Perfect and New

The setting could not have been more perfectly composed. Warm yellow sun, shamrock green grass, azure skies, dotted by snow white clouds. The sound of childish laughter rising on tepid breezes from within the requisite white picket fence. Even my suffocating fear paused to appreciate the charming spectacle. For a moment.

Here we are, in a season that has brought so much hope and beauty and joy. We have experienced victory and blessing beyond measure, a home infused with innocence and abandon, a new vision for the future and prospects we never would have imagined. God has placed hedges of healing and favor along our path; yet, beyond this moment, we really have no idea how or when this journey will end. We have only but to trust and obey. And that is not some trite refrain.

This season of hope and beauty and joy has left us wide open to more disappointment and pain and sadness than we could ever imagine. The possibility of failure and disaster were looming as I paused to notice that perfect Spring scene. As beautiful as it was, it almost caused me to weep. Why, when we allow our selves to love, does death deal such a cruel blow? Why, when we allow ourselves to believe we are free, does fear grip our heart and choke it to breaking? The ministry to which we have been called could end in unmitigated disaster or glorious victory. But for God.

Four years ago, when Mom came to live with us, I knew it was the right thing to do. Scott joked, "What's the big deal? It's just like havin' another kid." At the end the first year, he wasn't making that joke anymore. Having Mom with us was hard. Her presence altered our ability to simply watch a movie together on the sofa. Her eye rolls and pffts every time we asked her to respect our requests tested our patience. Her sarcastic, derisive comments each time we complimented one another, were invasive and embarrassing. Having Mom live with us in our tranquil, loving home caused me to realize I had not overcome as much of the dysfunction of my childhood as I had thought. But isn't that what second chances and a life transformed is all about?

I began to pray God would change my heart, help me to love her. When the day came for Mom to be called home -- and God had assured me she would be with Him (More on that another day!) -- I wanted to mourn her passing, not sigh in relief at a lightened workload.  When the time came for her to slough off this mortal coil, I wanted to miss her; I wanted, when people expressed their sympathies or spoke of my loss, to be truly grateful, not secretly ashamed. With that prayer, as with the opening of a door, God walked in and went to work.

That work is what brought me to these bittersweet thoughts on this beautiful afternoon. Like the perfect nature of the Creator found in His creation, His perfect love lives within my heart. And that is not to say I apply it perfectly, for His vessel is imperfect and too often selfish, but I can feel love for my mother -- love that I know did not exist before I turned my heart toward Him and asked for His healing. I speak more gently and become less irritated. There is love for Mom that causes me to enjoy serving her, and compassion that compels me to pray for a miracle: healing in her mind and body, that she might not leave this earth a helpless shell of who she was. I know that when Mom does go from us my heart will break. I know that when death comes to call I will curse its savage indifference. Because of who she was to me. Because of what God has done for me. And I will give glory and praise to the God who makes all things new!