My Dad - Born Dead, Died Alive

On a little New York dairy farm, a boy named Keith milked cows by hand.  His dad had died years earlier, but with a dream of owning a dairy farm.  The mother of the house still lived, ruling with care and sense, but not with much time to spend at home with her brood of five boys and two girls.  Her new husband was not much help at first, for he was muddled with a mental illness.

Keith grew into a wild young man, empty and lonely, trying to escape his feelings with drink and parties.

One day, his brother Deryl became a new man, one eager to share the newness in Christ, one not afraid to say that Keith was on his way to hell if he didn't repent.  That rang true and somber in Keith's heart.  He accepted the urge to go to church, and there heard a prophecy message--something new to him, something that amazed him.  This old Book could speak to things today?  He talked with the deacon afterward and prayed a prayer, a shining look on his face, one woman said--the woman who would become his wife.  Keith went home, still uncertain, and broke down under his sin, asking for forgiveness, longing to change.

And change he did.  He sought eagerly to become a preacher, changing his major from engineering to Bible.  Though formerly shy, he faced this new life with courage, preaching to many by the grace of God, preaching in the same church he'd first attended as a lost man.

That woman watching in the church was Mary--my mother--who married him, loving his single-mindedness.  She helped him through Bible school assignments, typing for him in a pinch.

Along the way, Dad needed other work to survive, learning from the renovation of houses that he did and using his past of engineering.

He took a job with two of his brothers in a cable factory, and the asbestos flew heavy through the air.

Beneath a flimsy mask, he breathed them in, those dusty particles.  They entered his lungs with barbs that clung tenaciously to the lining for decades, hiding from us--but known to God.  Dad worked with them, joked with them, ate with them, but never invited them.

We went along, unaware that the disease was lurking in his lungs.

Dad preached with boldness, never shying away from a controversial topic, but truly wanting what was best for others, wanting the Way, the Truth, and the Life to be poured out in our lives.  He prayed on his knees with us on the living room couches, read from the Bible and Christian men often.

But as a girl of thirteen, I didn't know if he loved me.  He pointed out error, but didn't kiss us or tell us he loved us.  He joked to lighten things up, but they were just jokes.  I needed reassurance of his love--words of comfort and a hug, and time spent with me alone.

My loneliness prompted me to seek the Lord, or at least to read the Bible and pray to be saved.  Things would get better then, right?  I would have love at least from One, and maybe from Dad and others, too.

Dad questioned my faith, noting the tears in my eyes and perhaps the shifting of feet.

I fell back to what I did better than talking: writing.  I wrote a paper on how I'd ostensibly become a Christian--I thought I was, though some doubts lingered.  Without much thought, I wrote that I didn't know if Dad loved me, and that he'd examined me as if I were a bug under a microscope.

He came to me then, teary-eyed.  I learned how words in ink could hurt someone, even this stalwart man.  He'd try harder, he said, to show his love.

He said he loved me every night, and kissed me on the cheek.  At first I wondered if it was just to appease me.  Little by little, I grew to accept his love, to see his care, to enjoy time with him, though we were both a bit tongue-tied when alone with each other.  We shared music on the radio when he picked me up from college, guessing the composers.  He stopped for MacDonald's or other surprises, and I delighted in his spontaneity.

One day, the asbestos particles showed themselves on an X-ray . . . lungs quite destroyed, ready to breathe their last in just a year or two.

Now, were radiation or chemo to rob his strength, his hair, his joy?  No, he said, he'd fight for life using food and vitamins before any further invasion to his body!

And then there was a man we heard of named Burzynski, who ran a clinic in TX, with hope for patients with cancer.  Yes, he was expensive.  No, there was no cure for every patient.  But if there was a remote possibility, we wanted to try.  The doctor, accented in Polish, told Dad that he would not give us good odds on this cancer, this mesothelioma.  He had not treated much of it successfully, especially this far along.  Still, we pressed on, praying for the outcome mostly miraculous.

Dad had treatments in TX, then went home for a while.  There he and my sister Annie read books on cancer, natural remedies.  We juiced carrots laced with vitamins and minerals, which Dad drank till his skin was tinted orange.  He cut out refined sugar and most fatty foods, things he loved.   More treatments, home nurses, shots of vitamins.  We hoped and prayed.

But there was no positive change.  Instead, he coughed more, said less . . . and his legs and feet swelled tight and puffy, which we could only rub with ointment, a job I curled my lips at--God forgive me!

I watched a movie or two with Dad, neither of us saying much, reclining in the living room.  It was special, though, like old times, but different.  We watched Lassie Come Home, an old and quiet movie with a happy ending.  Dad said, "That was a good movie," with tears in his eyes.  Was he remembering the dog he lost one time?  Or thinking of heaven, where there would be no more goodbyes, no losses?

Things got uglier, harder to bear.  His breath came in choking gasps and rattles.  Not much time left, we knew.  It was a week, just a week, in which he suffered worst.  But still, as all along, he trusted God.  He asked Mom to read the Bible to him.  No, not the psalms, which he thought had little comfort for one going through disease.  He wanted Job.

And then the night came--he was really dying!  I could hardly face it, even then.  We stood around the bed and sang Psalm 23, those words of comfort, at least for him.  For me--I didn't know for sure if God cared, if He loved.  Such pain, inflicted on his own servant!  Why?

I didn't remember then the agony of Job, or the deepest anguish of God the Son.  And even then, my crazy mind went, why would Dad have to suffer if Jesus had supposedly borne his sin?

I remembered Romans 8:28, yet it still niggled at me, wondering if all this was really fair or helpful.

Just when we had been getting along better, understanding each other, loving more vocally, this had to happen!  Dad was reduced to a skeletal being, not at all like my big, robust Daddy!

I fled the room--he might linger a while longer with no change, we thought--and tried to sleep away the thoughts--cry them away.

And that morning he was gone.  Mom had been left alone with him, calling for assistance at the very last moment, when Dad clearly said he wanted to stand up, asking what time it was, and looking up.  He collapsed in Mom's arms, a dead weight, and she cried, trying not to let him fall, or bang his body on the desk.

She believes he saw an angel, or Jesus Himself, and wanted to honor His presence in standing salute.  Truly, it may be!  Dad had not stood or asked to get up for at least a week before that.

We went to the grave-site after he was buried, with no formal ceremony, just our family.  Mom's sister had also in the same week gone to heaven, so we remembered her, too.

Even in death, Dad's words honored God.  The grave-stone was carved, at his earlier request, "Born Dead Jan. 5, 1948 - Died Alive in Christ Sept. 9, 2006."

Raindrops fell onto our umbrellas.  But as we lifted our heads from prayer, we gasped--a double rainbow, brilliant and rosy, canopied over us.  God's reminder: God is faithful.  No matter what, He is faithful, knowing what is best, and carrying us through the waves.

Excerpt from Our Book

A sneak peek of the book I am writing, along with my family.  It may not be 100% accurate, for my memories are hazy from that time long ago when I was just four or five years old, but I do remember times like this, and the general feeling of it.  What a blessing godly mothers are!

Darkness and silence penetrated my being like a living force.  What was in the dark halls?  What lay beyond the window panes, creeping in the bushes or lurking beneath the swaying pine trees?  Why did everything seem so much scarier when the sky went dark?

I huddled under a blanket in the nursery, hoping someone would come along to keep me company.  And there!  Footsteps on the floorboards.  Mommy gently pushed open the door, a small smile lighting her face.

"Still awake?"

I nodded, blinking up at her.

She took me on her lap and enveloped me in her arms.

Softly, she sang, "Safe am I, safe am I, in the hollow of His hand.  Sheltered o'er, sheltered o'er, in the hollow of His hand.  No foe can harm me, no fear alarm me, for He keeps both day and night.  Safe am I, safe am I, in the hollow of His hand."

Her clear voice stopped, and again the stillness echoed like a tomb.

Then the tune that danced and cheered, "He owns the cattle on a thousand hills, the wealth in every mine.  He owns the rivers and the rocks and rills, the moon and stars that shine.  Wonderful riches, more than tongue can tell.  He is my Father, so they're mine as well. . . . He owns the cattle on a thousand hills--I know that He will care for me!"

I smiled, content at last to close my eyes and sleep.

My First Bible

For the 2011 March of Books we were asked to take photos and tell about our favorite copy of a favorite book.

My favorite and most special book is my Bible, and this one means much, a Precious Moments version...the pages long since coming out. It was the first Bible of my very own, given me by a family friend when I was six years old, shortly before moving from NY to FL. My sister, Grace, made this cover for it, and I loved to trace the pattern of the flowers with my fingers. Inside, I highlighted and underlined verses that I liked or had memorized. I remember often reading over the little story lessons that went with certain gray-shaded verses.

These truly were precious moments, though at the time I was not yet born again and to me it was basically just a pretty and poetic book to look at, despite being taught its eternal worth. I am thankful for the seeds planted there, the passages read and memorized with my family.

This Year

I am thankful to God for a wonderful year in 2010! May this year be one of higher growth and deeper love for God. Here are some of the highlights of the year (I'm sorry for the lack of pictures).

January:

• Went ice skating
• Got together with friends from church
  

February:

• Had a needed root canal performed
• Began to teach watercolor classes!
• Listened to Evenings with Victoria Botkin
  

March:

• Godly advice from family & friends
  
• Made wheat noodles with friends

April:

• Camped in Big Bend National Park

May:

• Bought a big batch of tomatoes and made ketchup, etc.

June:

• Joel, Charity, Harmony, and Autumn visited
• My first time to play the piano at church in TX
  

July:

• The Baby Conference with Vision Forum - great speeches and visiting with friends
• A family came over for lunch and hymn singing after church
• We went to watch a movie (Hymns and History) that friends made. They were gracious enough to use my painting of Martin Luther in it.
  

August:

• Mr. and Mrs. Castillo visited!
• We went to the Animal Safari with them
• Had another Hispanic family over with Castillos and singing fun praise songs
• Went to a wedding shower for someone from church
• Went to the wedding of our friend, Cindy
  

September:

• Saw Joel, Charity, Charity's sister, and Charity's father at church
• Went to a lovely concert and auctioned a painting for Voice of the Martyrs fundraiser
  

October:

• Get together at the Phillips' house
• Hymn singing at our house after church with friends
• Writing classes with Mrs. Morecraft (begun in Sep., I believe)
  
• Writing poetry
• Painting and helping at the Manteufel's house
  

November:

• Went to The San Antonio Independent Christian Film Festival - very enjoyable!
• Joel & Charity visited us for a pre-Thanksgiving get-together at Michael & Grace's house, etc.
  
• Exchanged gifts with Joel & Charity and part of our family
  
• Annie and I traveled by car to Fort Worth with Joel and Charity
• We tented at a Chick-Fil-A grand opening in the cold!
• Talked quite a bit with Harmony, Charity's sister
• Went to another pre-Thanksgiving get-together with our cousins and uncle and aunt.
  
• Went to a 5-course demonstration dinner
• Annie and I rode back on the train--our first ride on one!
  

December

• Packed up to leave to a new part of the state!
• Watched & listened to episodes of Navigating History

What were your blessings of 2010?

Born from Above

I got a couple of votes for showing more of my personality on my blog. I guess I'm afraid to show more of it because I have so many flaws/sins and don't want to be a bad example. But also...some of the reluctance to share about myself is due to vanity or pride. And if the Lord can be glorified through my weakness, then perhaps I should be more open. He must increase, but I must decrease. - John 3:30 So, here's my testimony, and may God bless you through it in some way. (This is not so much about my personality, perhaps, and it wasn't what I started out to write, but here it is.) I'm very shy, quiet, and lack knowledge in many areas. My growing up years were ones of self and pride, and still are in many ways. I played piano not to bless others, but to please myself and to gain compliments. I sometimes felt left out of things, or not connected enough with others due to my shyness and all. Fear was a big part of my life. Fear of failing, fear of looking stupid, fear of man. When I was thirteen, I felt so lonely and desperate, that I decided I wanted to serve God. Or thought I did. What I really wanted was friendship with people at church and a closer relationship with my saved family members. But I didn't really want to be conformed into the image of Christ. No. That would be too hard. Perhaps in my heart I knew my profession of faith was false, but most of the time I convinced myself it was true (perhaps Satan also blinded me into thinking it was true). So I was baptized, forced myself to play piano in church every week, etc. But the joy wasn't there. Even the friends I thought I would gain weren't there, because I wasn't reaching out to them, and I was still the same selfish, timid person, repulsing the very friendship I craved. Also I was lazy. And when anyone mentioned the end times, Christ coming in the clouds, or dying, my heart would start racing in fear. This started me wondering. Reading the Left Behind series had the same effect, like a huge black cloud had come over me, and trembling and tears probably went with it. Am I really ready? Three or four years had gone by, and the doubts plagued me like a swarm of locusts. I kept it to myself for the most part. My unsaved sister would ask me questions, which I should have been able to answer simply enough, but they took me off guard and I found that the "right" answer was not how I felt. She asked me if I knew I was going to heaven when I died, if it felt sure. I hesitated. I probably stammered a few words of uncertainty. "Why don't you just admit you're not saved," she said quietly. That took me off guard. Why had she said that? She must have seen my uncertainty in all the answers I ever gave her. Why not, indeed? My will crumbled into defeat, my deception into honesty. I told my family I didn't think I was saved. They argued and encouraged, but I knew it was hopeless. I was free to be myself again . . . though it wasn't much different. Free to wallow in my sin and fear. In some ways I was relieved, but in some ways I was sad. My life drifted without purpose except to please myself and be respectable enough that I wasn't in trouble. I hid things from my family, guilty conscience notwithstanding. I even questioned the authenticity of the Bible. Throughout this, I still thought I wasn't doing so bad. I made excuses. A couple months later my brother and I traveled to some friends' house for Thanksgiving, around 2005. We had never even met all of them in person, but knew them from online. They were so kind to open their home to us and treat us like family. They were unpretentious and stood for their convictions regardless of what we thought. The women wore head coverings all the time. One evening, my brother Joel and Charity (our friend and Joel's future wife) asked me about how I was doing. How I was really doing, or what I was thinking. Something along these lines. I forget what I said, but it got them concerned, and Charity clasped my hand and prayed. We went upstairs to talk some more, and they showed me some Bible passages that they thought might help. They only made me feel worse, and inspired no change at that time. They asked if I'd like to be alone. I said yes, and went into a nearby room, crying it out, not sure what I wanted or if I could have a change. Could I stand for convictions, like they did, and perhaps be thought a freak by others? How could I? My heart didn't want to submit. But I feared God's wrath. So I kept sobbing and asking . . . yet not really asking. My mouth said the words, but my heart didn't. Or maybe they did in some way, but it wasn't a full desire to change or submit, only a wish for some pardon sometime. In any case, all my tears and prayers were not enough to save me. Only God's changing grace and cleansing blood could do that. I think I was in the room for over an hour or two, until the room was pitch dark. I gave up. I stumbled out into the other room, where Joel and Charity still sat prayerfully, Bible spread between them. They looked up questioningly. I might have mumbled something about there being no change. Charity, knowing I didn't want to go downstairs and eat while I was in such a bedraggled condition, went to get me some food. In all my crying out to God, perhaps I thought there must be some change, but I was like a baby kicking against the womb, unable to come out on my own, and yes . . . unwilling. In 2006, my dad died after a battle with cancer. His faith was steadfast in Christ to the end, throughout all his anguish. About a year later, I was watching a video online. It was linked from a friend's blog. It wasn't a perfect video, but it was about revivals in history, called Revival Hymn, and there was something about it that God used. The outright sorrow of the people in the film captured me, their abandonment of self and zeal for a new life. Perhaps the Bible verses quoted were an arrow to my heart by the Holy Spirit. I was struck by my sin and need of God, and I wanted to have that love and peace, wanted to turn from my sin. I didn't feel a lightning-bolt change, but there was a new desire that I think came at this time. Because of my past false hope, this hope was left for a while, and I only told a friend or family member or two that I thought I might be saved, and wondered if I should get baptized. I believe one of them encouraged me to stand firm in the Lord. I know my mom was supportive, but she didn't push me to get baptized. She wanted me to be sure. It was not long before I was convinced it was a true change, and that I wanted to be identified as Christ's. So I told our pastor of the good news, and requested to be baptized. Somehow I had worried that they might not believe I was truly saved now, like the boy crying "Wolf!" . . . But they received my testimony and joyfully celebrated with me for the second time . . . but really for the first time. It was perhaps exactly a year after my father's passing. My life in Christ grows as I see His beauty more and more. At times I start to look more at the waves and tempest and my poor wobbly feet on the water than the Savior, and I start to sink in doubt, but God pulls me back up again, just like He did for Peter.

My memory is nearly gone; but I remember two things; That I am a great sinner, and that Christ is a great Saviour.

John Newton (1725-1807) English minister and hymn writer

M for Memory

Chickadee in a Snow Storm - Project 365 Day 65
Originally uploaded by Ronaldok

In the heat of Texas, a memory of something snow-related seems appealing.

I was only five or six when I think this happened. It's so hazy feeling I almost wonder if it was a dream or my imagination, but most of my memories are like that from that age. But whether real or imagined, I want to share, hoping you'll enjoy and recall some of your own sweet memories of similar blessings.

My dear brother, Mark, liked to explore. Sometimes he left mazes of footprints, set close together (snow-plow-like) so as to make a path in the snow. He went from one end of our property to the other, leading to dead-ends and circles and back. I enjoyed following these paths to see where they led, knowing they'd lead back home again. I wasn't usually allowed to go out alone very far, but perhaps this time I was close enough to my siblings to warrant it. All I know is I felt alone. And the air was hushed. And I liked it. I traveled the snowy pathway past trees, feeling like an adventurer. And in one of those trees was a black-capped chickadee, singing his sweet song. I stopped to look. From then on, perhaps, chickadees became one of my favorite birds.

Our family loved to play, as most kids do. We didn't have a TV for the first four or five years of my life, and we didn't have a computer for about the same length. We were homeschooled, so we were pretty much best friends with each other. We had a blast outside playing games, or inside playing games. Or story-telling. Or singing. Or reading. Or biking. The list goes on. But I'll save something for next time. :)