A Snapshot of Heaven

I have pictures of family up all over my house; little collages of familiar faces in almost every room. 

If not a collage, a large predominate picture; I even have a picture frame that shows a slide show of those faces. 

People I have known all my life, or have known me all of theirs.  

Many or most of the pictures evoke memories of favorite times together; others are faces that we love to see on a regular basis, so there they are.  

I love my family. I realized yesterday, filling out a survey, that yes, my life does and has revolved around my family for most of my life. These people are important to me. Some might say too important. That I haven’t lived the life I could or might have if I hadn’t been so involved and wrapped up in my family. 

 

But looking at it from the perspective that I look at most things—an eternal one—they are the only thing from this world that I get to take with me to the next one. 

I won’t take what is in my bank account, my house, or what is in it, my car or my clothes, shoot, I’m hoping for a new body that cooperates and works a little better than the one I have here. 

That is why it is important to me that my family—yes all of them—know what the next step is in this life we live. It doesn’t end here…..it goes on, like stepping from one room to another. 

I know the "here" is important, the laughter, the trips, the “family bonding”, as my kids love to call it, but I also know that this is all just a prelude to the actual living that we will all be doing together when we get to heaven. We have had some family moments that have been so wonderful, that right in the midst of them, I have known without a shadow of a doubt that I am getting a glimpse of heaven.  

With the holidays approaching, where we are going to be spending time with our families, and we capture faces for the galleries on our walls, take a minute to stop and breathe it in. Freeze frame it in your mind and give thanks to God for those glimpses into paradise. And remember that the most important family member, Jesus Christ, must be featured prominently in each and every picture, for he will be there in the final portrait. 

Thanksgiving......over?

We hold dessert in high regard, especially pie. :)

It is the Saturday morning after Thanksgiving. 

The house is quiet. 

Candles are blown out. The tables that were decorated and laden with food are all cleared off, folded down and pushed back up against the wall. The leftovers are tucked away in the fridge. The piles of dirty dishes are washed and put away.

It’s over. Or is it? 

Thanksgiving should never be over. 

I realized that as I read people’s thankfulness posts, we seem to be thankful for things in the present or in the past, but are we thankful for the unknown future? 

Are we thankful as we walk forward from this day into an unknown where small children battle cancer, the economy is shaky, thousands have just lost their jobs, the world is in turmoil? 

As I face tomorrow, I realize I can be thankful of one very specific thing.

God is there, waiting on me. Everyday when I get out of bed, He is and will be there. HE is the reason I can be thankful. He is the reason I have a future. 

^{11 "}For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. –Jeremiah 29:11 

I may not be “prosperous” or even “safe”, but God’s hopes and the future for me are something I am, and can always be Thankful for.

Beware.........

"Beware of making a fetish of consistency to your convictions instead of being devoted to God."
                                                                                           --Oswald Chambers My Utmost of His Highest

Jesus Our Living Water

“The heavens declare the glory of God;

And the firmament shows His handiwork.”   Ps 19:19

If we are looking, we will find this to be true. 

As I was sitting at the table in the kitchen yesterday, I noticed that the large oak tree in our back yard had lost almost all its leaves; a sign to put out the bird feeders. Then just beyond it, I saw the smaller oak tree that some obliging squirrel planted a few years ago. The color contrast was apparent. The yellowish brown sparseness on the large tree was in stark contrast to the beautiful reds and russets of the smaller tree. Unfortunately, I didn’t rush and get my camera, as I should have, but I did make a mental note. 

Today as I looked again, the large tree is bare save a few leaves still clinging on.  Yet the smaller tree is still covered in leaves; another contrast. 

As I sat there looking at them, I wondered why the difference. Then I realized. ….Water. 

The large tree has suffered through the drought of the past couple of years. It is large enough that it is surviving, but the dryness of the earth, and lack of moisture is apparent in just about everything, including the big trees. 

The smaller tree sits squarely in the middle of a flower bed that received watering everyday this summer when the temperatures soared into the hundreds, day after day. 

Obviously water makes a huge different in the life of plants, and it is necessary to sustain life in humans as well. But the spiritual connotation is what I saw.  And the scripture from Ps 1:3 came to mind.

And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that brings forth its fruit in its season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he does shall prosper.

By looking at the two trees, God gave me a picture of what the living water of His Spirit does in my life.

The large tree had already lost its leaves; the wind had stripped it bare. Yet the smaller tree was still full of leaves. I saw the strength gained by the water to withstand the chill, and the winds, just a little longer than others.  

The large trees leaves were a yellow, and dull brown not the brilliant red and russets of the smaller tree. 

 

Yes the small tree, because it had been watered, was beautiful, and stood out against the rest of the dried up and dying…. 

Yes, both trees will lose all their leaves, but I know that the smaller one will weather better through the harshness of this winter due to the water it has received. 

It served as a reminder to me to keep myself firmly planted by the ‘living water’ of Jesus Christ. For only in him will I remain strong, and able to stand against the world, all the while reflecting the beauty of the ‘living water’ within.

Summer with Sam

Samuel-2 years old

As you can tell I haven’t been doing a lot of writing. I’ve been spending my days with a two year old—picture whatever might come to mind in regard to little two year old boys, and summertime.



Gearing up for an Easter Egg Hunt



Blowing Bubbles

Since his birthday in April where we celebrated on Easter Sunday, he has learned to hunt Easter Eggs, make bubbles, eat his cereal from the bowl, picking up the bowl to polish off the milk.







He and Lily are full blown play mates. Life becomes more exciting the minute she comes in from outside. Tug of war and tag are two of their favorites with squeals of delight and peals of belly laughter.

We water Grandma’s endless amounts of flowers, and try to handle the yard equipment if possible, testing to see if the mower seat will fit yet, and if we are taller than the weed eater.

He drives his car Aunt Audrey gave him last year for Christmas, sometimes trying new positions--standing and sitting, or just pushing it to see what will work best.

He shops with Grandma, helping her to decide on a new hat for her trip to Phoenix trying them all on, howbeit upside down.

Of course he plays in the pool, and with the hose. There isn’t a day goes by that we don’t get soaked and go through a couple of outfits. Even with a glass of ice water, drinking from the hose is just more fun.

He isn’t always on the move. Sometimes, just sometimes, he stands with the wind blowing in his face looking off at the cows in the pasture next door, or the horses, and walks over and feels the grass that comes almost to his shoulders, and ponders. You can see his little wheels turning as he looks up in the sky, and just watches a hawk sail over head.

So that is what Sam has been doing this summer so far, and Grandma is keeping up……….. pretty well. Just thought I’d give you a peek into our days and what I've been doing…………instead of blogging.

Memorial Day Memories

Losing family members to untimely death at an early age seems to bring certain things into sharper focus for you even during childhood.

My Grandmother Horack lost her mother as a small child. Her Dad then moved in with his mother and maiden sister to help him raise his children. My grandmother and my grandfather married and had three children, one, my aunt’s twin brother died at six months of age being born with a hole in his heart, which in those days wasn’t something they were skilled to do anything about. Having lost loved ones throughout her entire life time, especially a child, made my Grandma someone who frequented the cemetery with regularity. She planted flowers on the graves, preferring peonies that would bloom around Memorial Day every year, ensuring that there would always be flowers on the graves, even after she was gone.

As a little girl I remember my Grandma Horack loading my cousin JoAnn and I up in her little 55 Chevy, with jars full of water, stopping by and picking up her friend Gertrude, and heading to the cemetery to “tend” the graves.

We would deadhead the peonies that had bloomed that year giving them a drink, and clean up any weeds or debris that accumulated around the grave stones. While we did this Grandma talked about those people who were buried there, she told and retold the stories of how our ancestors came over on the boat from Europe. How Great-Great Grandmother Somer had decided to wean the baby before the trip thinking it would make things easier, only to have them run out of drinking water on the voyage and her sharing her allotment with the infant.

She shared the struggles they experienced in carving out a life on the prairie. How our Great-Great Grandpa Somer, after coming to America, didn’t find it to his liking and left his wife and children behind returning to Bohemia, thus no grave beside our Great-Great Grandmother. How our Great Grandfather Horack was so poor that when he died they buried him in what they referred to as “potters field”, a section of the cemetery where there are no stones because poor people could afford none. By the time someone could  afford one, no one could remember just exactly where Grandpa-Great was buried. As she would pull a weed or water a plant, or wash the bird droppings off the stones, these stories coupled with the pictures on the walls of her home, or in frames on her dresser made the people real.

Memorial Day wasn’t the only day of the year we went to the cemetery.  In the summer when the weather was especially hot, and we hadn’t had enough rain, we would load up and take water out to the cemetery to water the flowers that she had planted earlier in the year. Tending the graves was a responsibility that she didn’t take lightly. Passing on the history of those people was something that brought her joy. She would tell stories of my dad, as we tended his grave, and talk about my grandpa. However, I noticed she spoke little of Paul, my aunt’s twin; that was too deep a wound to remember. But I always noticed that she would prepare a special bouquet for baby Paul's grave on Memorial Day.

These were not sad times, quite the contrary, these were wonderful times. It brought Grandma and her friend great joy to reminisce about the days gone by when sorrows of losing loved ones were frequent enough that death was just a part of life that you wove into the everyday tapestry, adding the dark colors to offset the light ones.

After Grandma died, my mother and I continued to go to the cemetery. As a young girl I would ride my bike the mile outside of town to the cemetery, checking the graves, breaking off the dead heads of the peonies as grandma had taught me. I would pull a weed, and knock the bird droppings off the stones remembering the stories she had told over and over.

When Roger and I go to the Ozarks to visit Roger’s brother, we always stop by the cemetery where Roger’s parents are buried. Roger’s mother was cremated, and we planted a tree over her ashes, so we check on the tree to see if it is still alive....it is. When we were first married Roger thought I was kind of strange for wanting to go home for Memorial Day. He didn’t get it. He does now.

I think the tradition of tending to the dead, and their graves are something we learned from the Bible when the women returned to Jesus’ tomb to anoint His body. Care was given to the dead, a sign of respect, regard for their memory. The joy that comes in visiting the cemetery is the constant reminder that your loved ones aren’t really there. Grandma knew this, but she also knew that by taking us there, she was teaching us respect for our ancestors, and regard for their memory. She was instilling in us a sense of family that she knew would continue on down through the generations.

I learned a lot going to the cemetery with my Grandmother. I learned that remembering the dead can be something pleasant. It can bring you comfort. It reminds you of the ones that have gone before you and battled through. It teaches that death is a part of life, not the end, but a part. It brings you strength. It brings you comfort. It gives you roots and wings. I think Grandma knew this, and that is why she started us young. A foundation of family, living or departed, is never a bad thing.

A repost from Nestin' and Restin