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Mama Fear

February 24, 2019

If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast. Psalm 139:9–10 I’ve faced anxiety since I was itty bitty. One of my all-time favorite books about anxiety is Calm My Anxious Heart by my dear friend Linda Dillow. She shares a quote in the book by French philosopher Michel de Montaigne: “My life has been full of terrible misfortunes most of which never happened.” That was especially true for me when it came to worrying about my babies. I remember holding my newborn baby girl for the first time and being overcome with such joy, awe, wonder . . . and paralyzing fear. I silently prayed something like this, “God, thank You for this beautiful new life. Thank You that Christie Anna arrived safely and is healthy and strong. Don’t ever let anything happen to her because if you ever take her, I will die.” It was one of those white-knuckled, fist in the air prayers thrown at God, where I thought I had made a deal with Him that went something like this: “I’ll be willing to go through anything, God, just don’t let anything happen to my baby . . . ever!” I didn’t realize it at the time, but I kept that prayer locked in my heart until five years later when our family was living in Beijing, China. We moved there in 1995 for Rick’s job. Our second daughter, Kelly, was just three when we landed in Beijing, and Christie was five. We arrived in January, and all four of us were immediately hit with upper respiratory illnesses due to the bitter cold winter months and the pollution, fueled by burning coal. It was especially hard on Kelly, tiny for her age. For a mama who struggles with anxiety, I was often gripped with fear about Kelly’s health. Toward the end of our first year in Beijing, she became extremely sick one week with a high fever and sore throat that was not going away. The doctor at the international clinic would not give her antibiotics because the rapid test for strep was negative. After two days, my mama bear instincts kicked in and I called my pediatrician back in the US, 3:00 a.m. my time, 3:00 p.m. his. He got on…

Standing Ovation

January 30, 2019

Just moments before his murder, God peeled back the curtain of heaven to give him 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 AS 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. 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 them, just like his Savior had done as He hung on a cross dying for us. Saul, later called Paul, was there when Stephen was being stoned. Not yet blinded by Truth, Saul was giving his approval of the murder. I believe his 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 not long after Stephen’s murder. Perhaps Stephen’s last words echoed in Paul’s heart when he later faced his own chains, prisons, and beatings. 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. ___________________________________________________________________________ You can read the whole story of Stephen’s life and death in Acts 6:1-8:3, and where Paul was finally blinded by Truth and chose to follow Jesus in Acts 9. I encourage you to take time to dwell in those stories as you will come away changed. Will you join me in praying for those who are being martyred just because they love and follow Jesus. These organizations are making a difference: Voice of the Martyrs and Open Doors. And check out this powerful blog by Randy Alcorn, author of…

Pray, Already!

January 15, 2019

My uncle held it together while talking about the impact of his older brother’s life, showing much honor for his beloved sibling at his funeral just ten days ago. But then . . . my uncle tried to share about the impact of his mother’s legacy of prayer and he couldn’t speak as the tears came. Looking down the row I was sitting in, I saw both of my sisters wiping away tears and many of my cousins. I was a mess. Our grandmother left this earth in 1974—killed in a car accident with our grandfather—and yet, her legacy of prayer is still being heralded as one of the greatest gifts to her family. Forty-five years after her death—and at the funeral of her 92-year-old son—my Grandma Bubeck’s prayer warrior heart was highlighted. Oh, what a legacy to seek in my own life. What wonder if decades after I’m gone, one of my descendants still speaks of my prayer covering! My grandmother, Agnes (Nessa) Bubeck wasn’t perfect, just like the rest of us. But all who have come after her—her five sons, sixteen grandchildren and countless great-grands—all remember her as a woman who prayed, often on her knees by her bed late into the night. We joke that she had to pray because it was her only way to “protect” five rambunctious boys growing up on an Iowa farm back in the 1920s into the early fifties. She prayed for their safety, but also that they’d all grow into men after God’s own heart. During the last week of December, I started to sense a new calling on my life to pray more. Oh, I have been teaching and writing on the importance of prayer for years. But actually “doing” the praying has been more elusive for me. Perhaps you can relate? On New Year’s Day, I journaled that I want to be a true prayer warrior who prays more consistently over my family this year. Yes, I know that those type of new year confessions can fade away within weeks. But I pray that isn’t so this time. Just three days after my journaled prayer, my uncle shared about my Grandma Nessa’s prayer legacy at his brother’s funeral. I don’t think that was a coincidence, but a gentle reminder from God that I can try to at least follow in her footprints . . . or her kneeprints of…

Toddler Christmas

December 15, 2018

Last year I wrote a post about our Still Christmas where we chose a quiet, still Christmas because of my dad’s death just a month before. Our daughters were celebrating with their in-law families and the only decoration we put out was a treasured manger scene I bought in Warsaw over thirty years ago. It’s a Christmas I will always treasure for its simplicity and stillness. But this year will be different! Our Colorado home will be filled with our girls and their dear husbands. And, of course, our almost-two-year-old grandson, Liam, will be there. He will take center stage with his menagerie of stuffed animals, books, cars, and dinosaur toys—and most likely he’ll play with the Warsaw creche. Oh, the wonder of having a toddler BOY in our home for Christmas! We’ll journey to our Cheyenne Mountain Zoo—with its sparkling Christmas lights and a ski lift tucked against the mountain. Liam will feed the giraffes and roar with the lions. And on Christmas Eve, we’ll line a pew at our church for the candlelight service, where I’ll keep an eye on the candle that toddler Liam is holding. I’ve dreamed of a Toddler Christmas for years, often watching the awestruck grandmas holding new grandbabies while celebrating the arrival of the newborn King. This Christmas will take me back to Christmas of 1988 when we surprised our parents with the news we were expecting our first baby, now Liam’s mama. The room exploded with joy that Christmas Eve when we told them our first baby would arrive August 1989, now almost 30 years ago. That makes me think of the most spectacular baby announcement ever given in the Gospel of Luke, chapter 1, where Angel Gabriel announced to a teenager that she would give birth to Messiah Jesus. What WONDER AND AWE . . . and FEAR that must have washed over dear Mary as she tried to comprehend what was spoken over her. I love how the angel took time to tell Mary that her old cousin, Elizabeth, was six-months pregnant with her own miracle baby. When you first read this account (vv. 36–37), it almost seems that it’s an afterthought, as though the angel just decided to tack on something like, “By the way, I thought you’d want to know that your old cousin is pregnant too.” But instead, I know the heart of our God and I think…

One Year

November 6, 2018

Photo by Nico Frey on Unsplash I WONDER . . . Is there a celebration in Heaven on the anniversary of the day you arrive, like we celebrate birthdays here—only much, much better? One year ago this morning my beloved father entered Glory. Early this morning I awoke to this text from our daughter Christie . . . “Love you Mama. Praying for you today as we remember and celebrate the life of our Grandpa Bubeck. Though we miss his presence daily, he gets to celebrate one year today in the throne room enveloped in the presence of his King, best friend, and Creator.” What a stunning way to look at the one-year anniversary of my father going Home. In the midst of my sorrow today, I’m choosing to celebrate that he’s had a whole year in the presence of his King Jesus! My dad would want it that way. A friend recently shared a quote from Victor Hugo with me that so resonates with my heart today: “When I go down to the grave I can say, like many others, ‘I have finished my day’s work!’ But I cannot say, ‘I have finished my life.’ My day’s work will begin again the next morning. The tomb is not a blind alley; it is a thoroughfare! It closes on the twilight, it opens on the dawn!” —Victor Hugo In loving memory of my father Mark I. Bubeck February 20, 1928 — November 6, 2017

This Little Light

September 24, 2018

The just-before-peak fall aspens surround us this September morning at our campsite in our Colorado mountains. A light wind makes the aspens shimmer and dance in the sunlight, creating a sound like none other. Their vibrant burst of yellow against a mountain of evergreens takes me back to my childhood, when our family of five camped in these same mountains five decades ago. Those camping trips with Mama and Daddy and my two older sisters are some of my sweetest childhood memories. Daddy would wake up a different daughter early each morning at 4 a.m. to take us fishing because that’s when the rainbow trout were the hungriest. Daddy always caught the maximum number of fish allowed, bringing back enough trout for Mama to grill for breakfast, and often for lunch and dinner, too. One year while we were camping all three of us girls came down with the measles and fevers, which had to be super fun for our parents. Another year in the middle of the night a bear, standing on his hind legs, banged on our small camper door while Daddy stood on the other side of the door boldly yelling at the animal in a deep and fearless voice. I think that’s the only time in my life I knew Daddy was scared. One of my most vivid memories camping was when I was just eight years old in 1968, and I had a new “Big Chief” writing tablet that Mama bought me for the trip. She knew I loved to write stories and draw pictures to illustrate them. Often while my sisters were out exploring old mine shafts or having other adventures in the mountains, I’d stay close to Mama at our campsite, sitting at the picnic table, writing stories about children having adventures in the mountains. Years later when I was living on the other side of the country and Mama knew her memories were fading from Alzheimer’s, she sent me a box of my childhood treasures she’d found in their attic. At the bottom of that box I found that old writing tablet—which I still have to this day—and it sparked a fresh love of writing for me that had long been put aside. I love that my man, Rick, is grilling bacon and poblano peppers for our breakfast with cheesy eggs as I type this on my MacBook Pro—a writing tablet a…

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…

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.)

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