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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

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

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

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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Recent Sunrise Posts

  • 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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