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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

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

May 29, 2015 by Karin Leave a Comment

The Dance

I was the only girl.

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

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

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

The only girl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is the season of change. Graduation time.

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

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

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

The Dance

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

Dancing With Großmutti

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

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

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

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

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

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

Caroline

 

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

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

Remember to dance…

 

Ecclesiastes 3:1-4

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

Karin Madden

 

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

October 4, 2014 by Karin 2 Comments

When You Don’t Get To Say Goodbye

Walking the Path

She tells me she won’t get there to say goodbye. She’s too far away and being a military wife flying solo right now doesn’t lend itself to quick getaways.

I can feel her heartache even in the tiny black and white font popping up on the screen.

They just found out and it’s not a matter of if… but, when.

The cancer has ravaged her body and this woman she has known all her life – this mother to her own father – is leaving soon.

I know she wants to see my Grandpa again. They married when she was 16. They had an amazing life.

This dear soul in my friend’s life is going Home. And missing the goodbye is hard.

And then there’s a wife. She’s burying her husband today. He was too young, and they have young daughters.

He got up one morning and went to work. Just a simple sortie that day. An out-and-back. But his Eagle slipped the bounds of earth. And he went Home.

She didn’t get to say goodbye. And it’s crushing our souls.

Eagle flight

Another friend. A wife. Today is his birthday. I see his face scroll across my screen and smile as she sends him birthday wishes. They have two daughters and it was years ago. A sortie, a plane crash, and that knock at the door. I think of that jet going down – as his spirit went up. Suddenly gone.

She married again and had more beautiful children. Because this life keeps going, even when we don’t get to say goodbye. The world keeps spinning and we keep walking. We walk our paths and try not to faint.

It’s been two and a half years. My girl went Home. I think of the last breath she drew and then let go. Here. Then, suddenly gone. She suffered and when I heard the news a wave of sorrow and relief washed over me at the same time. She told me,

It will always be ok. Even when I die… it will be ok.

I didn’t get to say goodbye. I saved her last message. I scroll past her name, but don’t push play. Hearing her voice scrapes the scab from that wound, and I know where she is. She said it would be ok. Her husband married again. They combined two families of hurting children to make a whole again. And I sink to my knees in thanks. She said it would be ok, and it is.

Another dear friend told me about her best friend. It’s been six years today. A tragedy. Another life lost too soon. And it wrecked her. I think about how she collapsed in the airport when she heard why her friend didn’t make the flight. She died on impact. Here. And suddenly, gone. Their reunion wouldn’t take place. She didn’t get to say goodbye.

We hear it all the time.

You just never know. 

We don’t know when the hour is upon us, until we look back in gut wrenching sorrow and whisper,

I didn’t get to say goodbye.

And it slices right to our core. Our souls take a hit and we wonder if anything will ever be ok again.

But, it will.

It will because my girl knew something I suppose a soul facing death comes to know. This isn’t the end.

Not in an I-just-want-to-say-something-to-make-you-feel-better way. No. Not that.

The Truth doesn’t need our approval or belief to be true. It stands on its own. It just is. Truth.

It is not the end. This is the beginning. And our aching hearts and burdened souls have to hold onto this like it’s life itself.

This is not the end. The departure isn’t the end. It is the beginning.

A celebration awaits. A party we can’t begin to wrap our human minds around. And we will join in when that hour arrives.

This is not home. The Truth whispers to our aching souls,

I am here.

The Truth doesn’t have to scream or cry or convince or cajole. The Truth simply waits for our eyes to open and our hearts to know,

I am here.

The separation aches in our bones, but we can know this – goodbye is,

Welcome Home.

 

John 14:1-3

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me. My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. 

Karin Madden

Filed Under: Faith, Walking The Path Tagged With: grief, no goodbye

March 6, 2013 by Karin 2 Comments

And Then There Was Life

It’s only Tuesday.

I keep thinking it’s Thursday.

Not that it really makes much difference.

I just lose track.

It’s only been two days.  

My life friend lost her mother.  Her mother was a second mom to me in college.

It’s only been 3 months.

Her dear daddy passed.  Just 3 months before her mom.

It’s been almost a year.

Our third musketeer went home to Him.  She was too young… and her kids are just… kids.

Then there’s the little one my family loves so much… my 3-year-old’s bestie.  Her headaches are back.  Her little body fights.  We don’t know if it’s congestion, or the shunt.

Then there’s the anniversary of her mama’s passing.  Almost a year ago.  Her family fights on.  Her new mommy warms her new mother arms with little ones.

Then there’s the family who just lost their daddy.  He was too  young.  His children may not even remember him.  His wife…  I can hardly bear the thought.  It’s just too much.

Story after story after story.

Then the news.  The mess out there.  The fighting and bickering… and we are on the same side.  I think.

Sometimes it’s just too much.

My dear friend… she can barely muster the will to go to her own mom’s funeral.  It’s all just. too. much.

And we feel lost… and alone… and broken… and afraid… and just plain exhausted.

Then I read the most beautiful story about sheep.  A story about what sheep do… and how the shepherd comes for the neglected ones.  He comes for the broken, lost, and abandoned ones.  He cares for them and releases them.  These little sheep love him the most.  But, he loves them all the same.

He brought us light.  He saw that it was good.  Sometimes we get lost in the shadows.

He brought us love.  Sometimes we accept it.  Sometimes we are just too busy to notice… or too blind to see it… or too hurting to feel it.

life

The morning my friend’s mother passed into the Ages, her two young daughters were baptized.  They didn’t know their Nanny had passed.  The baptism was scheduled weeks before.  There are no coincidences.  Only God’s timing.  Even when it hurts.

When the girls heard of their grandmother passing… the words of their daddy,

the morning your names are written in the book of the Lamb…

is the morning your Nanny passes into His arms.

There are no coincidences.

He brought us light.

He came here.  He died here.  He rose again here.

He brought us life.

Sometimes it’s all just too much.

But, just when it feels like it’s all just too much… He brings us life.

He brings us a new life.

When we feel like we can’t take one more step… he picks us up…

and breathes life.

 

Romans 6:3-4

Or don’t you know that all of us who were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death?  We were therefore buried with him through baptism into death in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life.

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Filed Under: A Day in the Life, Faith Tagged With: faith, grief, pain of loss

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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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