Wonder of Legacy

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…

The Walk

June 2, 2017

This post is for the Five Minute Friday link-up where writers are given a word prompt to write about each week. We can only write for five minutes with no editing. This week the word was future. _______________________ My father-in-law is a man’s man. He taught himself how to build custom homes and is known around his Nebraska town as the builder of beautiful homes. He raised four boys into men. My man looks a lot like his dad and also inherited his strong work ethic, dry sense of humor, and love for his family. The last few months have been hard for Rick’s dad after two different falls breaking a hip both times. Dad is turning eighty-six years old today; the same week my grandson is turning four months old. This season of life is so poignant, so bittersweet, so beautiful. Our parents are aging into their late eighties while our first grandbaby is just arriving. Strong men using walkers while their great grandson just learned to roll over. But as I watched my man, holding our first grandson for the first time, and as I watch that baby’s great grandfather navigate a walker for the first time, I can’t help but think of the future that awaits this little one. He’s had a long line of men praying for him before he arrived, and those prayers will continue to impact him long after they are gone.

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

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…

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…

The Dance

November 1, 2016

Back in 1983, President Ronald Reagan designated November as National Alzheimer’s Disease Awareness Month, according to alz.org. I assume this was long before he knew he would also battle the disease at the end of his life. In honor of all who are facing the anguish of Alzheimer’s in their families, I thought I’d share “The Dance” which is something I wrote about my parents as they journeyed through my mother’s Alzheimer’s before her death in 2013. My dear mother bravely endured this devastating disease for fifteen years as my father lovingly cared for her in their home for most of those years. I wrote “The Dance” while visiting them in their home in Phoenix… The Dance Their dance took my breath away, heads bowed toward each other, face to face. She in a pink bathrobe, her hands gripped on her walker. He is coaxing her to take steps toward him as he carefully holds on to the front of her walker. He is guiding her toward her hospital bed, placed recently at the foot of the bed that they’ve shared for sixty years of marriage. She is breathing heavily as if she’s run a marathon, taking only ten steps from the bathroom where her husband just helped her like she helped me when I was a toddler. He gently guides her into her new bed. She looks at him with frightened, childlike eyes and says, “I am afraid.” He says “Don’t be afraid, I am here.” He tucks her in while they quietly sing “His Name Is Wonderful!” She still remembers most of the words of this favorite hymn. Her voice is still beautiful and she sings on key. He brushes her cheek with a gentle kiss, and covers her with his prayers. He then goes to their bed alone with his bride in her hospital bed at the foot of his bed. She soon falls asleep, safely under the shelter of him. My mother is free now, safely with her Savior and fully healed! But I pray that I never forget the dance of their “in sickness and health, until death do us part” love story. This photo of my parents, Mark and Anita Bubeck, was taken the year they were married in 1949. Check out the new book, Keeping Love Alive as Memories Fade: The Five Love Languages and the Alzheimer’s Journey by Dr. Gary Chapman, Dr. Edward G. Shaw and Deborah Barr. The…