Walnuts and orange juice

“Why should I feel discouraged…

When Jesus is my portion? My constant Friend is He:
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me” 

“His Eye is on the Sparrow”— Civilla D. Martin

Over the course of my life, God has spoken to me in many varied ways. But the other day He sent me a message in a bag of walnuts given to me by my neighbor/ second mom. Usually neither she nor I even keep walnuts on hand and she had no idea that a couple of hours before, I had written them on my grocery list after reading that the omega three in them might help heal the damaged ankle ligaments that have plagued me nearly all summer. As I held the bag, I felt like Hagar who called the Lord “the God who sees me.” (Gen. 16:13)

It was an intimate moment with the Lord. He seemed to whisper that not only did He read my grocery list but He could bring to my door any item on it at any time He chose. And a God who is that interested in me surely sees and cares about the pain and frustration this ankle is causing me.

My friend’s gift reminded me of another friend who allowed God to use her seven years ago. While Mom was slipping away one agonizing day at a time, many friends and family members ministered to us through the gift of food. One morning, a longtime friend brought a feast of breakfast foods that included biscuits, pastries and orange juice. After she left I pulled the OJ carton from the fridge and tears filled my eyes. I went to Dad and whispered, “Daddy, who is the only person in our family who likes pulp in their orange juice?” A puzzled expression on his face, he looked up and answered, “Me.” With tears streaming down my face, I held out the carton and said, “Daddy, God just sent this orange juice as a message to you to remind you that He sees you. You are not alone in this.”

How grateful I am to friends who choose to act like God: who not only see our circumstances and needs, but who care and then involve themselves in our lives as the hands and feet of Jesus.  And how grateful I am that no matter how overwhelming life can become, God ultimately works all things for our good. (Romans 8:28)

It Is Well

Like me, Mom often sought comfort in music and one of her favorite sustaining hymns was “It Is Well” written by Horatio G. Spafford who penned the hymn in the aftermath of great personal loss. Maybe that’s why his words evoke such peace when I am in the midst of a trial. As the hymn has brought me great comfort through the years, I turned to it again tonight, two days after the seventh anniversary of Mom’s passing.

This year, her homegoing date, Aug. 15 brought more loss as dear friends moved three states away to Texas. These are friends who have become family to me as I cared for their son the last three years. We have shared many meals, many laughs, a few tears and more cups of tea than I can count. They have enriched my life in many ways and after seeing them nearly every day each week, their absence will leave a hole in my heart and in my life.

Just as God prepared me in advance for Mom’s passing, in His infinite grace, He began preparing me for this change long before it became reality. Still, as is the case with any great loss, every other loss compounds that grief and I do not know why the dates coincided this year, but God gave me the strength and the grace to handle both their leaving and the remembrance of Mom’s passing. He even led me to read a book author Cindy Woodsmall had given me when I met her at a writer’s conference in June. Her novel A Love Undone recounts the story of Jolene Keim who is grieving the loss of her parents and struggles to define herself without them. I identified with Jolene’s close relationship with her parents and how their loss upended her life. Still, the novel and Jolene’s life are imbued with great hope and peace given to her by the Lord; the same gifts He has given me.

Thanks to the constant reassuring presence of the Comforter, I know my friends and I will endure this change and will continue our friendship across the miles. And while each summer I will always think of Mom’s passing, I will remember the beauty of her life and rejoice in the new life she has now. So, even as new sorrow comes again this August, because of God’s goodness and grace, I can still sing with Mom and Horatio Spafford, “It is well with my soul.”

Give Up the Fight

“He who knows when he can fight and when he cannot will be victorious.” –Chinese philosopher and military strategist Sun Tzu

A couple of months ago I told God, “I’m tired of fighting.” For 15 years I fought for Mom’s health. Then I fought for Dad’s deliverance. And I battled for my healing. At times, grief has wrestled me to the ground and the enemy has tried to steal my faith. There have been many other battles and now I have found I am weary of fighting. So, when my exhausted spirit poured out its complaint to the Lord one night, He replied with Deuteronomy 3:22:  “. . . the LORD your God himself will fight for you.” The triple emphasis in the verse caught my attention: the Lord your God Himself. I need not rely on anyone else’s faith or relationship with the Lord, for He is my God. I can call on Him and He will be faithful. Using the reflexive pronoun “himself” underscores the importance that God has assured me He will intervene. He is not a distant deity who simply watches from heaven. He will insert Himself into my circumstances and will not only fight for me, on my behalf, but will engage the enemy and fight him in my place, instead of me.

The passage’s two nouns and one pronoun referring to God indicate His triune person so the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth, His only Son, my atoning sacrifice, and the Holy Spirit, my comforter and counselor plan to do battle for me just as they did for the children of Israel. New challenges have arisen this summer and over the last two weeks, three times more the Lord has brought this verse to me: in a sermon, on a blog, and in a novel. So for now, I will rest and allow the Lord of hosts to wage war on my behalf until He decides I need to rejoin the battle. 

Blue Hydrangeas

“Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning.” James 1:17

A couple of years after Mom died, I went to the Mobile Botanical Gardens to celebrate her June 10 birthday. I spent the morning roaming along meandering paths admiring nature’s beauty and missing Mom. In the structured, manicured herb garden I curled onto the wooden bench of a latticed arbor and called Dad from my cell phone. I described to him the snowy cascade of roses that tumbled over my head and down the sides of the arbor. I could hear the smile in his voice as we chatted, savoring memories of Mom and I felt the shift to sorrow as we shared the heartache of losing her.

Reluctantly I ended the call and continued my stroll through the gardens. A worn, wooded path along the perimeter beckoned to me and I drifted into a brown world of dirt and dead leaves far from the vibrant roses and fragrant rosemary and sage. I walked about ten minutes as the path wound uphill and the mottled sunlight floated toward me through the canopy. As I rounded a curve and gazed upward, I felt like Dorothy entering the technicolor dream world of Oz. Before me the hilltop garden opened up to reveal a rainbow of hydrangeas in purples, pinks and blues. My breath caught as my eyes feasted on the botanical bounty in front of me. I wove along the path, examining the flowers, but stopped to gaze at the blue ones, the most prevalent color among the plethora of showy blooms.

I sat down on a periwinkle bench, laughing and crying, and called Dad back. I described the scene to him. “Your Momma always did love blue hydrangeas.”  His voice was soft, full of love and longing. The beauty before me reminded me that Mom was now in a place of unimaginable splendor, unfathomable peace and unending love. All her sorrow and sickness were erased. And even though Dad and I were separated from each other by hundreds of miles and were temporarily separated from Mom, it felt like God gave us a birthday gift meant just for her and just for us: a garden of blue hydrangeas.

Close Encounters

Two weeks ago a close encounter with a snake led to a weepy, worshipful Wednesday. Early in the morning I was walking in my friend’s yard when my sandaled foot slipped on what I assumed was a wet stick. Startled, I cried out and my friend asked what happened. I told her I had thought maybe it was a snake, but it probably wasn’t. We had already walked several steps past the area but she rushed back and investigated the “stick” which proved to be a well-camouflaged snake. Thankfully, she sprang into action before he did and whacked him to death with a hoe.

I was stunned by how close I had come to danger, stepping on a snake with almost bare feet. I had even felt it move under my foot, but thought that was the effect of an overactive imagination. By some miracle, it did not strike me though I gave it motive, opportunity, and an open target. The incident stayed with me all day long and each time I thought of it, my heart raced. That little encounter had the potential for disaster, especially if the snake was really a copperhead which is how my friend identified it.

I felt God miraculously protected me. And the remainder of the day, my frequent thoughts of His protection and amazing grace brought me to tears. The episode led me from a terrifying encounter with danger to a close encounter with the Creator.  As a result, I spent quite a bit of time praising Him for His goodness and thanking Him for His love. The incident was a visceral reminder of another friend’s warning months ago to remain alert for the enemy’s tactics in my life. But it also presented an opportunity to draw close to God and to reflect on the truth of Psalm 46:1: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.”

Momma Jean

When Mom was in nursing school, the students were addressed by their last name so she was simply called "Armstrong." Then when she married dad, she became Mrs. C. Michael Lovvorn. One of Dad’s favorite nicknames for Mom, Jeanie Bug, came from her dad. But one of Mom’s favorite names for herself was Momma Jean.

Mom always wanted lots of children, but was only able to have my sister and me. God’s plan included many more kids for Mom, though, starting with all the babies, toddlers and teens she cared for during her nursing career. Then there were all the children and teens she taught in Sunday School and discipleship training not to mention all mine and my sister’s friends. When Mom returned to college in her 40s, even a lot of her younger classmates called her “Momma Jean.”

With a generous spirit, a great sense of humor and a compassionate heart, Mom made the perfect surrogate mother for lots of folks in need of love, wisdom and guidance. She always “told it straight” but added kindness when she did so. And no matter her age or accomplishment, Mom never thought herself too dignified to sing pop songs as she sashayed down the grocery aisle, to chair dance in public, or to give you a playful wink at a secret the two of you shared.

She would play board games and charades with the church youth group, dance the hula with a bunch of giggly girls at a Christmas party and vogue for goofy family photos. At my sixteenth birthday party, she taught everybody the stroll and other dances from her youth. For mom, any day, not just holidays and birthdays, was an occasion for a party. She was the hip mom who knew teen slang, popular fashion and beauty trends, and all the high school gossip. Mom wasn’t in the know because she wanted to try to be cool; rather, she wanted to be engaged with us, to share every aspect of our lives. She made us laugh and cry and laugh until we cried. Often when I think of Mom, I am reminded of her exuberant spirit and unquenchable zest for life. I feel pretty confident the rest of her kids remember those things too.

Daddy's Love

Daddy loved sweet iced tea, lemonade and root beer. He loved Mom’s from-scratch cornbread and her semi-homemade cherry pie. He loved to travel and to tell us of all his adventures when he came home. He loved serving the Lord and His church. And he loved me.

Daddy never hung up the phone without telling me he loved me and even after I was a “grown woman,” he still answered my calls with either “Hi, Princess” or  “How’s my Baby Girl?” But he didn’t love me with words only. He showed his love time and time again through his thoughtful and kind actions. I remember the Christmas I was eight and Santa brought me a huge, swanky Barbie Dreamhouse filled with furniture; the only thing missing was a dining room hutch.

A couple of months later, Daddy came home from a business trip to Pennsylvania and nonchalantly presented me with the missing blue plastic cabinet. Even then I knew I had a special dad; he was a man who, while more than 700 miles from home, would search toy stores in a strange city until he found just what his daughter wanted, for the sole purpose of seeing the joy on her face when he gave it to her.

That wasn’t the first or last time Daddy did something like that. There was the Christmas he and mom surprised me with a second-hand French racing bike they had refurbished themselves. At my 16th birthday party, Daddy played photographer, making sure he snapped photos of the boy I had a crush on. For physics class, he helped me create a replica of one of his company’s machines and thanks to his guidance and hands-on help, I earned a perfect grade on the project. Besides all these things, when my sister and I were teenagers, Dad spent countless hours with Mom shopping for our clothes and never lost his patience. He repainted my bedroom furniture when I wanted a new look, took me to softball try-outs, and moved me back and forth to college several times each year.

Daddy was kind and patient and showed me his love in countless ways. I never had to doubt the depth of his love for me. Even after two years, I still miss Daddy tremendously. But I will never forget the lessons of love and faith he imparted to me through his actions, his words, and his example.