My spring

I've got a little smudge of ashes on my forward.

My cross.  My reminder.  

I am dust and to dust I shall return.  

This is Lent.  A return to God.  

A preparation, through repentance, 

for the joy of Easter.  

The alleluia is gone. 

 For 40 days we dig deep.  

We are quiet, we are simple, we are dust.  

We are sinners.

We are in need of forgiveness.   

We are waiting.  

Waiting for a cross and for a resurrection.  

via

This is my Lent.  I remembered today why I feel the way I do right now.  Why I am quiet and angry.  The reason I am sad without knowing.  I am in my Lent.  I feel the silence.  I am waiting for my spring.

My spring did arrive though.  He came on February 26, 2010.  He is spring.  He is life.  Life in the midst of my grandma's and Ben's death.  I know why I am sad.  But I know what God's love is.  God's love is snuggled with me in my chair.  God's love looks at me in worship and says "I love you".  

God's love, in the birth of my son, proved that God takes the messy and puts the pieces back together.  God heals the heart and brings the joy of Easter.

For right now though, I must live in the messy that is left.  Knowing that God is putting it back together, it just takes a while.  Knowing that I can be okay with the messy that is grief from death and utter happiness from God's blessings.  

So we wait.  We wait for the Alleluia.  We wait for spring.  We wait with God.

My heart is not lifted up.

My eyes are not lifted up.

But calm and quiet is my soul.  

Jason Gray "Without Running Away"

linking up here

A faith environment

I spent Saturday at our synodical women's organization's annual conference (WELCA).  It's something of a retreat with a business meeting mixed in.  Over 300 women (most as old or older than my mother) from the Southwestern Minnesota Synod of the ELCA joined together to worship and focus on "Fishin' for People".  (How appropriate on this fishing weekend opener!)  I didn't know anybody that I sat with since I was a voting delegate, but I knew I was going no matter what.

Pastor April Ulring Larson, the mother of my friend Ben, was the keynote speaker that morning.  I wanted to hear what she had to say.  Not only is she Ben's mother, but she among the first wave of woman ordained in the ELCA and the first female Bishop in the ELCA.  She focused on the song of Mary.  Mary's magnificat and how it was the song of the women before her.  It tells our faith story.  She tied it beautifully into the story of her son and his death in the earthquake last year in Haiti.  I excused myself after the first few minutes and spent my time standing in the back of the sanctuary sobbing.   I miss Ben.  I've blogged about it before.  The tears this time were for his mother.  I don't know how she did it.  I can barely mention Ben without getting teary eyed.  The thought of losing one of my own boys can bring me to tears in an instant.  But there she was.  A woman of God, standing before us reminding us that God breaks through.  God always breaks through into this world of sin for us.

After her message she came to the back and was stopped by many women.  I waited patiently for my turn and she saw me first and excused herself to tend to the red eyed crying woman that she was sure she was suppose to know.  As pastors and the family of pastors we rarely hear others preach or speak.  I had never heard her speak and I told her so.  I also told her I knew where Ben got part of "it".  Between her and his father (also a pastor) I knew that he saw faith lived out daily in his life.  She told me he didn't get it from her, but that all she did was create the environment.  I can see that she created a faith environment that Ben thrived in.

She has put words to what I was struggling with this week.  Finally words to fill my blogging silence and maybe organize my crazy thoughts in my brain. I want to spend more time on the faith environment my kids live in....

Hooks and Haiti

Today is the one year mark of the earthquake that shook Haiti.  We waited for news of my 4 friends through out these next few days.  In the end, Ben went home to be with God and his wife and cousin returned to us.  My dear Sarah, after days of walking and traveling by boat also returned to the U.S.    In this last year of both the intense grief of death and the immense joy of birth I have come to a conclusion about the loss of Ben.  I was blessed to know Ben.  That is where my grief is.  I was blessed to know him.  

If we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord; so then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord's. Romans 14:8

So what does crocheting have to do with this?  It is my normal.  It is a spiritual connection for me.  It is not about finishing a project or making money.  It is about hooking yarn over and over until I am calm and silent, until I can listen to my heart and to God.

I don't remember what I crocheted on the way to Ben's memorial, but I know my friend, Suzi, and I both did.  I know my dear Sarah crocheted the night see finally returned home from Haiti.

I crocheted with my whole heart and prayed for a miracle for my grandma.  I sent a throw and wrapped her in my love and prayers in the only way I could from so many miles away.

In the end, crochet became my normal.  After the birth of my son and the death of my grandma I entered a depression.  One that I couldn't shake.  One that brought tears and heart break.  And then one day it happened.  I picked up the hook again.  I felt the normal return.  I don't know what I worked on but I know I did.  The hook sat beside my chair with a ball of yarn ready for me whenever I had time.  And I have found time.  I crochet not only to see the outcome but for the healing that it brings.

And so last night I decided I would crochet for someone else.  I am working on a throw and praying.  I am praying that who ever uses it will feel comfort, hope, and love.  My goal is that someone in hospice can use it and that their family knows someone out prayed for them.  My prayer is that God can use this throw to wrap someone in love.  I will wait to see who it is....

An Easter People

I have been consumed by non Christmas thoughts these last few weeks. I just can’t bring myself to be excited for Christmas. Yet, I know I will get there. It’s just different. Different because I’m part of a pastor’s family and different because this year has been filled with so many moments I want to forget or change and moments I wouldn’t change for anything.

If I had to write a Christmas card for this year, it would be filled with life and death. Joy and sorrow. I have not jumped in and blogged a lot about my grandma dying. It was without a doubt the hardest thing I have done….ever. For the safety of my son, who carries her name, I couldn’t be there. Last Christmas was the last time I ever saw her. I saw her smiling face, though in pain, holding my oldest son. Cheering on our football team, playing with him the best she could. I didn’t know what was to come. I missed a part of that letting go. I missed the part of saying good bye. She was sick and I couldn’t be there. I knew I needed to be at home because you never know when the baby will come. I willed my son, Matthew Barry, to come early. As my grandma started to get sicker I knew what I needed and what she needed. We needed her to meet this baby. In the end, that didn’t happen. She didn’t meet him and I didn’t get a good bye of any kind. I spoke with her the Friday Matthew was born and that was it. She hardly spoke after that. She died that Wednesday, 6 hours after I sent a video for her to “watch” introducing her to my baby. It is a pain and grief that I carry everyday. It is heavy and it fills my heart sometimes. I am reminded every time I saw my son’s name, who he is. He is a Barry, but he is a child of God.

As my grandma was getting sicker, something unimaginable happened. The earthquake in Haiti. The earthquake that took Ben. Ben, a light in the darkness, a light to so many. This pain is not the same as the pain and grief in losing my grandma. This pain is that something so unimaginable could happen to people I know. The pain is in what might have been.

So this Christmas is different. It is Matthew’s first and it will be joyous and wonderful. It will come to me. I will get in the Christmas spirit.

Right now, I’m working on rejoicing in the fact that we are Easter people. Thank God for Christmas so that we have what comes next. I have no doubt who my grandma and Ben are with, where they are. Thank God! I have been washed with grace everyday as I work through what this year was. Grace and love abounds this Christmas. I will get there.

Chapter 2- "Lord, don't you care?

In Chapter 2, we dig deeper into the few verses of the story of Mary & Martha.  In this chapter, Weaver starts with Martha's question, "Lord, don't you care?".  Wow, how many times do we find ourselves asking this question?  Weaver discusses how Martha just wanted everything to be "fair".  Lord, don't you care that it's not fair?  Mary doing nothing, Martha doing everything.  I am an oldest and a type A personality.  I ask myself and God about fairness everyday.  I struggle with remembering that parenting isn't about fairness.  The number of baths we each give and times we get up in the middle of the night just might not be "fair".  Life isn't fair.  The best thing she said in the chapter to me about fairness was that it will just set us up for disappointment.  Duh, Lindy!  If life isn't fair then you are going to be disappointed if you still expect it.  She also talks about doubt, distraction, and discouragement.  Things the devil uses to get us to doubt God's love for us or that God cares.  There is a lot more to the chapter but I just can't type all the good stuff.

As for the questions, I already posted about Psalm 103.  It is hard to doubt the love and care of God when it is so plainly written to us.  I made my list and had to stop.  It was so long.  Verse 8 stuck out to me because we read it during our liturgy in church.  Also, I connected with verse 10.  It is just another reminder that life isn't fair and that God isn't.  I am so thankful he doesn't repay us according to our iniquities.  I'd be in even more trouble than I already am.

Finally, she asks us to write a letter Jesus beginning with "Lord, I know you love me because..." My letter was short.

Lord, I know you love me because you won't leave me the same.

There was so much more in this chapter that really spoke to me.  The reason we ask if the Lord cares is because we feel he's left us and that is just not true.  I remember when my friend, Ben,  who died in the earthquake in Haiti.  People kept saying "oh it was God's plan" etc.  No, it wasn't.  God's plan was for Ben to spread the light of Christ everywhere he went.  During this time of tragedy I'm sure you can say "Lord, don't you care"?  Ben left his wife, his cousin, his family, his nephew.  Yes, the Lord cares.  God was standing there with Ben's wife on the hill in Haiti weeping with her and still weeps and rejoices with her today.  God weeps and rejoices with all of us, because its impossible for God not to care.  

Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;

I have called you by name, you are mine.  Isaiah 43:1 

Article

This article was posted in the LaCrosse Tribune today.  It is an article less about Ben's accomplishments and more about our faith.  Ben's faith...

(The parts I most connected with I have put in bold type.)

“Judd and April are very thankful for all the support and prayers — and they say they feel them,” Bishop Jim Arends told another bishop on the other end of the telephone line Friday afternoon.

He was silent a few moments while the caller said something, then replied, “It is. I can’t imagine sadder.”

Arends had just gone over the details of the earthquake, how 25-year-old Ben Larson’s wife and cousin escaped the collapsed building in Haiti, how Ben didn’t, how they tried to get back up the mountain to find him, but how even rescue teams weren’t allowed into the area because it was so unstable, and how Ben, who was becoming a pastor, is presumed dead.

“I’ve been having a tough time,” Arends said after hanging up the phone and we continued our interview at the La Crosse Area Synod office. “I’m mixing my present and past tenses.”

He paused. Tears formed.

“I really don’t want Ben to be gone, and I don’t like using the past tense.”

What do you do with grief like this?

Ben’s mom, the Rev. April Ulring Larson, former bishop of La Crosse, once told me in an interview that you are “to sing your sadness at loss and yet sing your great joy of God for whom death is not the last word.”

Bishop Arends puts it like this:

“There are types of Christians who will say, ‘Well, he’s in heaven, be happy.’ That’s not our background. If Jesus would weep in the face of death, we acknowledge it’s OK to weep in the face of death.”

He went on.

“There are Christians who would say, ‘Paul wrote, ‘Do not grieve.’” That’s not what Paul wrote. Paul wrote, ‘Do not grieve as those who have no hope.’ We still grieve, but we trust that in some spiritual, powerful way, Ben has passed through death into the eternal care of the Lord he was serving.”

These are the words of people of faith. Not a wimpy faith that gives answers like everything happens for a reason. Not a thoughtless faith that assumes God is up in heaven so all is swell down here on earth. Not a perfect faith, either. But people of a graced faith, and a faith Ben loved.

To prepare for my interview with Arends, I pulled out an old interview I’d done with Ben dated Dec. 15, 2006.

As I began to read his words, my response, like the response of so many on this earth right now, was tears. But then the tears receded and by the end of it, I was nodding my head, pondering my own faith and feeling inspired by this young man who expressed his love so deeply.

Listen to Ben:

“It’s clear from almost everything Jesus does is he’s taking the out group and making them the center. I mean, that’s the Gospel in my mind. ... With his actions, he’s making people that have never felt like anyone feel like they’re important to him. So when we talk about Christianity, that’s what I want to talk about — outsiders having a place. And not just a small place, but a prominent place. And when I’m at church, that’s what I want my church to be.”

“I want to use Christianity not as a consumer-type thing we can own but something that’s volatile and God controls us more than we control God. I don’t think that’s compatible with our Western world. We like to be in control and faith is definitely not being in control.”

“I was allowed the opportunity to explore my faith, have doubts and try and find answers. ... I’m Lutheran because I choose to be and not because my parents are.”

“We’re here to help the needy, raise up the poor, fight oppression, fight hunger, all these things.”

“When I was little, I prayed for things that I wanted and it’s evolved to praying for things that I feared. ... It’s progressed more and more to thanks.”

I pondered some of these things just before writing this column. On my prayer bench I’d sat in silence to be with the people of this story. The sun shone bright even as I held my eyes closed and it reminded me of these people’s faith, of the way Lutherans seem to speak so well about hope when talking about death, of light when talking about darkness. As if to drive the point home, immediately after getting off the bench, I knocked my head on a dangling prism and rainbows swirled around the room.

Tears remain, of course, for so many in this region and on this earth. But as these Lutherans, who know the cross so well, teach us, there is more than suffering in life, more than suffering in Ben’s death.

“I don’t know if all things happen for a reason,” Arends said on Friday. “I do know that when things happen, God is there. I know that God is on top of a high hill in Haiti, weeping in pain. I know that God is on an airplane with a widow, weeping in pain. I know that God is in Duluth with a couple parents, weeping in pain, and yet promising to hold and keep and give whatever they need.”

Just to write!

Another blog I read calls it a "stream of consciousness" post.  Just writing to write.

I'm a little introverted by nature so I grieve different than extroverted people (like my hubby).  No, I don't want to talk with you about it.  I don't want to hash out the details.  I don't want to meet with certain people.  Yes, I do need time alone, I need time with small groups of friends.  Yes, when the time comes (and if I can go) I will want to be surrounded by the community of Wartburg, but for now just leave me alone.

I had someone say to me that this was all "part of God's plan".  I didn't say this to them, but I beg to differ.  My God does not have plans like that.  Yes, terrible terrible things happen, my God grieves with me and has a broken heart.  My God knows death, suffering and pain more than I will ever know.  The one thing I do know is that yes my God will use this somehow.  Whether large or small the light of Christ will be made known through Ben's life.  But did my God want Ben to die?  Probably not.  My God is celebrating with Ben and holding those of us grieving in his arms.

I'm not sure where those previous thoughts fall in a theological stand point, but that's how I feel.  

My broken heart!

With a broken heart we learned this morning that one of our dear friends Ben, has been lost in the earth quake in Haiti.  His cousin and wife are now traveling back to the states today.  I know that my heart is broken but Ben's is not.  He was truly light to the world.  He wrote in a song once the "My Maker's arms are wide enough for you" and I know that my Maker's arms are holding the whole community as we grieve.  I can only continue to pray...

My son (and everyone) was so loved by Ben.