If You Give Me a Picture to Hang

If you give me a picture to hang,

I’ll have to find a hammer. 

While looking for the hammer, I’ll find some old Mother’s Day Cards shoved in a drawer.

I spend 5 minutes remembering why I love my 5 children.And my husband. 

When I put the cards back, I’ll remember I was looking for my hammer. 

I spy my flower handled hammer peeking out from underneath a pile of journals!

I spend a half hour reading through the journals, marveling at the brilliance of my writing and wondering why I’m not a published author yet. 

I remember to grab the hammer. 

I need to find nails!

As I look through the paper clips on my desk  hoping to find a nail , I spot the name of a song I’d written down that I need to learn. 

That reminds me I’ve been meaning to look the song up on YouTube.

 

Sometime later, after I’ve learned how to teach my dog sign language, watched videos of Basset Hound Puppies, and caught up on all Jimmy Fallon's "Ew" skits, I remember I came here to listen to a song, which reminds me I was looking for a nail.

I’ll listen to the song later. 

I go out to the kitchen to check the junk drawer. I lay the hammer on the counter by a bag of apples I forgot to put away.  

I put the apples away and then remember I was going to wash the dishes.

 
 

 Running the water reminds me I have to go to the bathroom. 

After I use the bathroom. I walk back to the kitchen. 

I see the hammer and I remember I was looking for a nail. 

I walk to the garage to find a nail. 

On the way to the garage I have to walk through the laundry room. 

I remember I forgot to start the laundry! Hearing the water run in the washing machine reminds me I was going to do the dishes. 

 

I walk back to the kitchen

 When I walk into the kitchen I see the hammer and remember… nails.

I  walk back to the garage. 

 In the garage I'm distracted by some old Abercrombie and Fitch bags. I admire the male models on the bags and wonder at the strength. Of the bags that is. Those bags are strong! All bags should be this strong. 

 Strength… nails!

I find my husband’s tool boxes. I rummage through all sorts of weird stuff and don’t find any nails but do find some brown deck screws. They look sturdy, they’ll hold anything!

I go back into the house with my hammer and brown deck screws.

 I stand for a moment confused as to why I’m holding these items and then I remember;

I have a picture to hang!

But first I’ll have to remember where I put the picture…

The End

P.S. It did get hung.

Fred

This is the story of a fellow I loved a long time ago named Fred. He's not your ordinary fella and the original Fred is no longer on earth and the love is a beautiful memory.

The story of Fred begins 44 years ago at a boarding school in Africa. Kenya, to be exact.  I was 7 years old. We had just moved to Africa from Oregon. My mother was a missionary and well, I was a missionary kid. Less than a month after our arrival in Kenya, my mom dropped me off at the boarding school. After settling me into my room and helping unpack my clothes and other personal belongings I would need for the next 3 months, she drove away leaving me screaming and crying in the dust stirred up by her retreating car. I don't remember much after that except seeing the dorm parent's son lying on the porch watching me as I'm sure he watched countless other little girls crying in sorrow as their parents drove away.

My early memories of boarding school are blurred. I remember some fun but also remember a lot of sadness, homesickness and a profound sense of being lost. Like I was misplaced. And forgotten.

To add to my feeling of  misplacement, my mom was single having adopted me, a brown skin child. A brown skin little girl holding the hand of a very white woman and calling her mother drew its own set of curious eyes. An odd couple we must have appeared at times.

But this is Fred's story.

At the school we had a "bank". My mom would deposit a certain amount of spending money in my account and each Friday I would line up with the other children to withdraw a sum of money large enough to buy candy and assorted treats from our school store. It was at the school store where I met Fred. I later found out that Fred had been named for Fred the Basset Hound comic strip.

I have always loved animals. Being raised an only child, I had many furry brothers and sisters. So, when I spotted Fred lying on the floor, I was instantly smitten. He had no opinions about my looks, or my abilities, didn't care if I was popular or talented, didn't bother him that I had no dad, he just wanted to be talked to and have his belly scratched. His comical appearance and simple needs brought so much comfort to the sad heart of a homesick, misplaced, lost little girl. I was ministered to, and comforted by, a dog. A funny looking Basset Hound named Fred. Seeing Fred was the highlight of my first weeks at school. I told myself then that when I grew up, I was going to have a Basset Hound and name him Fred. Time went on, I eventually  no longer saw Fred and after awhile he and the promise I made to myself, faded into the background of growing older and moving back and forth between countries and eventually marriage and children.

I never completely forgot about Fred, or my dream of having my own Fred. Occasionally through the years I would tell my children about that long-ago Fred and tell them someday I'm going to have a Basset Hound and name him Fred. Bassets aren't that common and in the rare instance I would see one, my mind was instantly taken back to that lonely time when that funny little dog brought me so much peace. I collected the occasional Basset magnet. Every once in awhile while riding in the car I would tell my husband  "there's a little Basset Hound out there.... waiting to be mine. His name is Fred". 

God never forgot either.

In June of 2010, my husband Rollie took me to our favorite Mexican restaurant. I remember sitting on the stool beside him laughing when he suddenly took his phone out and said "I have something to tell you". He then went on to tell me that someone at work sent out an email saying they had Basset Hound puppies for sale. He showed me a picture of a basket of Basset Hound puppies.  I started crying. I knew that if he was telling me this, he had already decided to buy me a puppy. And I knew my little Fred was in that basket.  I could hardly breathe I was so overwhelmed. And then, being the worrier I am, I panicked that they were already all gone and wanted Rollie to call the guy right now! He reassured me that he didn't think they were gone yet as the email had just gone out that day.

Basket of Puppies--we think Fred is the one looking away.

We pick this one! Fred.

Later that month, we went and picked up the little boy puppy we had picked out. We took the kitty kennel along for him to ride in. He cried all the way home. But he came home. After 39 years, Fred came home. He made his home in our home after making his home in my heart so long ago.

Fred at 7 weeks old.

The healing God has done through Fred is beautiful, and perfect. Through this dog He reminded me He was there for me and with me all those years ago. He reminded me I wasn't forgotten nor was I ever misplaced. He knew where I was, what my name was and most importantly, He knew and remembered my dreams. He reconciled the little girl with the adult woman. A circle was completed by Him giving Fred to me.

Today, that goofy, slobbery, stubborn stinky little Basset Hound named Fred, is 5 years old.
Happy Birthday, Fred.Thank You, God. For never forgetting.

Saturday

Saturday. The day after.

This was their first day to live by faith.

I imagine it was a long day following a short night of restless sleep. The horror of what had happened jolting them awake, flooding their minds with tumbling questions, tears and guilt.

This is what all the moments, the miracles, the talks, the prayers, the questions, the answers; this is what it all came down to.

Was He really who He said He was?

They have a  hard time remembering all He said. They are exhausted. Still in shock. Unbelief. Grief hasn’t even set in. They can’t think straight. The violent memories don’t leave with the dawn. The praying, the angry crowd, the shouting, the jostling, the sound of the whip whistling through the air, the blood pouring down their Friend’s face. The sight of Him on the cross.

Ever been in the middle of a riot? That’s tangible anger, it puts one in a fight or flight mode, and keeps one there for a long time. That’s what they had faced for hours.

Torn between wanting to stand up for their Master, yet scared to death because their Master was being taken from them. The Promise was being beaten, the Fulfillment was being spit on, the death of the Messiah was being screamed for, the King of Kings had to carry His own death on His back before carrying out their death, our death,  in His body. 

The guilt. They all feel it.  They had been torn between wanting to defend Him, but scared to. Peter’s attempt at defending and then angrily denying Christ is mentioned, but they were all there somewhere.

They couldn’t even stay awake long enough to pray with Him. He asked them to, they could tell He was distressed, but their human understanding hadn’t yet grasped that this was it. This was the time He had told them about.  That long talk, at the Passover supper. He prayed for them. He told them the time had come.  He said they would weep and lament. They listened, not fully understanding, their feet still damp from the washing He had given them. He knew they didn’t fully understand what would happen. But He knew His words would be fulfilled. And He knew how they would feel.

How does one help the Helper? How does one comfort the Comforter? How does one rescue the Rescuer?

Everything He said He was, every prophecy He fulfilled was on the line. It was the Sabbath. A lot of time for silence and reflection.  Probably one of the longest days of their lives, because if He really was who He said He was, tomorrow would be proof.

But today, today they had nothing but faith. No Spirit to give comfort. No Galatians, Ephesians, Colossians to read and be encouraged by. 

Nothing but His word.

They prayed and they hoped He really was who He said He was.

Invitation

Immanuel. God with us. In our morning reading of "When Holidays Hurt", this was the word. To me, "God with us" is literally that. He is with us. All the time. He says He is, He says so many times He'll never leave us, He's with us, He'll never forsake us, He's with us to the end of the world.

While pondering His "with us" character, this Immanuel, I kept being brought back to the times when it seemed He wasn't with me. The times when He seems shrouded by the darkness of my unanswered “why?”. Hiding in the shadows of the “how come?”, avoiding my “why now?”.  

The first 7 months after my dad died, Sorrow was a constant companion. Grief waited in the background. Like a faulty, heavy black theater curtain, it would unexpectedly come plunging down on me, quick to wrap me in its thick, velvet folds and smothered darkness, leaving me crying, disoriented, unable to join 2 complete thoughts together. And while I knew God didn’t leave me, I did wonder why I didn’t feel Him all the time.

At the beginning of July, unexpectedly, the curtain of Grief retreated. Sorrow remained, but Joy was more bold about slipping her hand into the hand of Sorrow making the path brighter and leaving me able to take deep gulps of life. (Important side note: Preceding this reprieve, God pulled up a chair and spoke to me of some misplaced faith and trust. He reminded me that He’s never, ever left me. That’s a whole blog entry on its own).

Now, as unexpectedly as it gave reprieve, once again Grief has boldly rushed to the forefront of my life again, I've determined to look at the darkness, this curtain of grief, from a different angle. Not from an angle of  entitlement, self justification, defense, or fear, but from the angle of complete faith. Of absolute belief that He doesn’t lie, if He says He never leaves me, I’m going to believe it. This time wholeheartedly.  

I’ve been thinking about this question: What if when it’s dark, He’s not gone, He’s issuing an invitation?

What if He’s inviting me to come deeper WITH Him. He beckons from the shadows. In Him there is no darkness. When I, by faith, step into the darkness I find Him to be all the light I need. He may only light up the step in front of me, but that’s enough. Romans 11:33 says “Oh, the depth of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable His judgments, and His paths beyond tracing out!”  Isaiah 55 says His ways are above ours, His thoughts aren’t ours. (I’m always up for trading my thoughts for His). Psalms tells us that “Thick darkness and clouds surround Him”. He is a God of mystery. He is a God of the dark. Beautiful thing about it; that darkness, that mystery, that “unsearchable”ness is part of why I love Him so much. He’s consistent but yet He has so many facets to His character and He’s so full of both understanding and mystery. He doesn’t present these “darker” sides of Himself to us as a deterrent, but as an invitation.  He says “believe what I say, and follow Me. Follow Me, Lonna. Let your soul cling to Me and know that my right Hand upholds you.” (He never mis-pronounces my name either).

Tomorrow I’m going to unclip some pages of my journal that have been too painfully dark to read. The pages I wrote the day my dad died.  I clipped them together with a paperclip so I wouldn’t see them. Will grief smother me again? Will the curtain fall, the blackness take my breath away? I don’t know. But I’m not afraid of it anymore. I’m going to breathe in it. I’m going to look around this time. I’m going to worship Him from my unanswered questions. I’m going to thank Him in the darkness of not understanding. I’m going to let the pain draw me closer to Him. How? By sheer faith. By deliberately leaning in and believing Him. By His word, not my fears.  By Isaiah 42:16: “I will lead the blind by ways they have not known, along unfamiliar paths I will guide them; I will turn the darkness into light before them and make the rough places smooth. These are the things I will do; I will not forsake them.”

Yep, that’s what this girl is going to do.