Hope Archives - karin madden

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.

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.

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.

April 14, 2014 by Karin 15 Comments

When It’s Time To Live – My Messy Beautiful Truth

Here I am. Fingers poised.

I did it again. I signed up for a project, not really knowing what I was signing up for. I do that sometimes. I think if God wants us to follow Him faithfully and step out into the unknown, sometimes we actually have to. Step out into the unknown, that is.

Then I found out more about it. I have to write the real, messy beautiful truth about who I am. Argh. Not that I want to really keep it all to myself, it just seems so painfully introspective. Almost narcissistic. And, man oh man; I don’t want to be narcissistic. There are too many millions out there who don’t have the luxury of sitting at a computer playing mind-mellowing tunes while they pick apart their own anxieties and deep-seated isms. But, it’s what I signed up for. And I like to follow through. I like to do what I say I’m going to do. I think that’s a big deal. There. That’s one part of me.

I like follow through because it’s the same as telling the truth. And I like to tell the truth. But, I don’t like mean. Not that kind of truth-telling. Not the,

Hey, I really don’t dig that shirt… or hat… or purse…

Not that kind of truth-telling. It’s really not necessary. Unless someone asks. Really asks. You know, the girlfriend who wants it straight,

How do the jeans really look?

I’ve had friends like that. And I need them. I miss them.

See, in the military, you get to start over and over again. Like anything else, it carries the great and the gruesome with it. You clean your house and your heart, and you pack up and leave.

There’s an excitement and a refreshing order that comes with going to the new normal. You get to start from scratch. But, scratch can hurt. The scratch can bring cuts and wounds and tears. The hardest part, it brings tears from your kids. Those are the worst ones. You just can’t un-live some places for them. The heart places. They have to go there, just like you do. The best you can do is grab their hands and hold on. We only become warriors by going to war – by going to battle against the dark places. Outside of us – but, first, inside of us.

I’m married to a warrior – the kind who flies fighters and goes to war. I’m a mom of six kids. That makes me a warrior in some ways. Six more souls to go to battle for. It also shows me God had to give me more practice in patience than most. Each one of my littles is a hill on which I die. Another place to die to myself. And I really want to die to myself, though it took me over four decades to figure out what that means.

So, who am I? That’s the assignment. I’ll just go right to the fears. We all have those. It’s not such a tough place to start.

I’m afraid of heights. Really afraid. Like knee buckling, heart racing, dizzying fear. I’m not so much afraid of falling; more that I’ll forget I’m up high and jump. Pretty strange, I know. What scares me more is I’ll miss some really cool moments with my kids because of this fear. I already have. Roller coasters and lighthouses. I missed that time on the lighthouse. I have pictures, but they’re just not the same. What’s worse, my baby girl is more petrified than I am. And, I’m sure it’s my fault. Guilt. That’s a whole other subject, isn’t it?

I’m afraid something will happen to my kids. I know we all are, but I don’t want to be like Nemo’s dad. I want them to live. Really live. I don’t know what to do about this fear. So, I pray. But, sometimes I worry I don’t pray enough – or the right way. Like God’s giving me some prayer exam and I am one question away from failing. I want to get it right – like it all depends on me.

Which brings me to the next fear. It all depends on me (and I worry about narcissism?), and I’m going to completely mess up my kids. I had a great childhood. Good parents, good brothers, good friends. And I never had to move. Ever. Same house, same town – until I left for college. And I hardly ever went back. And that’s it, I think. I hardly ever went back. There’s the root of my fear. My kids will take off and live and never come back.

My parents still live in the same house and I hardly ever go back. We live too far away, and it’s not easy to road trip 3000 miles with six kids. The worst part – my mom has Alzheimer’s, or something like it. We aren’t sure because she’s not the biggest fan of doctors. Every phone call, I try to memorize the brief conversation. She’s my mom. It’s been called the long goodbye, but it’s more than that. Imagine your life as a time line. You cruise along collecting memories and suddenly the one who gave you life, the one who held your new baby body, the one who taught you everything about being a girl and a woman – is living a sliding scale. The memories slide to the right leaving everything to the left – your whole past – behind. The memories become yours – alone. And I hate it. That old saying,

We’ll always have the memories.

Yea, but sometimes we won’t.

Fear of man. It’s one of the worst. Being afraid of what people think. It’s almost paralyzing sometimes. We can say (and when I say “we,” I mean “I”) we don’t care what people think. But, we do. The problem with this fear? It keeps us caged. Stifled. Half alive. And the worst part, we miss the best parts of the turning pages of these passing years. We read only half of every page, which leads us through only half of the book. We miss some of the best parts, but we’ll never know it – until the end when all the pages are open under the sun. I’m not saying finding favor with man is wrong. Wise old King Solomon told us it’s a good and honorable thing to have. It shouldn’t be the goal; but it shouldn’t be the hindrance.

Love is a big deal. Love and mercy are mission number one. But, don’t you know, there’s always going to be someone who wants to shoot you down. And, that’s why we’re warriors. Because we are willing to let people shoot at us. Because we know what’s at stake – our very lives. Our real lives. The ones we are supposed to live – wild and free. Just like that rebel Jesus.

It’s funny, the more you talk about your fears, the smaller they get; and the braver you become. And, man, I want to be brave. I want to be brave for my kids every time they face the dark places. I want them to be brave in the face of angry and critical eyes. I want them to be brave when the angry and critical eyes are the ones facing them in the mirror. Because we can be brutal with ourselves. I want to show them what brave looks like. I want to show them forgiveness is the bravest thing you can do – especially to yourself. I want them to see what it means to carry a cross and to sacrifice. And I want to love their daddy well. I want to be brave for my warrior every time he steps out to battle. And sometimes love is the battlefield (thank you, Pat Benatar…). I want to show them that this is not all there is; but this is all worth fighting for. And, then I think of her.

She’s been gone two years now. The kind of friend who would tell you in her sweetest southern drawl that those jeans were just all wrong. She would smile and hum,

Girrrrl… huh-uh. Those are all wrong, girl.

Man, I miss her. Two years is a lot of life to keep to yourself. So, here’s the thing. My girl, she could stress with the best of them. We could talk in the dark of a booth in a remote restaurant, and just as she poised herself for true confessions, her ears would perk and her eyes would shift,

Do you think anyone heard me?

She pretty much cared what people thought. For a long time. Until she got sick.

Cancer will kill more than healthy cells. It will kill any inkling of fear of what your purpose here is. It will kill any thoughts about what anyone else thinks. It will make you brave and strong and grateful for this very moment, even while you are scared and weak and the moments pass by. It will make you grow up and wake up. It will make you see things you forgot to look at. It will make your eyes new again with more tears than you can count. She was brave and I want to be just like her.

I could go on. But, well, there comes a point we have to stop. We have to get a grip and stop being afraid. I don’t know how to change it all. I don’t know how to erase the fears, but I know a God with a mighty powerful pen. I am fairly certain He can write over anything we ask. In fact, I know He will.

So, I am just going to start here – with pen and ink. I’m going to ask Him to re-write my view of heights through His eyes. The places that seem too high for me are just footstools. He has higher and holier places to take us. Maybe I can just step on one of these footstools, then take the next step, and the next…

My kids. Yes – motherhood. This place He shows me how wrong I can be – while being right where I am supposed to be. I guess I’ll just have to remind them I never doubted them when I let go of their hands… or they let go of mine. And I would fight the world for them; but, that’s not what they – or the world – need. The best I can do is throw these fears onto a page to tell them, and you, we are really all in this together. Some same, some different, but we are all sweating bullets over the pages we haven’t even gotten to yet. And those faded chapters? They show us how far we’ve come.

I want to live this epic tale. I don’t want to miss any more of the story meant for me. And whatever I miss, I’ll ask Him to please have a white-washed beach for me in heaven – somewhere breath-taking, with a hammock and a cold drink – where I can finish reading the parts I missed until now.

Romans 8:15

For you did not receive a spirit that makes you a slave again to fear, but you received the Spirit of sonship. And by him we cry, “Abba, Father.”

(This essay and I are part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project — To learn more and join us, Click Here. And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, Click Here.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

February 13, 2014 by Karin 8 Comments

When We Can’t See Through The Fog

I always look out that window.

It faces the mountains to the west. The snow-covered ones off in the distance. It’s a relief to see snow in a dry desert place.

I needed to see those mountains this morning. I lifted my eyes to the mountains. It’s madness in a house sometimes. A beautiful, wild rumpus. And sometimes I go to that window to breathe. Where does my help come from?

Blinds open. And – cloud cover. No mountains in sight.

Where does my help come from now? When I can’t see the mountains.

What do we do when we are under the cover of clouds and we so badly need to lift our eyes up to the majesty of a mountain top?

The fog rolls across the cookie cutter Spanish tile roofs like a swell of ocean washing the carefully constructed castles of our own making. Nothing to see here today. Just fog.

I want to give you a carefully crafted and profound answer. I want to tell you that the secret is in the fog. I want to show you 5 easy steps to your way out of the hazy unknown. To tell you that the mountain top is still there – you just can’t see it.

But, I don’t have the easy answer. I can’t see through the fog either. The chilly haze obscures everything – for all of us – at some point.

I do know the mountain is still there. I know the spectacular cliffs are just beyond the low-lying clouds. I know this. Because I have seen them. The vision of the rugged earth rising to 11,916 feet in altitude is burned in my mind.

I know the mountains are there because I have seen them again and again. Just not today.

I remember what my little blue-eyed baby boy said as he nestled his sleepy head into the soft cloud of his pillow,

Mama, it’s hard to believe when I can’t see Him.

I smiled in the darkness, lit only by the faint blue of an F-16 night-light,

It is, baby. It is hard to believe in the dark.

We have to remember in the dark what we know to be true in the light.

Yea, it’s hard to believe what we can’t see. But what if we have seen? We just forgot a little bit. What if the only way we remember is by closing our eyes. We can see what we know is there in our mind’s eye. In the eye of our hearts.

And, that is the answer, I think. To all of the questions. The secret isn’t in the fog – it’s behind the fog. Time and wind and sun will move the haze along its way once again to reveal what is really there. What has really always been there. Who has always been there. Whether we have seen Him… or not.

We have to remember in the dark what we know to be true in the light.

And the Son slowly burns off the fog until we can lift our eyes to the mountains again.

To the Maker of heaven and earth.

Ephesians 1:18-19

I pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you, the riches of his glorious inheritance in the saints, and his incomparably great power for us who believe.

When You Have A Promise To Keep

The One Thing We Have To Let Go

When It’s Time To Live – My Messy Beautiful Truth

Why We Should Stop Trying So Hard

When We Can’t See Through The Fog

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