This evening I went through a sack full of sympathy cards. There are probably a hundred or more cards in this stack. Some were standard sympathy cards with generic statements and just a name at the bottom – people who had no words, but wanted us to know they were thinking of us. Some had long and lovely words of comfort, love and encouragement. Some were Christmas cards with words of condolence. I even found a birthday card from my parents that I’d never opened. My birthday was one week after Nathan’s death.
We received cards from long-time friends, new acquaintences, and complete strangers, colleagues, clients, and business associates, our church family and our extended family. In fact, we’re still getting cards. Several arrived this week from friends who are remembering us and still supporting us in our grieving.
My reason for looking through my collection was not to be maudlin or gloomy. I was thinking of all the people God used to show His love for us, His care, His hope. I started writing letters to people who’s graciousness and comfort impacted me most during that horrible, difficult time. I wanted to be reminded of all that love.
My daughter has the flu. Poor, sweet thing. I sat with her for several hours early this morning stroking her hair, rubbing her back, just being a comfort to her. She melted into my arms and just soaked in all the love I have for her. She was too weak to do anything else. I thought what a gift and a miracle it is to be a mother. To love someone so completely and to need nothing in return.
There are times when words do not come, when just a name and an acknowledgement are all that can be given. And there are times when gentle loving words mean so much. Words like, “I’m here for you,” “I’m hurting with you,” “I’m praying for you.” And then there are times when a touch makes the biggest difference of all. A shoulder, a hand, an embrace.
Scripture is full of words of comfort. Christ said, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted (Matt 5:4 NASB).” It’s true. But there is a purpose in our suffering:
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction so that we will be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. (2 Cor 1:3-4 NASB)
We are blessed when we seek to comfort others. I was blessed in comforting my child this morning. I want some very precious people to be blessed with the knowledge that they have been a blessing to me. And perhaps in doing so, I’ll comfort them too.
Filed under: Nathanael Isaac
Today is November 27, 2008. It is the one-year anniversary of our son’s glorious arrival in Heaven. It is the one-year anniversary of the worst day of our collective lives and the beginning of what has been the greatest, most blessing-filled journey of my life.
The night before Nathan’s death, he and his friend, Matt, made the most delicious blueberry pie, using Oregon blueberries, of course. I went to bed early that night, but Nathan saved me a piece. It took me a few days to eat it because it was one of the last things he did and it was precious to me.
Today, I made a blueberry pie for Nathan. Time does not exist in Heaven, but if it did today would be Nathan’s first heavenly birthday. I call it Nate’s heavenly birthday pie.
This was such a beautiful day in every way. Several people came, took canoe rides on the lake to pay homage to Nate, walked up the trail to the fallen tree where we scattered his ashes. We went to the pub were we celebrated Nate after his funeral. We shared stories, laughed, made toasts. The tears we shed were precious and full of love and gratitude. Our laughter was full of appreciation for the gift that he was, and still is, in our lives.
Later we returned to Covenant Creek to have pie, visit, play games, and just be together.
There have been so many caring words and kind gestures toward us as we’ve approached this day. Each is so special and appreciated – God is again, as always, caring for us through His people.
This day was a time to think about all that He has done in the last 12 months. It was a time to celebrate our family and all the people we love so much. It was a time to reflect on how far each of us have come since that day and how God has worked in our lives through this experience.
Tomorrow is the beginning of a new year. It seems strange to say I am excited about what God has in store only because of the circumstances of this past year. How can anything so difficult yield something so powerful? So beautiful? With God, all things are possible.
To each who joined us today – we love you, we are grateful for you. For those who share our love for Nathan and could not be here, please come soon. We love you, too.
The past few mornings I’ve risen before the sun and walked up the hill into the forest. Walking through the forest by moonlight is challenging, and a little scary. But there is an area of our forest that seems more secluded than the rest and there is a thick bed of moss where I can sit and pray and listen for God’s still voice. I wrote the following in my prayer journal:
November 25, 2007
It’s been 362 days, 22 hours, and 14 minutes since we lost Nathan to Heaven. The family has gathered at Covenant Creek…to be together and to honor and remember our precious son.I came up on this hill before the sun, walking by moonlight, to pray and to spend time with my Lord. As the sky lightens enough for me to see ink on page, the forest is waking. Birds and chipmunks are happily chattering ‘good morning’ to the new day.
This is the day the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it.
Since my “Last Day” experience, I have been lingering in my heart around the warmth and power of what I discovered. The perfect peace, unshakable assurance, the absolute boldness and confidence with which I can face life and death. Death has indeed lost its sting and Perfect Love has cast out fear.
The other thing I dwell on is my overwhelming gratitude for this extraordinary year: What began as my worst nightmare has yielded such blessing and growth. So many things, I can barely remember them all.
I am indeed grateful. I would never ask God to take one of my children from me. I would much rather that horrible day never happened and Nathan was still with us, still loving his wife, still dancing and singing for his son. And if I had the option of having Nathan back, I would, with one important caveat: Not if it means losing Heaven. I would much rather he stay Home, experiencing the fullness and glory of Heaven. I would never ask him to give that up. Indeed, I am so looking forward to the day I join him there.
God works all things together for good for those who love Him and are called according to His purpose. All things. That includes grief, brokenness, sorrow; insomnia, weakness, sickness; searching, challenging, contending with God; it means all things.
I love Him. As a dear friend reminded me lately, He has called me by name. And He has worked things, all things, together miraculously and gently for my good.
This has been an extraordinary year and I will continue to meditate on that and to be grateful for every agonizing, exhausting, inspirational moment of it. Thank you, God.
Monday was a very difficult day. Stormy – both in weather and emotions - a general anxiety and grief covered the day like the dark clouds overhead.
I started praying the moment I woke up on Tuesday. It was still cloudy and a light rain was falling, but as I was working out in the studio, I looked out the window toward the west. A rainbow hung perfectly centered over my little house.
I love rainbows. When we lived in Salem, I had a wide open view from my kitchen window and, when conditions were right, I would hunt excitedly until I found the rainbow, that brilliant streak of color against a darkened sky.
Since moving to the coast three years ago I had only seen two rainbows. Once, while on the beach during a thunderstorm, the setting sun broke through just above the horizon and a glorious rainbow was superimposed over flashes of lightening and the darkest, most forbidding clouds you’ve ever seen. Amazing. The second sighting was frightfully disappointing. Sabrina and I were driving home when we discovered that the gold at the end of the rainbow was the Golden Arches drive-thru. I’m still depressed about that.
But Tuesday morning, that rainbow had such deeper meaning. It was a sign of God’s promise that the storm wouldn’t last forever. I stepped out into the mist and watched in awe as it got more brilliant. Then a second rainbow appeared and, remarkably, a third. If that had been the end of it, it would have made my whole day, but there was more.
As I was preparing to lead the community ladies Bible study, I spent considerable time in prayer. A dear friend came to mind, one who has been dealing with brokenness in her family for too long, one that I hadn’t seen for several months. I had a powerful urging to go see her – a two hour drive one way. I shared my thought and prayer with my husband and he said, of course, “Go.”
I said goodbye to my husband and thanked him, for my life, for loving me, for providing so well for us, for being such an amazing man of God. I said goodbye to my daughter and made sure she knew what a joy and blessing she was to my heart. I got in the car and, of course, my chickens came running to me, standing in a row to see me off. Reflecting on these simple things I realized this impression that had started as a fog while watching that morning rainbow was becoming increasingly clearer. I had the unmistakeable impression that it was my last day on earth.
I pulled to the end of the driveway and looked back at my little house surrounded by forest, my daughter standing in the window watching me leave. I paused there for a long time and when I pulled onto the road it was with the full expectation that I wouldn’t be back. It was the oddest feeling.
I turned on worship music and began to sing praises and prayers to God. The Spirit was with me and my passion for my Lord were as great or greater than it has ever been. The day was spectacular, the late afternoon sun making the brilliant fall colors sparkle. God was filling me to overflowing with His grace, love, mercy, generosity, and abundance.
At one point, I looked to my right as the sun was hanging just above the mountains. The last rays of sun were just touching the tips of the grass in a pasture, catching the evening dew in a shimmering carpet. To my left, a windbreak of trees was aflame in Autumn glory, Mt. Hood glowing gold beyond them. As I looked back to the road, a hawk alit on a branch as I passed. I said, “God, I am overwhelmed!” as tears washed my face.
I stopped the car at one point and pulled out my notepad. If this was indeed my last day, I wanted to make sure I said all that I needed to say. I thought of my last conversations with my family. In each case, we parted with words of love. I had said all I needed to say. I had left nothing unfinished. I wrote just a few words, a prayer that if God took me home He would comfort my family.
I shared time and love and prayers with my friend. I told her about my day. She looked at me with concern – not because she thought I was crazy, but because she thought I may be right!
As I drove home in the dark, I fully expected a truck to cross the center line or some other critical event to take place. About three miles from home, I actually began to feel disappointed. At no time throughout the day did I feel any fear, any hesitation, any concern. I was full and at peace and, most importantly, I was ready.
My husband and daughter greated me with eager embraces when I returned. I told my husband about my experience. The previous week, he’d had to go to Vancouver, WA for a day. He told me he had the same experience on his trip and was surprised, like I was, when he made it home.
It may all sound crazy, but what a gift! I experienced what it means to live as if this day was my last day. I had the most extraordinary, blessing-filled, life-altering, perception-shattering day. I lived my last day and I breathed every ounce of it deep into my soul until my heart overflowed. I faced the absolute unavoidable truth of my own mortality with confidence and peace and boldness.
Obviously, my last day is yet to come. God has work for me to do, work that is important enough to delay going Home. But I am ready. Not because of grief or loss, certainly not because I have lost hope in this life – I am full of hope. I am ready because I know what’s in store for me. So when it is my last day, don’t weep for me. I will be celebrating, singing, and dancing my way up streets of gold. How I look forward to that day.
A friend asked me recently if the life I have now is the one I imagined when I was young. After I picked myself up off the cafe floor, I explained through hiccups of laughter that my life is far different than anything I every dreamed of.
I’ve been thinking about that conversation. How did I get from young career woman focused on professional praise, status, success, high style and big city high rise office buildings, to 40-something jeans and sweatshirt wearing, full-time wife and mom, gardening chicken wrangler?
I was raised with the understanding that I could do anything. I was groomed to have a career from as long as I can remember. My dad was always telling me to get a degree in business, learn a profession. He wanted me to know about computers. I know about computers, and I studied business, although my degree is in psychology. Not that I ever wanted to become a counselor; I just figured since I was going to be working with and managing people, I’d better know what makes them tick.
I never considered marriage and motherhood for myself. I have a great mom that I love and respect very much. For some reason, however, I never got the impression that marriage and motherhood were valued or respected as occupational choices. The emphasis was always on career, on activities away from home. So my thinking and choices fell right in line with that.
I started my first business right out of college. I’d overcome my shyness and low self-esteem and had made public speaking and self-promotion my strengths. I had evaluated myself against my life goals and made some radical changes. I was bold, risk-taking, not quite fearless, but I could act the part when I needed to.
It was the late 1980’s and I was all about success. So was everyone else at the time. Single, 20-something, living and working in the big city. I worked ridiculous hours, considered personal relationships a distraction, had no interest in marriage or family. I wanted to build my own business empire. All the while I was ignoring a quiet voice in my head saying, “You are my daughter. I love you. You belong to Me.”
While I had grown up in the church, I never accepted Christ as Lord of my life. In fact, I don’t remember ever actually hearing the gospel message. I do know that I consciously, intentionally turned my back on God and the knowledge of Him that I had grown up with. He was out of my life for seven years. Then He began to whisper. Over time that quiet voice got louder and more insistent. It reached a crescendo around 1992 when my dreams shattered around my feet.
The economy collapsed. My business failed. I lost my home, my possessions, my reputation, even my relationships, such as they were. For the first time since telling God to get out of my life, I spoke to Him. You want my life? This mess? Take it. I, almost begrudgingly, handed over lordship of my life to Jesus Christ. That’s when things got interesting.
See, everything that I had, all that I valued, was from me, from my own efforts. God laid everything in my life on a table and showed me that none of it was from Him. Nothing was His best for me. He then proceeded to clear the table. That’s why I lost everything. He promised me His best if I’d just trust Him. His vision for my life was far different.
Hindsight is an interesting thing. To be able to look back and see the transformation. He changed everything. My thinking, my heart, my relationships, my dreams, even my politics. There was no area, no forgotten corner of my life that He neglected. I can see His hand in every chance encounter, crazy coincidence, in conversations, in the jobs I got.
Still, I wouldn’t have imagined this big a change. I work. I run a business. But I work from my office at home. I have no employees and don’t want any. I work in partnership with my husband, supporting the work he does to support our family. My Career, the thing that I most fervently dedicate my energy to, is being Wife and Mother. I make sure they have good food, clean clothes, a warm house; I plan menus, grow produce, raise chickens and gather eggs; I preserve peaches, make jams and homemade bread. I sew quilts, mend clothes, and make Christmas gifts by hand. I educate my daughter, help my husband, serve my God. I am a Home-maker.
As I have studied God’s word and submitted to His leadership in my life I see that His best, His design for my life as a woman, really is the ideal career choice for me. There is more challenge, more variety, and so much more satisfaction in this job than I ever could have found following the dreams of my youth.
Once upon a time I planned marketing campaigns and did TV interviews. Yesterday I planned a month’s worth of meals and oiled the mill and covered it for winter. I still have visions of empire: I have two small blueberry bushes that are the beginnings of my Blueberry Empire! Bah ha ha!
I’ve come to an important and infinitely satisfying conclusion: I have the greatest job there is.
Filed under: Nathanael Isaac
My head is spinning today. I keep wavering between happy/silly and sad/tearful. It’s November and I’ve been thinking so much of Nathan.
I remember last November was so cold and wet. We’ve had a remarkable number of dry, sunny, beautiful fall days. I’m so thankful for that. The lake has been like glass everyday, not the churning, violent white caps of last year. I’m thankful for that too. I heard the Coast Guard chopper fly overhead yesterday. It scared the chickens, but my heart didn’t stop this time. I’m thankful for that.
I went to the Double Sharpe website that has the video tribute to Nathan still posted. It’s the only recording I have access to with Nate’s voice and laughter, and his beautiful smile. I know there are other recordings out there, but not in our possession. How I wish I had them. I’ve been revisiting blogs of friend’s descriptions of Nate, his memorial, tributes to him. I still have the bag with over a hundred cards and letters from people sending their love and prayers to us. I miss him so much.
And yet God continues to impress on me all that He has done. From the moment I prayed, “God be real,” He has been so amazingly, abundantly, generously faithful. I’m still hearing from people who were so deeply impacted by his memorial in Oregon that their lives were changed – people who never even knew Nathan. God used a ski trip video made years before to show us beyond a doubt that He was in control and Nathan’s homegoing was part of His plan. He brought people to us at exactly the moment of our need. He has been the All Sufficient One, over and over again.
Our community ladies bible study is growing. Today we talked about the peace of God – how God is our rock in times of trouble. After our lesson I said I wished there was way that I could bottle up what I have learned this year about God so that I could give each of them just a taste. When we are at our end, God is only just beginning; when we are broken, He makes us whole; when we are overcome with sorrow, He counts our tears; when we are weary from the trials, He shelters us in the shadow of His wing.
One of the ladies asked me how many kids I have now. She realized right away what was wrong with her question. I said I have, and will always have, five kids. One in Chicago, two in Salem, one at home with me, and one in Heaven. All are alive and well and serving and loving God.
I miss Nathan so much and I would love to see him, hug him, tell him how much I love him and how proud I am of who he is and the way he lived his life, the way he loved people. I will have that opportunity; I just have to be patient. As for the rest of my kids – I love you. I’m so proud of you. I am so grateful for each one of you. You are the greatest gift in my life.
I raked leaves today, again. It was so beautiful out I just couldn’t stay inside. I piled them all in one giant heap, at least 5 feet high, right up against an embankment. Sabrina and Tim took flying leaps into this massive pile, sinking to their waists. I flopped in right next to them. As I lay in this comfortable bed of leaves, I thought of Nathan. He would have enjoyed jumping in our leaf pile too. But I think he would have built a ramp and something with wheels that goes really fast. And he probably would have crashed spectacularly and ended up with another concussion. Yeah, that sounds about right.
Being a pastor’s wife has got to be one of the most difficult positions there is. Devoted to ministering alongside her husband, she has upon her the expectation to be perfect. Her house must be immaculate and ready for company at any time (regardless of how many small children she has), she must always be ready with a delicious potluck dish (even though her family barely has enough for groceries), she must always be pleasant and available (regardless of how burdened she feels), she must be knowledgeable of scripture and be able to teach, administer, coordinate, and lead.
I should know; I’m a pastor’s wife. My husband was a pastor many years before I met him. Since we’ve been together we have planted a couple of churches and been involved in just about every aspect of ministry you can name.
Knowing what I know, I have long had a soft spot for pastor’s wives. The ideal would be that they could be real, totally vulnerable to the loving, accepting members of their churches. The truth is it’s hard to know whom to trust. Everything we do reflects on our husbands. A word said in a moment of weakness to the wrong person can have serious negative ramifications for our husband’s ministry. The reality is, although we may deeply love the people we minister to, that wall stays up. We may know them, but they don’t truly know us. They may share their deepest struggles, we serve and help, but we don’t share our struggles. Who can a pastor’s wife turn to in her own congregation? Often, no one.
In the past few days, I’ve had conversations with two pastor’s wives. Both of these women have great passion for what they do. Their husbands are young pastors (30-somethings), they have children, responsibilities at home and church, and ministries of their own. They love the Lord and seek to serve Him with their lives. Both of them are overwhelmed, discouraged, and lonely.
In both cases, when they realized I really did understand their struggle and they didn’t have to try to explain it to me, they were free to share their burden, to lay it all out to someone who understood, who wouldn’t judge them, who wouldn’t gossip or expect them to be perfect. The expectation of perfection is an impossible burden to carry. When we release our burden, it frees us to receive that which God would give us. Prayer, counsel, encouragement. After talking with each of these women, I saw a relief, a lightness that wasn’t there when we started, simply because someone listened and understood.
Since moving here three years ago and seeing first hand the struggle that churches are going through in this spiritually oppressed area, I have had a deep desire to minister to those who minister. It’s not my desire to plant another church; there are enough churches here. But the pastors and their wives are in the trenches day and night, and many of them are worn and weary. It has been my desire to encourage, edify, pray for, and love them. I’ve had opportunity to do that twice this week.
We think of burdens as, well, burdensome. In truth, it is such a privelage to carry a portion of someone else’s load. I am humbled and grateful for the trust and confidence that these precious servants of God have bestowed on me. It is my joy to help them lay that burden at the foot of the cross, to encourage them to seek God through His word and through prayer each day, and to invite them to my door any time.
My friend Stacy called me and said come to a play with me. Spontaneously, totally last minute, we drove the 90 minutes to George Fox University in McMinnville, OR, to see a play with her daughter and her roommate. It was an interesting play, but that’s not what this is about.
Afterward, another of the girl’s friends joined us. Becca, a beautiful, outgoing, articulate young woman with a vibrant personality. I enjoyed Becca from the moment I met her. The five of us went to an all night pie shop with the intention of getting, what else? Pie.
I miss the deep conversations from college days. Searching for the important truths and the significant meaning in ideas that challenge our perceptions and increase our understanding of a particular topic. We had one of those conversations as we reflected upon the very serious play we had seen. Stacy was a very good facilitator of the discussion.
On the topic of what impacted you most about the play I thought of one particular scene where a young missionary was informed that his girlfriend had been kidnapped and murdered by violent rebels. What struck me was the character who bore the bad news. As the young man sobbed with grief, his older companion reached for him, stopped, reached again, then put his hands in his lap having never touched his broken young friend. I shared with my young companions and my dear friend my experience with grief and the responses of the people around me. There is never a right thing to say and it is so hard to know how to respond, but a simple touch can do miracles.
I didn’t mean for the conversation to get serious or heavy, but suddenly the tenor of the group changed. It got serious and heavy. I started to move on with the conversation, but ever-discerning Stacy stopped me. She too sensed that the girls had something to say and they weren’t saying it. She cleverly implied that they would be helping me if they asked me questions to make me talk about it.
Having been given permission, Becca rather timidly asked me about the circumstances of Nathan’s death. I shared with her the abbreviated version. Upon learning that it had been less than a year she said, quite authoritatively, “a year isn’t very long.” I thought, how true and told her it felt like it happened yesterday. In response to her questions I told her about all the overwhelming ways that God blessed me through the death of my son, carried me through grief and trauma, gave me strength for each day, deepened my faith and my reliance on Christ, I concluded with a statement that surprised even me. I said, “This has been a very good year.”
She was surprised by it too, but I think she understood. She shared that her family had been in an accident the day after Christmas four years ago. A drunk driver crashed into the family car and her father was killed. She was 14.
We continued to talk deeply and quietly for a few hours. I saw in this lovely young woman the brokenness of losing her father at such a critical time in her life. We talked about grief, about God’s goodness and mercy, about healing. We talked about loving and honoring the dead by living fully and passionately. We wept. She was struggling with the new situation of her mother finding love again and wanting to remarry. Becca wanted to know how she could continue to honor her father and yet accept this new man into her life. She wanted to know what her relationship with her mother should be. She wanted to know how to let go.
Becca seemed to absorb all the counsel and encouragement I could give her. She asked deep and important questions; I gave her the most truthful, loving answers I could. Finally, we prayed together – for healing, courage, faith. I encouraged her to call me if she ever needed to talk or to seek advice. Before the words were out of my mouth, Stacy grabbed her cell phone and programmed in my number!
Finally, we said goodnight to the girls and began the long drive home. As we pulled out of the university parking lot, Stacy said, “Now I know why you were supposed to come with me tonight.” We had a divine appointment to minister to a particular and precious young lady.
By the way, we never did get pie.
Filed under: My Heart
Sunday morning, my brothers, daughter, and I converged on my parent’s house to do that thing that most long-time homeowners dread…We cleaned out the attic! (Insert scary music here)
Dad had made the request, so there we were. Fifty one years of marriage, 40 years in that house – They had accumulated quite the collection. 
With precision team work, we had it emptied within 90 minutes or less and spent the next several hours sorting and reminiscing.
I had the best job – crawling around the dusty, creepy-crawly attic. It meant I got first discovery! I’d peek in boxes before handing them down to the Broskis (brother-units) to put in the appropriate pile. Ted’s satin superhero/villain cape and pinewood derby cars from cub scouts; Tim’s box of sports memorabilia including flat football and old sweat socks (yikes!); a collection of my oil paintings from high school and college and, of course, Barbie paraphernalia from the early 70’s. Ted got a mystery box labeled “Ted’s Memories.” I’m quite irked that he didn’t open it up. I was really curious.
Beyond our personal stuff were the other treasures Mom and Dad have collected. Grandpa Oda Lee Jordan’s wood and iron shoe stretcher. Grandma Clarice Jordan’s old waffle iron and precious knick-knacks from her house. Old photos and albums of my parents in their teens – letters they’d written and received. Dad always fancied himself a great lover, a regular Don Juan. Mom read aloud one of his first ‘love letters.’ Frankly, Dad, I wasn’t very impressed.
There was a lot of laughter and joyful reminiscing. Dad chided us about getting too sentimental and not throwing more stuff out – then discovered some memorabilia from his time as a Marine and became very sentimental, keeping everything. We were amused to finally go through the big Civil Defense surplus barrels that Dad had stored up there since the atomic days of the 60’s. We divvied out those things that were useful – several thousand feet of gauze bandage – some in camouflage – a few hundred bars of soap. I am now the proud possessor of 100 lbs of survival biscuits and three emergency toilets – toilet seat-shaped lids that fit over 20 gallon barrels. This in addition to Grandmother’s porcelain chamber pot! I’m set for life!
It was also a day for serious discussion. Talking with Tim about his plans for the future – those of being a husband and father. Listening as Mom gave us an update on Dad’s health. Very business-like – the facts are what they are – but all of us understanding what it means: We’re running out of time.
I’m so glad we did this now, rather than later when grief would have shadowed everything and laughter would have been stained by tears. I’m glad that Dad was here to tell his stories and pass on his memories.
His 80th birthday is one week from today. His is a life to be honored and celebrated. Far more than the things he’s collected, he himself is the treasure.
And then there’s Mom. She hasn’t shared her thoughts and fears about this – those things that are closest to her heart she tends to keep hidden. I’m praying for her too.
