one, Arlo knew that grey wolves and black bears shared the same forest, so he stayed on guard while the prince fought imaginary dragons with his stick, now a sword. It seemed that all of the woodland creatures felt safer when King Arlo was in the woods. A mama doe slept peacefully in the shade of the trees, with her newborn fawn tucked beside her. She’d sometimes raise her head to catch a glimpse of the giggling little boy as he…

Newer
1
2
3
4
Older