Faith Archives - Page 3 of 28

October 1, 2014 by Karin 2 Comments

Walking The Path

It’s that time of year again.

Every October writers across the web link up at The Nester’s place for 31 days of writing. It’s a cyber kick in the pants for writers. I participated in the challenge in 2012 and 2013. Both years I lined up my plans and my words, and went to work.

Recently God’s whispering Spirit told me to lay down my plans. In everything. I thought to myself,

Oh no! But those are just so good…

Time and again, day after day, He has shown me His plan is better. I know it is. I believe Him.

This year, I am joining in the 31 days of writing again. But, this time, I am going to let God drive. He gives us the first breath in our lungs when we open our eyes. His mercies are new every morning.

Through the Lord’s mercies we are not consumed, Because His compassions fail not. They are new every morning; Great is Your faithfulness. ~ Lamentations 3:22-23 (NKJV)

This month I am going to open my eyes to what He has to give. Every. Day.

I will spend this month, and every other after, just walking the path…

Join me over here for 31 days of Walking the Path. Thank you for joining me on the journey.

Psalm 16:11

You make known to me the path of life; you will fill me with joy in your presence, with eternal pleasures at your right hand.

September 29, 2014 by Karin 2 Comments

Wings In The Storms Of Worry And Fear

It has been a while.

I’d like to say I’ve been waiting on God, and the reason I haven’t uttered a word in this place is because I have been waiting on just the right words.

A wise friend of mine recently posted these words,

Waiting is not passive. It’s active. We wait with head erect, neck outstretched – expecting God’s answer at any moment, from any direction.

However, the truth just dawned on me. I have been waiting, but more than that, I have been muted by the pain I see all around us. I mean, what in the world does some mom have to say that can change the way we see this suffering world? I could barely see clearly to the end of a hell hot summer in Vegas.

How in this world tearing at the seams can we find anything at all to say that hasn’t already been screamed or spewed or vomited all over the internet?

People are angry. People are afraid. People are fed up. And everyone around us seems to have every answer, and no answer at all.

It seems as my faith grows, so does my pain in seeing the suffering. So, I find myself just wanting to be quiet.

What can we say to the grieving wife of a warrior lost too soon? I remember last month, the day I heard the jet went down. I remember waking in the night before any word had surfaced of his fate. I woke in a cold sweat and went with heart racing fear into deep prayer,

Please, God, please let him survive. He has a wife. And two daughters. Please show us he ejected safely from that Eagle. Please…

Though I didn’t know him, I know his best friends. Though I don’t know her, I know too many widows who have suffered the same tragedy. Though I have thankfully never heard that knock at the front door, I have feared it from the moment I set eyes on my own warrior. The reality falls around us and our hearts break one piece more with every tragedy that crosses our lives.

Just days later, another report. Another warrior, and this time his brother with him. Black ribbons stream across my Facebook and I wonder why again this life so young. Why, again, grieving widows and orphaned children?

And again, another week gone by, a step closer to our door. The call from my warrior,

Have you read the email? I’m in shock…

A warrior brother to my own pilot. Every time we go to this place of shock, disbelief, and mourning; it rattles our core just a bit more.

I took my kids to the photo hanging on our wall. This young bride glowing next to her beaming Captain. My face went to the mischievous grin of a sword bearer – knowing the whack to the rear of the princess bride was approaching.

Just one of many traditions in the military. The magnificent arch of swords welcomes the newly married couple. Just as they are about to emerge into this new life together, the swords close in front of them. This – the cue to kiss this unsuspecting warrior wife – is followed by the raising of the swords. Just as the two enter into this daunting world of deployments, and wars, and battles, and separations; the lovely wife gets a smack. Right on her ass. How apropos for a welcome into the reality of military wife life.

I looked into the glimmer on the face of our friend and whispered,

Why you, too?

My warrior walked in the door that night, swarmed by the squeezing arms of young children. I prepared them for Daddy’s sadness. But these warriors, you see, they’ve been there many times. They lose many comrades. And the thing about this – these comrades are more than friends. They are brothers. Even the ones we don’t know.

The family tree is strong having weathered a similar journey together – divided only by lines on a map. Our hearts bleed for each other as though we are given this one chamber of our hearts to share. We bleed into each other, and carry the families of the fallen. The bond can hardly be described to anyone else. But we can look into each others’ eyes and know.

When he saw me, dish towel and dinner in hand, his stride approached me with the precision targeting they learn like the beating of their own hearts. And his heart bled on my shoulder.

You see, every time, every story, every man lost – the faces waiting on the other side pry open the barrier between earth and heaven to remind us of the wounds our shared heart chamber has suffered. Every face, every call sign, every brother-in-arms gone too soon lights up our memories like exploding bombs. And it never gets easier. In fact, it gets harder.

Because here is the secret we all know…

The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him. ~ GK Chesterton

Our warriors go to the gates of hell because they love. And when they go to battle for us, they bond with their brothers in ways we can never completely understand. These friendships forged in the fire of battle burn holes to the core and leave singed scars until they come face to face again.

With every step in my faith – and those strides have grown by the grace of God – my heart aches more for the suffering.

Perhaps it’s this.

The pain invades our souls more with every subsequent blow, because we know. We know sometimes the only way to wake the sleeping soul is to rattle it awake. Our spirits won’t grow stronger in the slumber. Our souls can’t learn in the comfort of downy covers. Our souls won’t come alive without the truth that this life is fleeting.

Our faith will not grow without seeing that we just can’t see with our eyes anymore. Perhaps the only way to really see, is by closing our eyes to this dimly lit world and allowing Him to finally show us the truth. The blinding light beyond what we can see here. The truth in the reality is beyond our comprehension.

We can listen in the stillness of heartache, in the storms of worry and fear. We can close our eyes to what we think we know, and open our hearts to the truth our weary souls are dying to hear.

Then, our spirits will soar… on wings like eagles.

Isaiah 40:30-31

Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.

July 28, 2014 by Karin 3 Comments

The One Thing We Have To Let Go

Sometimes we just don’t even know where to begin.

It’s one of the reasons we wait to make that phone call. You know, the one to the friend who lives just too far away. Or the brother whom you miss, but so much time has gone by you’re not even sure what you’ll have to talk about. Or the uncle who lives an ocean away and doesn’t realize his sister can’t recall his name and has forgotten he is still there – just a phone line away.

It’s the reason we stop trying to make new friends. There’s just too much to explain and the stories that made us are so many and so far behind we don’t have the energy to put them into words. There’s nothing like old friends and sometimes the new faces we meet remind us so much of a long gone friend, we can’t bear to visit the time again.

Sometimes we don’t know where to begin because it all begins with small talk. And we are tired of small talk. Small talk takes big effort and we just get tired. And sometimes we become allergic to small talk.

The breath gets caught in our throats and we just don’t think we can form one more sentence about the heat, or the weather, or the schools, or the neighborhood, or the state of the world.

Everything is fine. It really is.

There is not one thing in this broken world for a well-fed, clothed, sheltered soul to complain about.

Especially a soul with six healthy, happy children. This woman with a loving husband. This educated woman with friends and family and a good life.

Not one thing.

Except for Alzheimer’s and cancer.

And the fears that come with raising kids in this mess of a world.

Then why on this spinning orb do we find ourselves revolving around distress?

What do we do when the doubts, the fears, the guilt, the regrets just won’t let us go?

What if we turn time and time again to the heavens, beating fists against a Holy Chest, and we get – not one word?

Where can we retreat to plead in silence and solitude when the noise and the voices and the rage burn just outside the thin doors… threatening to engulf us all.

What happens when we aren’t quite sure if we believe… enough?

How can we die to ourselves and become like Him when we lie to ourselves? We don’t even know what to die to.

I am tired. Mostly I am tired of my own voice. The reel-to-reel loop of real life.

I wonder what I would have to say if no one were listening? The words we toss out into the air we know are bound to be caught. I have tossed the words out again and again, just waiting for His response.

And, silence.

Then, a thought. Oswald Chambers has said,

God’s silences are His answers. His silence is the sign that He is bringing you into a marvelous understanding of Himself.

Silence. In the silence we take our inward turned eyes and look… out.

Introspection. The constant mulling, dwelling, analyzing, deciphering, and re-deciphering. The constant me. me. me. is the chain link fence. This fence restraining us while our clamoring fingers wrap around the barbed links and grasp at Him. And all the while, we dig our feet into the self-centered dirt.

The silence. In the silence He has begun to cut away the fencing. A hole appears just large enough to push an arm through. Then, a leg. Then the whole self.

Look out. Not in. In the silence a most startling whisper can appear. When we finally crumble and ask,

What do I need to let go?

Fingers bleeding and clawing for the Truth. The silence is suddenly interrupted with two words no more audible than a single exhale,

Your plans.

The startling truth. The one thing we force Him to pry from our aching hands. Our own plans. They’ve been in the way all along. We insist,

But they are good. Hear me out. My plans are just so, well… planned.

He must laugh knowing the plans firmly clasped in our sweaty palms are the very plans keeping us from the other side of the fence.

The awkward, misshapen plans are the very barrier keeping us from this marvelous understanding.

Sometimes in His silence, He waits for our open palms.

And, finally, He can pull us through… and bring us right into Him.

Job 42:2-5

I know that you can do all things; no purpose of yours can be thwarted. You asked, ‘Who is this that obscures my plans without knowledge?’ Surely I spoke of things I did not understand, things too wonderful for me to know. “You said, ‘Listen now, and I will speak; I will question you, and you shall answer me.’ My ears had heard of you but now my eyes have seen you.

June 6, 2014 by Karin 8 Comments

When The Storms Gather

Here I am.

I’m not really even sure I want to be here, but I knew something was missing when I stopped showing up in this place.

It all just gets to be too much sometimes. Sometimes we have to stop and slide into the shadows. Sometimes we have to hide, or wait – I’m not certain which one is the right word. Are we hiding? Or maybe we just sense in our spirits it’s time to stop and… wait.

Sometimes when we stop, even for a moment, we find that another moment comes along – and passes. And before we know it time keeps going and going, and we wonder how we ended up this far down the road.

The phone rang. I saw his name on the caller ID and I knew a little bit how the conversation would go. His voice has become gravelled with time. In his voice I can still hear the voice that welcomed me into the world. I can still hear the voice I remember from all the days that have slipped into memory – the one who whispered warnings or laughed at the dinner table. The one who snapped for silence after a long day’s work. The voice who told me I could even when I thought I couldn’t. The one I really didn’t know very well – until I became a parent myself.

I answered though I knew the news would likely not be good. These conversations go this way when there’s only one of the pair who can remember anymore. This is what happens when the memories start slipping away, and there is only one left trying to keep them alive.

It’s getting very hard. I don’t know what to do.

And the voice is 3000 miles away. And I feel – helpless. And here I am.

The phone again. And the caller ID. Sometimes you know it’s your voice that needs to speak truth to lift a falling soul. But, sometimes all we need to be is the ear on the other end of the line. No words. No words can come in to bridge the gap between broken and whole. Just an ear to funnel the flowing words until they come out the other side – and, then, we can see. The breath of air on the other side becomes suddenly clear. And all we have to do is… listen.

I listened to her voice break time and again. The ebb and flow of an aching heart racing to the shore, and just as quickly retreating to this sea of confusion and chaos and questions. And sometimes we find ourselves drowning in it.

The words swirled around us, until they gathered in the storm cloud over our heads – and fell. Feeling like hail, until the relief of releasing every last fear and ache became a soothing rain – washing it all away. Sometimes we just have to be the umbrella in the storm. We let the downpour ricochet off our backs while we cover this soul seeking a break from the stinging rain.

It’s so hard. I don’t know what to do.

The pain and the words sometimes pelt us, but if we stand still long enough – we’ll see the sun break through the clouds.

The voice is 3000 miles away. And I hug the phone tighter. And here I am.

The phone. He walked into the other room and I drifted behind him. You can just tell, can’t you? When that voice you know so well changes its tone, and the light-hearted rhythm becomes a chilled whisper. I could see my warrior’s shoulders drop, and with it – my heart. I drew a deep breath and braced for the storm.

And if I never hear that diagnosis again – it’ll be too soon.

Cancer.

His eyes met mine, and sometimes you need no words.

I sank to my knees and prayed. It’s all I know to do anymore.

That voice on the phone – 3000 miles away. And here I am.

And sometimes God feels a million miles away.

The storm clouds gather around our craning necks, but here we are. Instead of standing our ground in the sand too soft to hold the weight of all of this – we kneel on the Rock.

It’s here on this Rock – under the gathering storms 3000 miles, and sometimes 3 feet, from these voices we love – we can hear the still small whisper,

Here I AM.

Revelation 3:20

Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with him, and he with me.

May 7, 2014 by Karin 12 Comments

When You Don’t Know How To Forgive Yourself

The phone rang through the sizzle of the searing meat on the stove.

Taco Monday. Not nearly as clever as Taco Tuesday, as my girl pointed out, but it’s Cinco de Mayo. A day to celebrate our Mexican heritage – thought it’s only a fraction for this six pack of ours. A grandmother of a great-grandfather. Born and raised in a border town in the blazing Texas heat… a very long time ago.

I had a few conversations with this grandfather of my warrior. A brilliant man whose heart bloomed beautifully as his mind aged. I remember the stories that brought a twinkle to his eyes. The time he ran away when his parents adopted a little sister. He was ten-years-old and found this new sister an imposition. He laughed as a 95-year-old man recalling his childhood antics. His life stretched a full 98 years. Though my children had prayed for a full one hundred. Who gets to live that long? They wanted him to wear the badge of honor.

I wonder if his mother ever dreamed her boy would live to be on old man with grandchildren upon grandchildren. A man who touched the cheeks of his great-grandchildren.

I wonder if his mother thought that far ahead? It’s almost too far to look down the road. Besides, we are supposed to live right now, aren’t we?

The sound of the phone drilled through my thoughts of tacos and dinners and heritage and old age and mothers.

I scooped the phone to my ear,

Happy Cinco de Mayo!

Her voice trembled through the line,

Hi Karin, how are you?

We can just tell, can’t we? We can hear in the tremor of one small syllable of a dear friend’s voice when the flood of salt is close to the rims of blurring eyes,

What’s wrong? Why do you sound so sad?

The barrier broke as she poured her aching mama worries through the line. The ebb and flow of her voice washed over us both as she described every fear, every worry, and every heartache her sinking soul couldn’t hold. We all end up here sometimes. Paddling upstream. Clamoring for air, and relief, and any reed we can hold on the shoreline. We all end up here – grasping at straws.

We talked like two oarsmen trying to find a rhythm we could both understand. Trying to make sense of the choppy waters we find ourselves paddling through furiously. And sometimes the rowing is so much easier with two. Sometimes we need to know someone is holding the other oar – praying to God we don’t sink under the weight of ourselves.

The words flowed on about motherhood and mess-ups and maternal mayhem, until she asked the question,

Karin, how do you forgive yourself?

How do you forgive yourself when you mess up?

There it was. The place our river turns to white water rapids. Guilt.

And we just drown under it.

Guilt. How do we forgive ourselves when we make the same mistakes over and over again?

How do we forgive ourselves when we lose tempers or sanity?

How do we forgive ourselves when we turn out to be less than the mothers we expected to be? When our ideas become vapor? When our plans wash down the stream far from view?

How do we forgive ourselves when who we are turns out to be less than whom we can accept?

I stammered over my reply. It’s not easy to explain the demon you battle yourself. It’s not easy to describe the end of the rapids when you are stuck in the middle of the water yourself,

Well, I guess, we have to remember that when we don’t forgive ourselves – we are sort of calling God a liar. He forgives us, but we are telling Him – He must be wrong.

She sighed,

I know. And that makes me feel even more guilty.

Yea, me too.

And I’m tired of this wasted emotion. I’m tired of it when I hear my son sink under the weight of the same snarling beast. Guilt. And I wonder if he learned it from me.

I’m tired of it. I’m tired of the emotion that lies to us and tells us we won’t get it right, and even when we do – it won’t let us forget the times we didn’t. The blade cuts to the soft white underbelly of a sinking soul.

So, my friend, this is the way I see it. Guilt is the part of the ride where the river forks.

You can keeping riding that dangerous wave as the current pulls you toward the cliff plummeting into the spray of murky depths. Or you can grab the oar and steer and paddle like hell – until you find yourself on smooth waters on the other side of that fork.

But, you are going to have to believe the One who forgave you first. And you are going to have to throw your sisters – the rest of us moms – an oar so we can help you steer. Because see, we were never supposed to raft down this journey alone.

And in this ever-changing current of motherhood… a river runs right through it.

John 7:37-38

On the last and greatest day of the Feast, Jesus stood and said in a loud voice, “If anyone is thirsty, let him come to me and drink. Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, streams of living water will flow from within him.”

Walking The Path

Wings In The Storms Of Worry And Fear

The One Thing We Have To Let Go

When The Storms Gather

When You Don’t Know How To Forgive Yourself

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