Wonder of Legacy

Praying God’s Word

October 12, 2019

While speaking at a women’s retreat last weekend on prayer, I was struck yet again that I do a lot of teaching on prayer and not enough actual praying! Perhaps you can relate? The leaders of the retreat asked me to share a photo of my grandkids on Saturday morning before I began my teaching on the Wonder of Prayer. I thought it was going to just be a fun opening to my message, but while reviewing my notes earlier that morning, I realized that request was more for me . . . to help turn my heart to my grandbabies and pray over them yet again. As I gathered some of my favorite photos of our three grands to share in my talk, I prayed for each one: Liam who is 2 ½, all boy, and looks just like his PapaRick, Wim who is five months old with dimples and sky blue eyes like his daddy, and beautiful Quinn Roselan, just seven weeks old and already showing us she has a tender heart. Gazing at their darling baby faces (see below), I realized yet again that the greatest gift I can ever give them is to be a prayer warrior grandma over their lives. Part of the message I planned to share at the retreat that morning was how to pray Scripture over our loved ones. We were going to dwell in John 17, the High Priestly Prayer of our Lord Jesus over His disciples, just hours before He died for them . . . for me . . . for my grandbabies. As I read through the prayer in John 17 before heading to the auditorium, I prayed this prayer over Liam, Wim, and Quinn: Holy Father, protect them by the power of Your name. (v. 11b)May they have the full measure of Your joy. (v. 13b)Protect them from the evil one. (v. 15)Sanctify them by the truth, Your Word is truth! (v. 17) Tucked away in verse 20 we see that the prayer Jesus was praying over His beloved disciples extends to us (and our grandchildren) who would come thousands of years after the disciples . . . “I do not ask for these only, but also for those who will believe in me through their word, that they may all be one, just as you, Father are in me, and I in you, that they also…

A Writing Legacy

July 31, 2019

Just two years before my father Mark Bubeck died, I had the privilege of working with him to update his second book, now titled Warfare Praying. By then, he could no longer use the computer, so I asked him to write out a note to the reader to include in the front of the refreshed book. Within a few days, he called me to read the note he wrote over the phone. I put him on speaker, and I typed as he read the powerful words in his deep voice. He began . . . “Holy. Infinite. Eternal. Omnipotent. Almighty. These are ‘God’ words. They belong to Him alone and express truth about Him that will stand forever.” Tears fell as I typed; I knew I’d never forget that moment. A year later, when we had to move my dad into hospice care, I found the letter on a clipboard in his home. It was written in his beautiful handwriting—the same handwriting that penned lyrical poems for our birthdays, encouraging letters when we lived overseas, and powerful books that he wrote by hand. I never dreamed I’d find that handwritten note, especially just a few weeks before he died. God is so kind. I told that story at a workshop I taught at a writers’ conference just last weekend. The room was filled with women wanting to learn more about discipling their readers through the words that they write. My hope was to encourage them that their words matter, and that they may never know the full impact of their written words this side of heaven. I ended the workshop by reading a poignant story from my dad’s book that beautifully illustrates how he used his gift of writing to teach deep spiritual truths from God’s Word in creative ways. I am so grateful for my job as an acquiring editor at Moody Publishers. The door for this new career was partly opened because I worked with my dad on the editing—and wrote the new preface—for the updated version of his first book The Adversary. After joining Moody five years ago this week, our vice president said that he hopes the books we’re publishing today will still be impacting lives 100 years from now. I am confident that my father’s books will be on that list. (You can find Mark Bubeck’s books on warfare, prayer, and revival at moodypublishers.com by…

Anita, Nessa & Eliza

June 23, 2019

I am revisiting this post as I anticipate the safe arrival of our first granddaughter in August. May this be her legacy story one day . . . 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…

Resolute Protector

May 2, 2019

Baby William (Wim) was born just two days ago on April 30 at 12:51 a.m. Apparently he was determined to wait until his exact due date to arrive—all 9 lbs. 7 oz. of him—making his mama labor for over 24 hours. Our daughter and son-in-law, Kelly and Cal are parents for the first time, and now we have our second grandson in our midst. Such GLORY and WONDER! On his first day I looked up the meaning of his name and discovered—resolute protector. Oh, how that describes the heart of God over Kelly and Wim as mother and son bravely labored together to get him safely here! I think resolute is my new favorite word. It means admirably purposeful, determined, and unwavering. Synonyms include resolved, decided, adamant, firm, fixed, single-minded, unswerving, undaunted, set, intent. All of those words make me think of God’s resolute love and protection over us. He is determined, unwavering, unswerving in His pursuit of our whole hearts. His love is purposeful, adamant, firm, and fixed. His guarding protection over us is resolute . . . undaunted . . . adamant. Our God is truly our Resolute Protector . . . . . . Over Wim’s new life. . . . Over the grieving heart of my beloved friend Sylvette, whose baby girl was stillborn. . . . Over dear Gail who is battling stage-3 breast cancer and Beth with stage-4 lung cancer. . . . Over my friend and author Kim as she bravely writes a book for grieving mothers. And, He was the Resolute Protector over this grandma’s anxious heart as I awaited the safe arrival of my new and glorious grandbaby. On Wim’s first day of life outside his mother’s womb, a full rainbow arched high above their home at dusk. What a sweet and not-so-subtle reminder of His guarding, resolute protection over all of us. He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those that have young. Isaiah 40:11 What about you? I’d love to hear how God has been your Resolute Protector. Or if you’re a grandma, feel free to just brag about your grandkids! And yes, I’m including just a few pictures of Wim . . .

Soon, and Very Soon

March 2, 2019

(I wrote this on February 28 in honor of my father-in-law, Dee Dunagan, not knowing he would peacefully pass away by the end of the same day). Soon my two daughters will be bringing our two new grandbabies into the world. A boy is due end of April, a baby girl mid-August. I’m in that season of life when new grandbabies are soon arriving around the time that their great grandfather will be leaving us. The groaning of death and new birth intermingled is not lost on this baby boomer, soon to be sixty. It is the dance of my generation: such sweet joy of anticipation of new life coupled with the pain of saying goodbye to the father-in-law I first met when I was only twenty-one and falling in love with his son. New life beginning while old life ending has been happening for thousands of years, yet that doesn’t make it any easier for the goodbye that is coming so soon. Dee Dunagan will be joining the great cloud of witnesses who have gone before us. Parkinson’s has been taking him from us the past few years. Hospice has now been called and soon he will enter Glory from the beautiful home he built on a lake in Nebraska two decades ago. His beloved wife, Roselan, will be by his side when he goes Home. Early this morning, she whispered, “I love you!” and he opened his eyes and whispered a slight smile back. Parents of four boys—my Rick is their second—Dee and Roselan Dunagan’s love story is what romance movies are made of . . . only better. They met in high school in Albion, a quiet town in Nebraska. After graduating high school, Dee soon got called to Japan to serve in the army during the Korean War. That very smart Nebraska man asked Roselan to marry him before he left and he wrote her every day during their two years apart. Roselan was a teacher in a one-room schoolhouse and started planning their wedding so they could marry as soon as he returned home. While traveling home from the war to his soon-to-be-bride, Dee had debilitating sea sickness, and so his custom-tailored suit from Tokyo no longer fit him for their wedding, celebrated just ten days after his return. Now married almost sixty-five years, their death-do-us-part marriage has been like a beacon of hope to…

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…

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…

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