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November 9, 2016 by Karin 14 Comments

When You Have A Promise To Keep

It’s just a matter of time.

He’ll force your hand. Just as He is forcing mine back to the keyboard. Believe me, I’ve resisted.

But, believe me, resistance is futile.

The tune pours through the speakers while the washer churns the familiar whoosh of a Mama trying to wash it all away. Though we try, it’s just not quite that simple.

The washer churns, the melody whispers, and the rat-tat-tating of the keyboard remind me You are in charge.

It’s been a few days now. A few days since that Caring Bridge post. And, truth? I’m sick of Caring Bridge posts. No. I’m sick of cancer. I hate cancer. There, that should be the place I start.

She asked me, well, I suppose it’s been about twenty months now…

She asked me to write a little something for her. Something about the co-op. The place our friendship began a decade ago. The place homeschool moms gather to make the Swiss cheese of homeschooling work just a little better. A place we pray God will fill those holes we are sure we have left. We are quite good at being terribly hard on ourselves.

It was the tenth anniversary of this little place we called home. This place we now ache to re-create. But how could we have known? How could we have known some things just can’t be remade.

She emailed me and asked if I would put together some words about what the co-op meant to us. How the homeschool away from home had helped us – before we moved away.

Of course I would. Sure. No problem. Anything for you, my friend. I’ll get right to it…

And for the life of me, I can’t find that email. I always delete the wrong things.

And for the life of me, I can’t recall what I was so busy doing that I never did write that little post.

You’re such a great writer. I’d really appreciate it.

A smile, wink, and a little xo. That’s all she asked.

And for the life of me, I don’t know why we don’t remember time passes, life changes, and friends die.

Well, my sweet homeschooling soul sister, I haven’t forgotten my promise. I know this world-wide web runs deep and wide, but I pray the veil is thin enough for you to see I’m keeping my promise.

How can I adequately describe what a place means? How a place of gathering mothers can lift you out of your deepest pits and darkest moments. How this place can bring joy and relief. How this same place can cause aggravation and frustration.

How can I explain people we hardly know become our best friends, and when we leave them, we suddenly realize they are the very roots of us?

How can I show you the women with whom we carry children, in our bellies and on our hips, are the women who really show us how to live this thing we call motherhood?

How can I make clear – the women with whom we share the loss of a baby are the women who help us to be the very weakest, and the very strongest?

I can’t remember much about the lesson plans. I don’t recall the details of heated debates about dress codes, curriculum, and what God really intends for us to accomplish every single school year. I just don’t remember that. I’m sure you didn’t either. Shows us how much that matters, doesn’t it, sister?

I do remember the worn weary mamas pushing strollers, clutching tiny hands, and chasing pre-teens through the four seasons of this little East Coast town.

Four Seasons

I do remember the scuttle and scurry of kids, pressed and wind-blown at the same time, rushing for seats in a chapel. We couldn’t be late, you know. I giggle now at the thought of these bleary-eyed moms grasping coffee cups like their very existence might be hinged to the sweet liquid in those porcelain vessels.

I do remember the settled silence after kids were quietly gathered with tutors, whose hearts poured beauty into the souls of our precious young.

I do remember the sparkling eyes, knowing looks, and mom high-fives as we finished one more good day.

There are so many questions, and one short life.

I could go on about a place, but, you know, it’s not about a place at all. It is always, always about the people.

I suppose you knew this deep in your spirit as your body failed.

You, ever the one to hold it together.

Ever the one to keep us moving forward. Ever the one picking up my boy for a play date when I. could. just. not. do. one. more. thing. You, ever the one to bring that spaghetti casserole when my warrior was deployed yet again – the casserole that became our favorite and saved us from frozen pizza. How many times did you save me?

You, ever the one who offered not just to sit with me a while, but to stay overnight, when a new baby – number six this time – and another deployment threatened to leave me chasing sleep like that elusive carrot.

You, always the one to serve. Always.

That’s it. That’s what I remember about that place. You, and them. The people who watched you serve, and in turn, served.

I do remember the Sonic milkshakes, and the Panera lunches. I do remember the endless conversations about politics, the state of the country, and where in the world should we go? Someplace safe.

Well, I made it there. The place we always talked about going.

And, you know what? It’s not safe. No safer than any other. Maybe we aren’t meant to be safe. Maybe, instead, we are meant to step into the holy wilderness that is God’s plan. The Holy Wild that is God. This place where control evades us, and true peace falls upon us.

You, the one seeking to love Him first. To love Him more.

I suppose – though I’d love nothing more than one more hug with a chocolate milkshake – the reward for that kind of seeking is seeing Him face-to-face. And maybe, because of you, we will all seek with that same fervent spirit that leads us beyond our fears – and our fiercest earthly nightmare.

You fought this good fight, and, God knows, you fought to live. And in His most radical love, He brought you into the Place we dread and long for… all at the same time. The Place we truly live.

May our trust truly be without borders.

I smile now, knowing I saw your face. Friday night. Behind my closed eyes, in the silence where His voice whispers the truth we are dying to hear…

I saw your face, you smiled, and your eyes whispered,

Heaven is beautiful.

My friend, here is my promise fulfilled. May the words find you whole and healed, in the arms of our Savior.

The clouds surround me now, while I lift tear-soaked hands in gratitude for our ever-growing cloud of witnesses…

And, there, I see your face.

 

Hebrews 12:1-3

Therefore we also, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily ensnares us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. For consider Him who endured such hostility from sinners against Himself, lest you become weary and discouraged in your souls.

Karin Madden

Filed Under: Faith, grief, Hope

April 21, 2016 by Karin Leave a Comment

When You Are In The Secret Place

It started a year ago today. The wheels fell off. I had no idea what would happen when my sister-in-law called me that morning. In hindsight, I’m glad I didn’t know. In fact, I’m grateful we never know what is waiting ahead when we enter the season in the shadows.

The not knowing is the one thing that keeps us going. The one thing that keeps us following the only One who knows…

Please join me at More to Be today to continue reading – especially if you find yourself in the shadows…

In the shadows

 

Psalm 91:1

He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.

Karin Madden

Filed Under: Faith, grief Tagged With: grief, hidden for a time, season in the shadows

April 6, 2016 by Karin 2 Comments

When You Need To Hear – Do Not Be Afraid

I started this last November. You know sometimes it takes us a while to put the pieces together. And sometimes the pieces don’t make any sense. For a very long time. Sometimes the pieces keep breaking and some of them get lost. Then new pieces show up and the puzzle has lost some of its meaning. And sometimes the puzzle makes you want to throw it across the room. But, sometimes, if we wait long enough, the puzzle starts to make a little bit of sense.

One piece at a time.

Please stick with the puzzle.

Here’s where the jigsaw began many months ago…

 

I keep looking across the room at them.

Most of the time they don’t see me looking.

Tomorrow is my birthday. The thought that I am sliding into middle age doesn’t sit long. Mostly I think of her. Forty-five years ago tonight she was on the verge of meeting her first and only girl child. The baby of the family. She was younger than I am now, but not by much. I think of the time I lay beneath her beating heart – waiting to enter this wild world. Eyes fully open.

She’s been gone from here for six months, but I see her face every day. Sometimes in the faces of my children. Sometimes behind my closed eyes. And sometimes, more often with each passing year, in the mirror.

I watch the headlines flashing across the screen and I’m almost grateful she isn’t here to see it.

The terror of it all.

She saw enough of it.

I see the faces of the refugees. Tear-stained mothers. Wide-eyed children with vacuous gazes. All swallowed by masses.

Mingled into the masses slithers the terror. The cowards hiding and sliding through the crowds. The very beasts we’ve been fighting for so very long now. The terror that has taken my babies’ daddy from them time and time again – until the absence becomes normal.

The terror didn’t just begin, you know. It began a very long time ago. The truth is the terror began when the enemy fell to earth and his hatred fueled a thousand generations of vulnerable souls. Our battle is with powers and principalities after all.

But let’s make no mistake. These powers entice and utilize the willing souls of terrorists who swarm in very real human flesh.

Then I think of her again. Terror is nothing new. I suppose my parents must have thought the end was near when they were just teenagers. Bombs rained and bullets flew through the formative years of their youth. The age I learned to drive down southern country roads, they learned to navigate a war-torn country. All lost to smoke and fire.

Shelter

She told me the story over and over again. A story heard a thousand times becomes a sort of lullaby. The thrumming of a heartbeat quietly ticking – not knowing when the jolt will come.

The jolt keeps coming. Again and again. Wringing hands and clenched fists. Explosions. Chaos. Tears upon tears…

Spewing anger leaking through media madness we call “social.” I read the scrolling upon scrolling. More venom than baby pictures these days. I showed up in this social place for those baby pictures. Now the baby pictures of innocent faces are clouded by anger and hatred and fear. Isn’t this why He tells us again and again,

Do not be afraid.

Yea, but that’s easier said than done.

I wish I could tell you my opinion. But the truth is I have too many, and not one solution. Not yet.

I keep thinking of them. The war that surrounded them when they were the age of these faces watching me from across the room.

We have all these glorious, well-meaning, sometimes educated, sometimes fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants thoughts. We throw them into the wild, wild world. Mostly hoping something will right this madness. Hoping something will change. Praying Someone is listening.

And for the love of God and all things good, we are tired. And sick of it all.

But that sounds too much like complaining. Or quitting. And, friends, we just can. not. quit. The stories don’t get any prettier and our babies grow up. And sometimes we forget what the point of all this is.

I’ve wrestled with even spilling thoughts in this place. It’s personal here. Something I want to leave with my kids. And this year has left me numb and tired and wondering what do I actually want to leave with my kids?

Flower girl

Pink Flamingos

Gnarly tree

Through the spinning and reeling and frustration of the seasons we face – and I thought things would get easier as we age – I wonder what on this gloriously beautiful and chaotically ugly earth do I want to leave here? Because, you know, we can’t leave here without leaving a mark. We all leave a mark.

The moving and upheaval and changes have about done me in this time. It’s what military wives do. It seems we can take the madness on ourselves, but we can’t stomach it for our babies. It all becomes too much sometimes. And we think we might just have reached the limit.

Light in the clouds

Like a desperate sparrow clamoring for reassurance from fresh air and skies –  because I hate to admit the Heavenly answers just don’t come fast enough sometimes – I flew into a wild-eyed soliloquy. The target – my unsuspecting warrior. Sometimes they just don’t know when the sparrow has encountered the hurricane.

I’m done! I just can’t take it anymore! I’m so sick of it all going wrong.

Well, and sometimes the answers from Heaven are just waiting for you to get real.

You know… we just need to go to 30,000 feet.

Pause. Wait a minute. There’s a profound truth here. Let me just. breathe. for. one. minute. He continued,

We’re being sucked into the details. The messed up and mostly distracting details of this world.

We just need to get to 30,000 feet and look down for a few minutes.

Oh God, why can’t we just get it? We need to see from YOUR eyes. The big picture. The view from a distance that reminds us we are all crawling around here like ants on a computer screen. We just don’t know. We don’t know how this story will unfold. BUT. How many times do You have to tell us…

Do not be afraid.

My warrior called me. Another trip away from the souls he loves most. Because the earthly battles will not wane – not any time soon.

Do you know what He tells us again and again? Do you know? 

Do not be afraid.

I grinned from behind sleepy eyes,

Yea, it’s like He knows, huh?

It’s not easy, my friend. I know. It’s excruciating sometimes. Like madness might finally take hold, and the mask just has to cover it all. Because, you know, appearances and all.

But, it is real. He is real. The countless ways are almost too much for the simple words etched here. He keeps showing up. He keeps answering. He keeps promising. And He does not lie. He has no need for our approval or belief. He IS anyway.

His plan IS.

His story IS.

His love IS.

No matter what or who we are.

Sometimes the sparrow has to spin through the hurricane again and again until it sees the Light is still there. No matter the darkness it encounters. The Light breaks through the storm and reminds us,

Do not be afraid.

 

Matthew 10:27-33

“Whatever I tell you in the dark, speak in the light; and what you hear in the ear, preach on the housetops. And do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. But rather fear Him who is able to destroy both soul and body in hell. Are not two sparrows sold for a copper coin? And not one of them falls to the ground apart from your Father’s will. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Do not fear therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows.
“Therefore whoever confesses Me before men, him I will also confess before My Father who is in heaven. But whoever denies Me before men, him I will also deny before My Father who is in heaven.

Karin Madden

Filed Under: Faith, Military, Trust Tagged With: do not be afraid, the big picture, when you are just done

May 29, 2015 by Karin Leave a Comment

The Dance

I was the only girl.

An entire generation – on both sides of my family. I could look for miles and miles – across an ocean – and I was the only one.

I suppose that’s one thing that brought me right up against my mother’s hip most of my childhood.

I could hang with the boys and I never felt a lack for anything girlish. My time with dolls and tea sets was just a little time all to myself. And I’ve always liked a little time to myself.

The only girl.

And then He gave me four daughters. How funny He works things in His own time.

But before I had daughters, I had the sisters my brothers brought into my life.

And then the babies. My nieces. One by one – I wasn’t the only one anymore. The scale seemed to settle while my heart filled. We women need each other.

My mother. She went home to Him just 21 days ago. And I’ve counted every one. I can see the minutes etched into my dad’s sorrow-filled eyes.

But there will be time for those words later. Sometimes thoughts need time to simmer. The words floating around find each other and make sense eventually. But, not yet. I’ll etch those words a little bit later.

This is about the women. The ones who trickled into my life one-by-one. One generation at a time.

And this day is about the next generation. The ones my mom is smiling on this very moment. She is beaming. Every time she looked into the faces of her grandchildren, she was beaming.

This is the season of change. Graduation time.

Nieces and nephews, these delights of our hearts, are walking the stage one-by-one. Diploma in hand – beaming.

More overwhelming than the pride I take in these souls is the gratitude. The gratitude for the gift of daughters and nieces who saw the woman I saw when I looked into my mother’s eyes.

There is nothing in this world more binding than sharing this love with my daughters, and my nieces.

The Dance

These are the words penned by my beautiful niece Caroline. Our Mutti is smiling on her and her sweet sister, and all the rest of us – from Heaven. This I know.

Dancing With Großmutti

            Drop. Kick. Smile. Every time the yo-yo drops to the floor she attempts to kick the string. Each attempt brings a smile to her face. Drop. Kick. Smile. Drop. Kick. Smile. When her foot actually makes contact with the string, the yo-yo clatters to the floor, and she begins to laugh. I squeeze my eyes shut, hiding the salty tears that threaten to spill onto my cheeks, and I laugh with my eighty-four-year-old grandmother, cherishing this simple moment.

Großmutti suffers from senile dementia. My moments with her are rarely simple. In one moment, she will be regaling me with tales of her childhood, her eyes devilish as she remembers young mischief. In the next moment, she will not know if she’s speaking to me or my mother. My heart breaks when I see a new wave of confusion cross her face, crushing her train of thought. The flow of conversation halts in its tracks, and soon Großmutti begins jabbering at me in German despite my insistence that she must speak English. English. Was? English. Was? English. Was? The German jargon continues as do my pleas for English, but, then, as suddenly as the wave of confusion came, coherence returns, and Großmutti laughs at herself, exclaiming that she merely forgot for a moment that I do not speak German. This pattern continues. Conversation. Confusion. German. Gespräch. Verwirrung. Mehr Deutsch. Großmutti’s moments of confusion are increasing in number, but, unfortunately, I am not becoming any more fluent in German.

Interspersed with Großmutti’s instances of bewilderment are instances of sheer genius. Not even the most difficult of Sudoku puzzles stands a chance against a spectacled Großmutti and a freshly sharpened pencil. Not even the most keen, most clever, most determined challenger can dethrone Großmutti, the queen of chess. Großmutti may not be able to recall the names of the neighbors, but she can certainly name their birthdays, their children’s birthdays, and their children’s children’s birthdays. Großmutti’s true genius, though, lies in dance.

Großmutti and dancing. Dancing and Großmutti. They are truly one in the same. A visit to Großmutti’s house would not be complete without a twirl around the living room, gliding through the steps of a Viennese Waltz. She can teach me the steps to every tango she has ever tangoed and every Foxtrot she has ever trotted. Her heart pumps to the beat of a lively German polka, and her eyes shine bright with the excitement of watching her grandchildren jig the jitterbug. No medicine can make Großmutti feel the way that a good waltz can. No pesky clouds of confusion can interrupt Großmutti in her recollections of dance darling-hood.

The joy of dancing with Großmutti is infectious. No one can escape Großmutti and her polka music. If the cheery beat of an accordion does not draw you to the dance floor, then Großmutti certainly will. Whether you are marching to the music of a polka band or jiving to the music of laughter, you will be dancing.

Großmutti’s polka music has led my happy feet to a happy place – a local senior retirement home. There, I play the piano for the residents. As my fingers dance across the keys, I imagine Großmutti dancing in the audience. The same upbeat tunes that tickle the ears of my audience guide the quick steps of the dancing queen. As the familiar melodies swirl about the room, bringing happiness to my little audience, Großmutti twirls across the shiny, wooden floor, finding her own inner peace. Her white orthopedic sneakers are replaced by a pair of shimmering high heels, and her bulky wool sweater transforms into a long, flowing gown. In the soft glow of a spotlight, Großmutti glitters, dazzles, she enchants. Long after the final note of the piano rings through the air, long after the audience has vanished, Großmutti continues to dance. Step. Spin. Dance.

Caroline

 

Yes, sweet Caroline. Step. Spin. Dance. No longer a captive to her confusion. No longer confused about who does and does not speak German in this crowd. She is dancing. She is applauding – as you dance and spin across that stage and onto the next dance floor of your life.

She is beaming. And I can almost hear her whisper,

Remember to dance…

 

Ecclesiastes 3:1-4

To everything there is a season, A time for every purpose under heaven: A time to be born, And a time to die; A time to plant, And a time to pluck what is planted; A time to kill, And a time to heal; A time to break down, And a time to build up; A time to weep, And a time to laugh; A time to mourn, And a time to dance…

Karin Madden

 

Filed Under: Brothers and Sisters, Faith, Family Tagged With: a time to dance, daughters and nieces, grief

March 27, 2015 by Karin 4 Comments

To Touch Something Closer To Heaven

The rotors whirled above my head. Funny, if you look at them for a moment – they appear to be barely moving.

This slow motion spinning; each blade defined as it slices through the thin air. The sun glints off the steely metal. The beating heart of these blades – a steady thump-thump-thump. My warrior laughs,

5000 moving parts – all trying to fly away from each other.

We are that sometimes. Flying and moving and spinning – flying away from each other, but held by an invisible force. Then a blink, and again they slice the sky with clear-cut precision. A million whirls a second.

And I look down into her eyes, blue as the azure sky; she blinks and this innocent gaze slices right to my mother heart. The whirling, when we stop for a moment to focus, seems to slow to a steady thrumming in the air. It’s when we lose our locked gaze that suddenly the moments spin to a dizzying speed.

During the brief, the commander warned us,

Walk in at 90 degrees. Keep your head straight and your arms down. And walk in at 90 degrees.

Just a few steps to the front and the blades could slice. Too far to the back and the heat will incinerate. And I wonder how many times we skim past the slicing blades before we listen. How close to the inferno will we step before we heed the warning. Walk in at a 90 degree angle. Straight in. There is safety straight ahead.

And I climbed into my seat.

In the belly of gray steel I anticipated the moment this bird would hover above the earth by only a small measure. The familiar fear of heights strangely lost its hold as we slowly lifted into the air. This sudden levitation – exhilarating. And a relief. A moment to do nothing but sit, and float, and gaze.

Chopper shadow

Karin on chopper

Chopper ride

Chopper over valley

The forward motion like surfing on the wind. I peered over at the city – stiff and glitzy in the distance. The rat-tat-tat of chopping atmosphere leaving the false promises of glittering domes behind. Beneath us, I watched desert turn to rock and a fire-red rose from the distance. This valley of fire mesmerizing from the safe hover above.

I closed my eyes and imagined the men with legs hanging from the side. Poised with battle armor and pounding hearts. My eyes followed the winding scratches of road below and I wondered what it must look like to them. To see roads covered in debris and desperation and despair – all the while praying to God they might see the gentle hills of home again.

The lost city passed below us. Just remnants of flooded homes and washed memories. This city drowned to make way for the body of water. The parched land and receding water revealing what once was. And I just read they think they may have found Jesus’ childhood home. Buried deep beneath a convent – in the middle of a war-torn world.

Just the foundation remained below our hovering eyes. All the rest had washed to days gone by. And I smiled. Because there can always be something new if the foundation remains. The stones pointing to the sky like arms raised in solidarity. They had weathered a storm and remained to whisper the tale of days drifted to memory.

The dip and turn took my breath. Leaned toward the earth I marveled at how we can float in this space and hang just above the earth. We can hover for a moment feeling like we may fall from the sky, but keep our shoes 500 feet from the ground. Safe. And I wonder if we really shouldn’t get our feet a little bit dirtier.

The glistening water the color of jade wrapped along the angled shore. I peered straight down to the bottom of the rippling water and heard that familiar whisper,

All this. By My hand. It leaves no room for doubt – does it?

And I don’t. Doubt, that is. Just sometimes we must transcend the situations. We have to hover above to really see. Only then can we inhale, rest, and know. The beauty in the design points to the beauty in the purpose. Sometimes we have to go through the valleys of fire to get there.

Chopper view

Lake view

Lake view from chopper

View of Vegas

Then the looming city appeared again in the distance. This sort of oasis of false promises. This adult Disney World. Where what happens here stays here. But, see, nothing really does. It doesn’t stay. It spreads and I suppose we have to decide what we want to spread. And if we don’t – it will be spread for us. Whether we like it or not.

The thump-thump-thump of the blades a steady reminder that all these 5000 moving parts trying to fly away from each other – all these wandering souls – are really trying to touch something closer to heaven.

I stopped writing here, just for a few days. Then I heard the news. This very machine that gently brushed me past mountain peaks, dangled me above a lost city, and through a valley of fire – a hawk just like this whirling workhorse – went down.

And my heart sank. Eleven lost they say. The numbers run across the screen and our heavy hearts pray for families we don’t know by name or face, but whose lives are different chapters of the same story. This small fraction of a nation who knows more than what sacrifice looks like. This fraction who knows the thrumming of aching hearts as rotors, or jet engines roar in our ears – and fade out of sight. These who know the lingering smell of jet fuel and grease-stained hands. The ones who know the faces of questioning children when we scramble for coherent answers – but don’t really know ourselves.

And I remember the weightlessness and peace in floating above this earth – this feeling a warrior wife only tastes for a sweet moment.

All these 5000 moving parts trying to fly away from each other. And these eleven souls – trying to touch something closer to heaven – flung straight into the arms of God. May their families find comfort in those same arms that hold us all.

 

Psalm 144:3-8

Lord, what is man, that You take knowledge of him? Or the son of man, that You are mindful of him? Man is like a breath; His days are like a passing shadow. Bow down Your heavens, O Lord, and come down; Touch the mountains, and they shall smoke. Flash forth lightning and scatter them; Shoot out Your arrows and destroy them. Stretch out Your hand from above; Rescue me and deliver me out of great waters,
From the hand of foreigners, Whose mouth speaks lying words, And whose right hand is a right hand of falsehood.

Karin Madden

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Filed Under: Faith, Military Tagged With: fly away, military wife life, view from above

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Meet Karin

Hi! My name is Karin Madden. Writer. Warrior wife. Mom of six pack. Homeschooler. German-blooded southerner. Welcome to the place where I explore what it means to grow stronger - spirit, soul, and body. I write to inspire and encourage - to remind you we are not alone. By being bold with grace and speaking truth in love, we can become who we are meant to be. I'm glad you are here.

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  • When You Have A Promise To Keep November 9, 2016
  • When You Are In The Secret Place April 21, 2016
  • When You Need To Hear – Do Not Be Afraid April 6, 2016
  • The One List We Need To Write January 1, 2016
  • The Dance May 29, 2015

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