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January 1, 2016 by Karin 12 Comments

The One List We Need To Write

It was a year ago. Give or take a few days.

I probably started the week after we lost who would have been number seven. It took me eleven months to even utter that event to a few of our six. Sometimes it just takes time.

Yes, I think it must have been right about this time. I started that list. You know the one.

The list that spells out all the things you will do better next year. All the areas that need improvement. You know the ones.

Be a more understanding wife. Be a better mom. Be a fun mom. Be a better friend – the kind that stays in touch… regularly. Be more giving. Be more loving. Be a more organized house keeper. Be more patient. Yes, that one. Be more patient. Be a better teacher. Be slower to spend and quicker to save. Be light-hearted. Be a P90X queen. Be in the moment – while looking carefully to the future. Be grateful… more grateful. Be sure to call Mom and Dad regularly. Yea, all those things. Just be… better.

I carefully penned the list. On paper. It was a first. You know when we write down our goals we are 40% more likely to accomplish them. And goals are good.

We rolled into the new year and, well, it takes about a week to get into the flow of that new list. The good-goal-be-better list.

Then, January. It started. Slowly at first. One swipe from the side. One unexpected change. We have to support the ones we love. Even when we don’t like the change. Sometimes we just aren’t ready. Sometimes it just takes time.

And, February. It’s funny, but we think we outgrow the pain of friendship’s betrayal when we are young. But, not so funny, we don’t. That sucker punch on the jaw can come no matter how far we’ve gone down this road. One more for the list. Tell the kids to pick good ones. Good friends.

By the time March and April rolled around, the list was buried under ER bills, grocery lists, credit card statements, and various other items determined to crush the good-goal-be-better plan.

We plan and dream and hope and wonder, but one day the last call comes. I remember the last day she called. It was my warrior’s 50th birthday. Not a birthday went by without the sweet song laced in her German tongue. I didn’t stay on long, after all she was calling to sing. We don’t like to mess with routine and traditions, do we.

The next day, that’s when the blur began. A laundry list of a different kind. The sequence of events that lead to the end of a life. Flights, visits, suitcases, worries, ticking clocks, nurses, doctors, confusion, and more tears than I dreamed could fall from one soul.

view from a plane

I didn’t know what was heading my direction. I didn’t know what it would be like. I knew grief. Most of us know grief. I didn’t know the marriage of grief and change could pull you under.

I couldn’t have known the ways the waves would toss.

I couldn’t have known I’d kiss her still face one last time – on Mother’s Day.

I couldn’t have known I’d pack his last suitcase and whisk him away from the home he had known for forty-six years.

I couldn’t have known the destruction of a bulldozing claw, and the careless crushing of our childhood home would haunt my thoughts for months upon months.

Grief itself feels much like walking under water. Trudging along against this unseen force, and just when a brief rest during your journey slows your march, the current ruthlessly drags you back.

Back to the dining room chair stored in the garage. That one with the lingering smell of everything you ever knew before you knew grief. It pulls you back through glimpses in the mirror. That reflection once so familiar suddenly takes on lines and forms of another face you knew so well.

It pulls you back through rooms in your memory. Rooms you could walk through blind. The ones that held every memory of every year until you waltzed into adulthood.

The memories take over your dreams and you wonder if you’ll ever find the peace you once took for granted. The simple joys untouched by the scent of what once was.

Just today, the photograph popped into my messages. It took my breath. This message from a lifelong sister. We get to have those sometimes. The ones who remember with us. And they are a gift. Every one of them. The people. No surprise – they are the ones who make a life.

The photo was of a grinning seventeen-year-old girl. I didn’t realize how much her hair looked like that of my little summer warrior. I didn’t realize how youth hangs effortlessly on a soul and when it’s gone, you could kick yourself for ever wishing it away. Time, like that underwater current, has its way with us.

a girl at 17

I wanted to look that girl in the face and hold her chin and tell her,

You don’t have to try so hard.

You don’t have to worry so much.

You don’t have to be better.

Oh, please, just breathe and enjoy the ride.

The shoulder she peeked over was that of one of her teenage besties. And I don’t even know where he is anymore. The face behind the camera is a grinning soul, who thankfully is only a text away. It’s no guarantee. These friendships. We don’t know which ones we’ll keep and which ones will drift to grinning memories in a deep fallen snow.

I do know the touch of each passing soul leaves an indelible mark. Some of us are just meant to share a moment and pass on to the next current.

It’s been a full year now, and the underwater walking has me moving more slowly. The aches and creaks in my back remind me that P90X is a worthy pursuit. I’d like to be a better house keeper, but feel most unmotivated in a house that is not our own with furnishings that are foreign to me. I suppose understanding wife receives a check mark. We’ve eaten dinner without him again and I know – he’d rather be here.

I don’t know about the fun mom part. Just last week I laughed from the bottom of my gut, and my pack of six eyed me with a stunned wonder. I could do better. Laughter was once my third language, behind German. Yes, I could do better.

Ah, forget the rest of the list. I can’t recall it and I’m sure it was lost in the move anyway.

My warrior has devised the list for this new year. And maybe this is how we pick each other up out of the current. Maybe the list isn’t the answer at all. Maybe the hands holding the lists are the real goals. Maybe I’ll just let the whole thing go and float with the current.

Just months ago, which now seems like several soul transformations ago, I whispered to my warrior over fresh, raw tears,

All the worrying I did. All the worrying over her. Over him. Over what we would do… over how this whole thing would play out. Over how the end would come. It was all a waste of time. None of it happened like I thought it would. None of it was in my control. None of it was part of the story I wrote in my mind. 

But, somehow, it was better. Gut wrenching, ruthless, heartbreaking. And somehow better than I could have written it.

Maybe that’s the list we should write.

The list of every single worry that grabs us by the throat at 3 am. The list of every pain and I-don’t-know-what-to-do. The list of every lingering thought in which we doubt God. That’s the list.

The list of all the things God does not, or will not, or can not control. We laugh at this nonsense, but the laughter subsides when we see the list is actually growing line upon line.

That list would likely be long. Longer than we would like. We hope our gratitude list will be longer, but it probably isn’t.

The illusive wisdom we request without ceasing comes at a price. In the piercing words of Aeschylus,

Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget
falls drop by drop upon the heart
until, in our own despair, against our will,
comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.

The awful grace of God.

This grace arrives in the current. The only way to receive it is to allow the current to take us.

The list. This time it will bleed onto paper through the clenched fists holding all the worries that don’t belong to me, or any of us.

This list will spew every last snarling thought of fear that clings to my weary mind. Every last piece standing in the way of peace.

This list. I’ll take every bullet point, one at a time, and tear it from the list. I’ll look at it long and slow. I’ll run my fingers across the familiar letters etched in my worrying mind.  I’ll tear those letters while whispering to the part of my soul that longs for control,

This isn’t yours anymore. It never was. You just didn’t know it. That awful grace of God has opened your eyes…

And I’ll throw the list away. Every last scribbled worry.

One line, one lie, at a time.

 

Proverbs 16:9

A man’s heart plans his way, But the Lord directs his steps.

Karin Madden

Filed Under: Grace, grief Tagged With: grief, the awful grace of God

March 5, 2014 by Karin 6 Comments

Why We Should Stop Trying So Hard

Try.

That’s what we are all taught.

Try your best. Try harder. Try to do it right the first time.

If at first you don’t succeed, try… try… again.

A good, valid lesson. I tell my kids to try. My parents told me to try. Teachers implored us,

Try.

We try day in and day out.

We try to get to those pink-rimmed toilets.

We try to get to all the laundry.

We try to get it all fluffed, folded, and put away.

We try to finish the first batch of dirty dishes before the second and third invade.

We try to plow through all the schoolwork without spraying harsh words… or tears.

We try to be nice to the road rage driver whose agenda is to get there first – wherever there is.

We try to keep our middle finger down and our attitudes up when we are peppered with salty words from a random grump having a random bad day in a random store.

We try to be patient with our kids, or our bosses, or our parents, or our spouses.

We try to be understanding with our aging parents even when we think we know what’s best for them… but they just won’t listen.

We try to love our neighbors… especially the unlovable ones.

We try to be the lovable neighbor, even when we don’t feel like it.

We try.  

We try to please others.  And, we try to please God.

We try to work this partially wrecked vehicle we are given to drive across this lifetime. We give thanks for the fuel in our engines and the gifts in the back seat. We give thanks for the passengers who ride this road along with us. We give thanks for the tune-ups and the brake jobs, and for the fine tuning along the way.

Racing Along

Little Racers

And we try to do it right, because we are grateful. Most of the time.

Sometimes we get distracted by the roadside stands or the flashy billboards.

Sometimes we completely lose track and another vehicle comes along and creams us.

Sometimes we thoughtlessly barrel into another unsuspecting driver.

Wrecked

And, we’re sorry. And we wish we could take it back.

But we can’t.

So we keep going.

We try until we find ourselves stranded on the roadside wondering where it all went wrong.

We wonder how we missed the turn, and where were the signs anyway?

We wonder why we stall and become overwhelmed and exhausted.

Because, after all, we’ve tried.

Tow Mater

Kneeling in this roadside place, I throw my spaghetti bowl mess of a mind up the heavens,

What do I do with all this?

This tangled, mangled mess of try-hard.

What do I do now?

And the flashes of light from the tow truck blind me. The One equipped to hitch us right up and tow us along while we sit shotgun. The whisper from this blinding flash in the darkest knee bent place blows through my weary spirit,

Stop trying so hard.

The clenched air exhales slowly from my worn and dented soul,

I want to do it right. I want to make You proud.

I want to make sure You keep loving me… well.

The Holy wind with His peaceful breeze washes over this weary traveller,

You don’t have to earn it.

It’s already in your hands.

The keys are yours for the taking.

Don’t try so hard.

I don’t know why. Sometimes we don’t know how to downshift. I don’t know where the lie started. This rumor that love has to be earned and tirelessly chased until caught. It’s a lie, you know.

One of our favorites. Yoda. He had it right,

Do or do not. There is no try.

Do ask.  Do seek.  Do knock.

Do remember the proof of Love allowed Himself to be hung on a cross for us more than two millennia ago.

Foot of the Cross

I wonder if it’s time to move from the foot of the cross… beyond the cross to the resurrected Love that beckons,

Follow me.

Love gave us life.  And breath.  And hope.  And no matter how hard we try or do not, Love is here to stay.

All we have to do… is be.  Be-lieve.

And, deep breath…

Be still.

 

Psalm 46:1, 10

God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble…  

He says, “Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.”  

Karin Madden

 

Filed Under: A Day in the Life, Faith, Grace, Hope Tagged With: be still, love is here to stay, stop trying so hard

January 7, 2014 by Karin 4 Comments

Bigger Cups Sizes And Thin Skin

I wish it didn’t matter to me.  I wish I could say I don’t care.

I want to be liked.  When I am not, it hurts.  I wonder what I must have done to cause this perceived dislike, and return the favor – certain it is the other person’s problem anyway.

The skin thickens.

I heard a story once.  A priest speaking at a retreat compared us to cups.

The larger our cups get, the thinner the sides. The thinner the sides, the more others can see Christ through us. We pour ourselves out and fill ourselves with Christ.

A woman excitedly responded,

So we want to have a bigger cup size! 

The priest smiled and replied,

I choose not to answer that.

Laughter erupted in the room and the woman blushed,

Oh dear.

She is right. We want to have a bigger cup size and thin skin.  

(Join me at (in)courage today for the rest of this story…)

Holding a new hand

Philippians 1:9-11

And this is my prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight, so that you may be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless for the day of Christ, filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ—to the glory and praise of God.

Karin Madden

 

 

Filed Under: Faith, Grace, Military Tagged With: grace, life as a military wife, thin skin

November 8, 2013 by Karin Leave a Comment

You Just Never Know…

31 days of Good Deeds 31 Days of Good Deeds

(click here for the series)

~ Day 27 ~

It looks like summertime.  You’d never know it is fall in the middle of the sunny desert.

My eyes scan the horizon for any glimpse of fall leaves in this sandy town.  Nothing.  This place of perpetual summer leaves and green cacti.

I’m left to close my eyes.  Behind the lids I see the glorious gold.  The rusty orange, raging red, and luminous yellow blaze in my mind’s eye.

The leaves will fall and again I’ll close my eyes to see the thick pillow of snow cascade across the landscape.  This, I think, we might miss the most.  The winter snow.  There is just something about snow that makes everyone feel more like a brother, or a sister.  Like we are trapped in a down comforter together.  The snow feathers all around while we gaze in amazement and offer hands of help.  There is something about the snow that quiets the earth and fills in the lines of division with white goodness.

We can look into the distance here and see the white caps of jagged mountains.  These hills that surround us now will soon be covered in a white blanket.  Almost close enough to reach, but not near enough to our front door step.

I remember the scene.  My front door step just three years ago.  I didn’t glimpse the stone of those steps for months.  Two blizzards raged outside, back to back… just after he left.   I watched the wind whip the branches around as the ice thickened and grabbed hold of the fast falling flakes.

The mounds grew and grew.  By morning all we could see was white.  Like a ski chalet somewhere on the other side of the world.  While my warrior, green bags in tow, flew far away… somewhere to the other side of the world.  Deserts far away from the white down on our front stoop.

He loves this stuff.  I wish he could see this…

The shrieks and jubilant hollers from our, then, pack of five filled the cozy rooms.  Some of the glee came right from mama’s mouth.  There’s just something about snow.  It brings me back to childhood memories while holding me in the present moment – all at the same time.  Nothing else quite does that.

Blanket of snow

Weeks and weeks went by.  Snow does begin to wear on mama bear somewhere between the soaked suits and wet boots.  Many times I thought,

This would be so much better with two.  He would just love this.

Friends with warrior hearts and pastors with servant’s souls came day after day to make sure mama and babies had supplies and a shoveled driveway.  We just can’t make it through the cold days without our brothers and sisters.  The white goodness in the hearts of friends and neighbors quieted and warmed our souls in the middle of missing daddy.

After months of snowy ground cover, the walkways seemed to transform to a slick glistening path of reflection… and danger of broken bones.

Plowing through

I don’t remember quite what I was doing, but I know just where I was standing when I saw her carefully climb those slick steps.  My mind quickly made the judgement call,

Who on earth tries to sell stuff door-to-door in weather like this?  Just nuts…

Her hand went to the door and she knocked briefly.  She was dressed for the weather with a hat that capped what I was sure was plum craziness.

I opened the door anticipating,

No thank you, we aren’t interested.

It just goes to show you… not so fast.  Not so fast with that judgement thing.  You never know… you might just being opening the door to a gift.

She smiled at me,

Hi.  I’m your neighbor down the street.

She pointed to the house.  Oh, I knew the house.  We all knew she was a hoarder.  Not in the sense that all of us have trouble letting go, but in the true definition of hoarder.  The house seemed to slowly disappear behind overgrown shrubs; and any glimpse into the cracked garage door bore witness to years and years of newspapers… and so much more.  Stacks and stacks piled behind the darkened windows.  Occasionally we would see a car come and go.

What could bring a person to this place… hoarding?  The stories swirled of sadness… the passing of her husband was said to start it all.  But, who knows where it all really starts?

My eyes widened as a smile crept to my face,

Hi.  How are you?  I’m Karin.

She smiled, shook my hand, and went on,

I heard your husband was deployed.  I know you have a lot of kids down here and that you probably can’t get to the store.  I was at Home Depot and grabbed the last two bags of rock salt.  I want you to have them for your walkway.  It can be dangerous with all this ice and I don’t want you guys to get hurt.

Just when you think you know a story… grace comes crashing in.

She went on to tell me about her daughter and grandchildren.  She even offered to watch my children should I reach the brink of madness home alone with five of them.

We laughed and talked; and finally she went on her way down the icy path.

I watched out the window until I couldn’t see her anymore.

I felt His love and protection, and at the same time I heard Him whisper,

You just never know…

And, we don’t.

We don’t know the whole of any story.

We know pieces and parts.  We form our opinions on shards of information… on slivers of truth.  

We form our opinions on sheets of ice only to find grace and humility melting them all away.

Sometimes we don’t know the white pillows of goodness that are hidden in a heart.

The woman who hoarded things we couldn’t understand, freely gave what a stranger needed.  You just never know.

You just never know what you’ll find on your front step… if you are willing to open the door…

and your heart.

 

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. 

Karin signature

 

 

Filed Under: Brothers and Sisters, Community, Faith, Friendship, Good Deeds, Grace, Military, The Good Stuff, Together Tagged With: military, sharing burden, together, you never know

October 17, 2013 by Karin Leave a Comment

The Good Seed

31 Days of Good Deeds 31 Days of Good Deeds

(click here for the series)

~ Day 15 ~

Sometimes it isn’t until they are gone.

It isn’t until they are gone that we realize how they changed everything.

Most of the time we didn’t even realize we needed to change something… or we didn’t really want to.

It isn’t until we look back on what was, that we realize what is.  The turning point in our lives.

the good seed

It isn’t until we can see pieces of life in the rearview mirror that we can see how our pieces have come together.

It isn’t until we look back that we can look Up and see the truth.

The lives we live like this woven tapestry.  Threaded piece by piece… never having seen the bold thread of this person that held it all together.  Until we could grow stronger.

My dear friend, missing her uncle, remembers him…

Twenty-two years ago a couple took in a troubled 18-year-old girl. They had a lot going on in their own lives; two daughters in college and high school senior still at home. The husband worked crazy shift work that eliminated any type of normal sleep and life of his own. The woman was a school bus driver at the time. She volunteered at church and played taxi to her daughter’s activities and ran all over the state trying to make the college sporting and extra curricular events.
 
Their niece was “lost”. Running nowhere, but constantly running. Circumstances led her to their home – it had always been a safe place – a place where the door was always unlocked. It was often left wide open; an indication of the busy lifestyle where love provoked the revolving door to remain more open than closed. 
 
There was only liability in inviting her in. Her lifestyle was far from theirs – they knew it and opened the door and their arms. They opened themselves up to the questions and judgement from others. Why? “She should learn on her own… she’s gotten herself into this after all!”  
There were no lectures or shame here. Everyday there was support, encouragement, company, and love for the girl. She continued in her life choices, but now felt a twinge of wanting what they had… a simple, steady, not so exciting, but full life. The love of Christ permeated their home and their actions – they actually believed in her and began a flicker of belief in herself.
 
Their kindness gave her hope. It slowly turned to motivation and value; and one day she left. She had been given wings – much like the cousins who had gone before. She didn’t necessarily go on to do great things in the eyes of the world… but ever since, she has been flying and often flies back to the home with the revolving door. 
 
The couple has recently separated in body. The husband flew home to His Lord. His memorial celebration was filled with stories like hers – and now a question. Will the good deed live on? Can she do this, too? Can her door offer a welcome, safety, and the simple glimmer of hope? She is realizing this was an act of bravery on their part… there were no guarantees with the chance they took on her. A good deed is risky – there may not be a good turnout. But then that wasn’t their job, was it? A good deed is simply a good “seed” and all they did was sow it. 

The good deed.  Sometimes it is the good seed… sown in faith.

The voice that whispers,

My door is open.

You are welcome here.

 

Matthew 7:7-8

Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened.

Karin signature

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Filed Under: Faith, Family, Good Deeds, Grace, Hope, Love, Together Tagged With: open door, the good seed, the good stuff

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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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