Tag Archives: Jen Ferguson

Consider the Lilacs: Soul Care Toolkit #2

20 Monday May 2013

Posted by in beauty, Communities, Soul Care

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If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world. C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity

“Didn’t it seem like, when we were kids, lilacs lasted all summer long?” my sister once asked me.

I had to agree. Evidently, as a child, I was oblivious to things like the passing of time and the life cycles of flowering plants. When I think about my childhood home, I remember winter ending, sunshine returning, and lilacs blooming in my mother’s yard. Summer loomed long before me, and childhood was pleasant.

One early June, the summer before my husband and I were married, I planned to cut a bouquet of lilacs for my apartment before he came for a visit. Each time I walked past the bank of bushes which lined the parking lot at the rear of my building, I drank deeply of their fragrance and color. When I went out scissors in hand to clip a few blossoms to bring indoors, I was stunned to find most of the flowers had turned brown and their lovely aroma had faded. Until that day, I had not realized how short was the season for enjoying lilacs.

Since writing my post about the color yellow, I’ve been thinking about what else I might add to my soul care toolkit. I definitely need to pack some lilacs in there.

“Consider the lilies,” Christ told his followers when they were tempted to doubt the Father’s goodness or question His provision for them. He pointed them to the stuff of this creation which was spoken into existence by the word of God and bears witness to the same.

Each spring I don’t just wait for lilacs to bloom, I will for them to return. As soon as I seen signs of life in flowering trees and plants, I begin examining my lilac bushes. I squint my eyes in search of the slightest hint of lavender, the tiniest cluster of a flower bud beginning to form. I know the lilacs’ signature scent won’t return until the flowers begin to open, so I search out the first floweret which unfurls and drink its aroma deep into my lungs.

I don’t just enjoy lilacs; I bury my face in and inhale them.

Because I know these flowers will be with me for such a short time, perhaps two weeks at best. I don’t take them for granted. They are a gift to me each spring, a lovely and gracious one from the hand of my Father. They tell me something of His delight in giving me good things. And they remind me of something important about Him.

God cares about things like beauty and fragrance.

Within the myriad of detailed instruction God gave his people about building His tabernacle, He told them to build an altar of incense. And the fragrant smoke which ascended from the altar, reaching toward heaven and representing the prayers of God’s people, pleased Him.

And when I am tempted to doubt my Father’s goodness or question His provision for me the scent of lilac wafting through a spring breeze feels a little like a love letter from Him. He reminds me that the cry of my heart, whether in joy or in pain, arises like a sweet-smelling aroma to Him. When I take time to sit beneath my lilac bushes and allow myself to be enveloped by their fragrance, I am reminded that God cares about the cries of my heart. And He delights to give good gifts to his children.

I have told my children that, when I die, I intend to do it in May. Not necessarily this May, mind you, should the Lord tarry and continue to give me strength. “Fill my casket with lilacs,” I’ve told them, “so I’ll be able to drink in their fragrance forever.”

Already the lilacs in my neighborhood have begun to fade and turn brown, and this grieves me. I know I will wait almost another full year before they return and make my heart glad. I long for a world where lilacs bloom eternally, just as they did in childhood memory.

I have already commissioned my rock-star diva girlfriend to sing at my funeral which, I tell her as a cancer survivor, is how I know she is going to outlive me. And don’t even try to pick apart my logic here; just go with it.

The song I have asked her to sing is There is a Land of Pure Delight, an old hymn written by Isaac Watts and recorded by Red Mountain Church. The lyrics, in part, are these:

There is a land of pure delight,
Where saints immortal reign,
Infinite day excludes the night,
And pleasures banish pain.

There everlasting spring abides,
And never withering flowers:
Death, like a narrow sea, divides
This heav’nly land from ours.

Granted, Isaac Watts’ words don’t carry the weight and authority of scripture. Perhaps lilacs won’t bloom eternally in heaven. But maybe they will. And, if so, each time I bury my face in a bunch of them, and inhale them deep into my lungs, I am feeding my soul a foretaste of heaven.

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Joining Laura, Michelle, and Jen in these communities:


 

Playing With Paperwork

22 Monday Apr 2013

Posted by in Communities, family, memoir

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Saturday was going to be a writing day. But for the baby shower I missed because I wrote the wrong date on my calendar, I had no commitments. A full day of uninterrupted hours stretched before me.

And I wrote not a single syllable.

I sat down at my desk, logged onto my computer to take care of some online banking, and quickly became distracted by the pile of file folders next to me and on the floor. As one who wears the label organized with no small measure of pride, I find piles of clutter mess with my psyche in profoundly disturbing ways. I blame the piles for the shower date mix-up.

In order to make space for my folders, I had to weed through many which had resided in the deep file drawer since my daughter had used the desk as a high school student. I unearthed homeschool records, transcripts, and letters of recommendation; copies of applications for colleges and scholarships, and several years’ worth of support letters from short-term mission projects in which both of my children had participated. I pitched catalogs from which I had ordered school uniforms for my son. I shredded outdated copies of FAFSA forms

As I sorted piles of paperwork representing years of my children’s histories, I was completely unprepared for the effect my little archaeological dig would have on my heart.

I found a copy of the speech my daughter had written in her seventeen-year old voice, one she had intended to deliver at her graduation party though she never did. She had composed words of appreciation for teachers and mentors, and pastors and friends, who had walked with her throughout her childhood and taught her about music and life and faith.

I uncovered the letter she had received from the admissions office of the college she attended, the one notifying her of her acceptance. I had forgotten how personalized the letter was, the admissions officer having taken care to quote excerpts from recommendations written on her behalf. I pictured myself holding the envelope while sitting in the parking lot of a bus station as I waited in her little silver Subaru for her to return from a weekend trip. I recalled the mix of emotions I felt as she opened the letter— both pride in her acceptance and disappointment that my first choice of colleges was not also hers. Her decisions about college and life were beginning to diverge from mine, yet they turned out to be okay and they turned out to be good.

Programs from Baccalaureate services from both high school and college were tucked away in files next to one another. Graduation announcements, napkins, confetti, and other memorabilia tumbled out of another folder. I found a picture of my daughter, dressed in her high school cap and gown, posing in front of the Snow Fountain Weeping Cherry tree in my front yard.

As each folder and every paper passed through my fingers, I remembered how important each had seemed at the time. Each signified major turning points; each represented years of doubts, fears, questions, and prayer. Everything which had once seemed monumental had, over time, eased into its place of proper proportion. I held onto a few of the treasures I unearthed, choosing several to pass along to my kids, but not many.

As I look out the window from where I sit here at my writing desk, I can see the Snow Fountain tree about to reach full flower. Each year I look forward to the beauty of its blossoms; each year its blooming is bittersweet. No sooner do its flowers fully extend than they begin to fade away and fall to the ground. Six seasons of blooms have passed since my daughter posed in front of this tree in her cap and gown.

Time goes by and seasons pass. I filter once important papers through my hands. Former milestones yield their way to greater glories. And all men are like grass, and all their glory is like the flowers of the field; the grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of the Lord stands forever.*

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*From yesterday’s call to worship. Joining Michelle, Laura, and Jen and the sisterhood.


You Can’t Judge a Girl by Her Jelly Bellies

08 Monday Apr 2013

Posted by in Communities

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It all began with a couple of innocent questions.  Shortly before Easter, when I may or may not have accidentally dipped into my holiday candy stash, I asked on Facebook:

What’s your favorite Jelly Belly flavor? Least favorite? Go.

I learned that some of my friends held strong opinions about gourmet jellybean flavors. Some of their comments surprised me. Both buttered popcorn and black licorice flavors seemed to evoke passionate responses, either for or against. People tended to prefer either fruity flavors or spicy ones, and they didn’t appreciate being surprised when what they thought was a red cherry jellybean turned out to be hot cinnamon one. Or vice-versa. Friends I thought I knew well and with whom I have much in common expressed preferences which were the complete opposite of mine.

You just never know about some folks.

Me? I’m a buttered popcorn girl. All the way.

At a women’s retreat I attended a few years ago the speaker held up a picture of a woman and asked participants to describe what they thought they could tell about her. Based on clues in the photo, some offered guesses about the woman’s age, ethnicity, income level and professional status. Someone suggested perhaps she worked in a city. Another commented on her appearance of health and physical fitness.

The speaker invited us to look more closely and began to ask deeper questions:

Could we tell anything about this woman’s personal hopes, dreams, fears, or failings?

What did we know about the status of her relationships? Was her heart breaking over someone dear to her?

Was she suffering from addiction or abuse?

What was the result of her last mammogram?

What does she most need to hear right now?

“Often the least important details about a person,” the speaker said, “are the ones which are most evident.”

In a recent sermon from the Gospel of John, a visiting pastor commented on the phrase with which the author most often identified himself. Describing himself as the disciple whom Jesus loved, John made evident what he considered to be the single most important detail about himself.

Not how much he loved Jesus.

Not what he did for Jesus.

Not how much he knew about Jesus.

Nothing about who he was, or what he did, nothing else in John’s life compared to his overwhelming sense of the depth of Christ’s love for him.

I reveal quite a bit about myself, both online and among my friends. Much of it is trivial, bordering perhaps on the inappropriate. It is evident from my words and photos that I am tall and have a head full of gray hair. I blather on about my handsome husband, my terrific kids, and my outstanding grandson. Though I’m no poet, I can become downright lyrical about my love for the beach, shenanigans, and all things Christmas.

And, it’s no secret I have little self-control when there’s a stash of Easter candy in the house.

But I wonder if someone were to describe me based on what I’ve revealed about myself, would anyone possibly come up with: She knew she was deeply loved by Jesus?

I sort of doubt it. And that troubles me. Because the only way for me to communicate a profound sense of knowing I am the one whom Jesus loves, I’d have to live as though I believed it were true.

How about you? What do you think others would choose as the most important detail to use in describing you? Would it be: He/she is the one whom Jesus loves?

Of course, you’re free to share your favorite Jelly Belly flavor in the comments as well.

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Joining Michelle DeRusha for Hear It, Use It and Jen and the Sisterhood @ Finding Heaven:


Of Waiting, Winter Gardens, and Longing

04 Monday Feb 2013

Posted by in beauty, Communities

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In the cold, gray days of winter I find my soul longing for new life and spring. While I recognize the value of finding contentment in the present, I also know my soul is wired to look for signs of resurrection and new birth. And my little girl, waiting to give birth to new life, needed a warm place to stretch and move and, hopefully, hurry the process.

We bundled against the wind, and braced ourselves for February cold, and made our way to Phipps Conservatory in the Oakland district of the City of Pittsburgh. The conservatory, commissioned in 1893 by wealthy steel baron Henry Phipps, is one of the oldest and largest Victorian greenhouses in the country. Say what you will about rich people and their obscene accumulation of wealth, I for one am grateful for those who have used theirs to bestow such lavish gifts upon the public.

We wound our way through a labyrinth of thirteen indoor garden rooms, soaking in warmth and color, scent and sound, and the occasional glimpse of whimsy.

Lush green grasses, mosses, ferns and trees lined meandering walkways, punctuated by splashes  of blooming orchids in a riot of colors, shapes, and sizes. More than thirty-five thousand orchid species and eighty thousand hybrids are known to exist.

Oh LORD, how manifold are your works!

The soft, clean scent of cedar mingled with delicious aromas of tropical fruits and spices. The music of water running, falling, splashing, and pooling sang peace within glassed domes. Tall trees towered toward ceilings and I wandered beneath their branches and leaves, some of which seemed fit to line the roadway for a king.

There is not one blade of grass, there is no color in this world that is not intended to make us rejoice, wrote John Calvin. If a single blade of grass offers cause for rejoicing, the abundance of plants, flowers and trees on display in Phipps Conservatory invited me to a banquet table laden with ridiculous joy.

As I walked, I whispered thanksgivings for all the hands which had come together to create and sustain this place. It was crafted by those knowledgeable about the cultivation and care of plants, and those skilled in beauty and design. Architects, builders, and electricians had each offered their gifts, as well as those who fit pipes to keep the water flowing. And I was the glad recipient of their sacred work.

More of winter is now behind than ahead, and the sun’s warmth and light offer their gifts more strongly each day. Groundhog Day or, Candlemas in the liturgical calendar, has come and gone, marking both the midpoint of winter and my daughter’s due date.

The celebration of Candlemas recalls the ritual purification of Mary following the birth of her son, as well as his presentation at the temple. Traditionally on Candlemas, a blessing was offered over all the candles which would be used in the church during the coming year. These candles would bear witness to the Light which came to shine in the darkness, light which grows stronger each day, as all of creation groans with longing.

My daughter continues to wait; it won’t be long now.  Spring is coming, and my eyes and ears and heart are wide open and looking for signs of new life. I long for the return of warmth and light of the sun. And it was good for my soul, on a dark, dreary winter day, to walk and wait in a garden.

And remember where all of life began.

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Joining Laura @ the Wellspring and Jen and the Sisterhood, and continuing to wait!


To My Daughter’s Mother

28 Monday Jan 2013

Posted by in Communities, family

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Due to some web-hosting site maintenance, this piece which I had posted over the weekend disappeared. I am re-posting, hoping it will stay put this time. My apologies to those of you who have received it twice. Thanks to those of you who took time to comment earlier–your encouraging thoughts are a blessing)

We are about to become grandmothers, you and I. I’ve already got my brag book and can’t wait to fill it with pictures. Any day now, I’ll get the phone call saying she’s on her way to the hospital. It won’t be long. I’m remembering the day of her wedding, when I wore the fancy dress and the big hat, and how I reveled in the role of Mother-of-the-Bride. And now, as the baby girl you gave birth to prepares to give birth, I am ready to embrace all the joys and privileges of being a grandmother.

And your bravery and love made all of this possible.

Her life, as you know, was not protected by the laws of this land. As in other dark days of this nation, and in history of the world, this child you carried held the status of a non-person. Our constitution, claimed seven justices, afforded her no right to be born. You alone held for her the choice of life or death.

You chose love.

You carried within you an eternal soul, an image-bearer of Almighty God who set his love on her before she was able to draw a single breath. You gave your body as shelter to hers as she formed and grew, and she is fearfully and wonderfully made. While it has taken me years to understand all of parenting as an act of loving and letting go, you learned this lesson before the wounds of childbirth had healed.

And I wonder if you know what a gift you have given to me and to this world.

We’ve never met, you and I, but I owe you so much. You gave me the gift of celebrating Mother’s Days and the privilege of placing bandages on scraped knees. Your choice allowed me to snuggle a sweet, smiling girl while reading a well-worn copy of Goodnight Moon. Because of you, I got to play tooth fairy and attend piano recitals. During her short season of adolescent angst, I tossed and turned and prayed my way through a couple of long nights. When she arrived safely on the other side, I gave glory to God for the beautiful young woman your daughter—our daughter—had become.

I wonder about you sometimes. I suspect you may have questioned whether or not you made the right decision, and if your daughter turned out okay. I pray you are at peace. She did.

She is strong and smart, compassionate and kind, and she has always been awfully good at figuring things out. Her father adores her, and she is most definitely her daddy’s little girl.  She finished college in three years in part, I think, because I cracked the whip pretty darned hard during the years I taught her at home. But meeting a young man who loves Jesus and loves her was, undoubtedly, an even more powerful motivator to finish. She is a fiercely loyal friend; when she loves people, she loves them well. Perhaps she inherited that from you.

We are about to become grandmothers, you and I, and none of this would be happening apart from you. I just wanted you to know that. And I needed to say thank you.

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Joining emily and the imperfect prose community considering this week’s prompt: Mother:


And with Jen and the sisterhood:

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