As Debbie lay dying in the hospital room, I sat with her children, quietly watching. Sometimes I held her hand and tried to decipher the whispery words she offered in thimblefuls of breath. Though her earthly life was fading, she heard every word spoken in and outside of the room. She might repeat it lightly on her lips and smile.  When her two daughters spoke quietly about a friend’s new baby, Debbie interjected, “Who?” then fluttered back to her dreamy world. She was so very present, even as her body was overtaken.

The day before Debbie died I stood at her side, after visiting an hour or so, and told her I was leaving and that I’d be back. The same words I had told her all week. But when my words fell upon her ear this time, she raised her hand, found a working finger and pointed at the chair from which I’d come. “Sit … down…chair” she managed. Her son and I smiled at each other. I took my seat as Debbie’s forearm still wavered in the air a bit, not sure if its job was done.  I wondered what she had in mind.

All of a sudden What A Friend We Have In Jesus hung heavily in my mind and got the feeling I should sing it to her. A bit embarrassed to just break out in song, I asked Debbie’s son if she had a favorite hymn. In The Garden. I went to her side and quietly sang both hymns. She smiled a little and whispered the words I had whispered to her often, “I’m glad we reconnected.” We were always connected by our mutual friend, Jesus. Watching her go to Him, I understood this like never before.

And He said, “To you it has been granted to know the mysteries of the kingdom of God, but to the rest it is in parables, so that seeing they may not see, and hearing they may not understand. Luke 8:10

I visited my college alma mater recently. For two weeks I walked the gorgeous campus of Indiana University, wandering miles of red brick pathways, pulling open heavy doors of cool, quiet limestone buildings, hoping to hear the echo of memories rush past me.

One morning I paused in the heart of campus by the “Jordan River,” a shady stream trickling through meadows, arboretums and under the wooden bridge that stretches from Woodburn to Ballantine halls. These two buildings held my favorite classes: composition, philosophy, Greek/Latin medical terms, literature, professional writing—the subjects I loved, the rooms where I flourished. My chosen major had me treading water with pre-med students, in classes that were often over my head. I did love science, but something else was calling.

I was operating as if my life were a blank slate and it was incumbent upon me to write something on that slate that made sense to everyone else. (And, certainly avoid writing something ridiculous like, I think I’m a writer.) I did think I was a writer. I did not believe, however, that being myself was going to be enough. Surely I’d need to contrive something else.

The years I spent dreaming up ways to create my life were years I was not acknowledging my Creator. He has written upon my heart the way I should go. I need to humble myself, consult my heart and hear Him. My life is Christ’s. I enter through the doors He opens. It is His paths I delight in and explore.

I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I now live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.  Galatians 2:20

My friend Debbie called last week. She said a hospice worker had stopped in to see her, she had decided to give up treatments for the cancer creeping from her breast to her arm and now her lungs. I went to her the next day, arriving just in time to answer a rap on her door. A friendly man lugged an oxygen machine into the tiny room and Debbie gave me permission to move her beloved guitar to make space for the thing. When he left, I brushed her soft, short hair and gently wrapped the tube around her ears. Debbie reached to fix the openings under her nose. “I feel like it’s helping already,” she said. I returned to my spot on the couch, the machine now humming between us. Our eyes settled on each other’s once again.

“I’ve been thinking about Bethany,” she said. “I wonder if she’ll be waiting to meet me.” Bethany died just before birth over twenty years ago. “I wonder,” Debbie continued with a light curiosity, “I wonder if she’ll be young, certainly not a baby but…how old are people in heaven? I wonder.” I said I didn’t know, but I was sure that Bethany will be there waiting for her mother.

Debbie is a loving mom to six children, grandmother to two and one on the way. We haven’t spoken of that looming grief, of leaving her beloved children, it’s too great for words. But in the moment she parts from those she has nurtured, there will be a precious joining with the one she never had the chance to, a reunion that triumphs death and heartbreak. Tears on my cheeks, I smiled at the sweet sadness. “Look what God has done, Debbie. In your worst grief, He has for you a most extraordinary gift.” “Yes,” she closed her eyes, sleepy and overwhelmed, “I will finally be with Bethany.”

From the fullness of His grace we have all received one blessing after another.  John 1:16

Bring God. I am called to bring the love, the word, the mercy and the grace of God wherever I go and to whomever I meet. I am called to live those things within my heart. If I don’t embrace the love, the word, the mercy and the grace that God freely gives me, I have nothing good to carry to others.

I remember a funny episode of Seinfeld years ago. George purchased a big salad for Elaine, but his girlfriend carried it to her and accepted the appreciation for the gift. George should have received the credit but his girlfriend put herself first.  As usual, comedic banter ensued.

Sometimes I take pride in giving–salads, presents, favors, just about any act of giving can give me an emotional boost.  But no giving can compare with God’s giving, no gifts more precious than His.  He asks me to give to others mercifully in His name. Not my glory, but His, not my triumph, but His. Why? Because others must know Him and see His perfect light. His children must have faith in Him, not me, to be saved and join Him in heaven. Jesus bought for me the gift of eternal life with His own. I accept God’s gifts in His name.

It helps me to think these words: Go gently. It reminds me to put down anything that comes between me and humility in Jesus. For when He comes beside me, I have no need for defending, proving or competing. My ego pales and retreats. It is not my own power I exact, I walk under the wing of His divinity and righteousness. It is Him I carry, it is the power of the living Christ I wield and nothing more. Nothing more is warranted. Nothing more achieves. I go gently and carry the finished work of Jesus.

Speak and act as those who are going to be judged by the law that gives freedom, because judgment without mercy will be shown to anyone who has not been merciful. Mercy triumphs over judgment! James 2:12-13

I distinctly remember learning about personification in school, attributing human characteristics to animals or objects. It was in regard to poetic imagery, lumped with metaphors and similes but nowadays it’s a common thing to attribute human ways to animals. When I found this frog in the middle of the path that curves around the pond, I have to admit, I couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking. Had he dreamed of being a model, the way he allowed my lens to get so close? Had he knighted himself the sentinel of the back quarter, refusing my passage to the bench? Was he addled?

I knelt there eyeing this frog for some time. Whatever he was thinking, the risk to his life didn’t seem worth it. I could have scooped him up and dropped him into my pocket or squashed him mistakenly under my shoe. But never mind what this frog was thinking, what have I been thinking? How I have gambled with my life, gifts, purpose, self-respect. And for what? Nothing on this earthly path is worth winning at the expense of the life God has for me, His beloved.

So I walk in His holy presence. I tread lightly, so not to squelch those gifts He sets before me and hold those I have received with gratitude. I heard once to walk with measure and peace, as if the Holy Spirit were a dove sitting on my shoulder. I love that metaphor. I don’t want Him to lift away from me for even a moment.

Jacob replied, “First sell me your birthright.” “Look, I am about to die,” Esau said. “What good is the birthright to me?” But Jacob said, “Swear to me first.” So he swore an oath to him, selling his birthright to Jacob. Then Jacob gave Esau some bread and some lentil stew. Genesis 25:31-34

I have heard it said that snapping turtles cannot retreat into their shells and surmised that this vulnerability makes them aggressive and snappy. These creatures are one reason I feel vulnerable when swimming in lakes and ponds. The idea of one snatching off my toes as I paddle above them keeps me in the shallows. Apparently my fears are unfounded, for in their natural environment, they are most likely to swim away from people, going to depths to avoid any raucous that stirs up their watery tranquility.

Snapping turtles and I have more in common than I once thought. While I may not be aggressive and snappy, necessarily, I might avoid a new situation to remain in the comfort of my status quo. I can sink in a lack of confidence, an overgrowth of anxiety or sheer stubbornness and must force myself to rise again and again or drown in them.

Often these choices, to remain in or go out, are unimportant in the grand scheme of God, but sometimes they are promptings, His calling. A simple call to the park one day changed my life. I discerned that voice inside to be His and followed. And after all, even snapping turtles are called to leave their comfort and travel on land to lay eggs. Their Maker prompts them and they follow.

Knowing God is discerning His voice and His callings. His plan moves in all creatures. I come complete, like the common snapping turtle, with the voice that spoke me into existence. He is still speaking to me. I listen for His voice and move in His direction.

The word of the LORD came to Jonah son of Amittai: “Go to the great city of Ninevah and preach against it, because its wickedness has come up before me.” But Jonah ran away from the LORD and headed for Tarshish. Jonah 1:1-2

My parks are anchored around water. The two I frequent have small ponds, always both burgeoning and patient. On a bench or standing on roots against a mammoth tree, I see in them the intricacies of life and came to know the quintessence of releasing a prayer to a merciful sanctum.

Some days my car took me to the Delaware River instead, to watch the planes take off and land south of the city and the ships chug along the ports. There I thought of grand ideas and wide futures. From those banks I rose and flew off to curious cities or sat quietly as a battle of this country’s revolution echoed on the hill. The wind pushed and grabbed me on that stony beach but I found my ballast in driftwood and heart-shaped pebbles.

My other river park is a bustling place of boat houses, sculpture gardens, playgrounds and shady picnic areas. On one end of the 4 mile loop, the park reaches toward Camden, once deemed the murder capital of the United States, now a hub in the local drug crisis, forever a wrenching reminder in this mother’s heart. From the walkway, all I can see of the troubled place is “Our Lady” spreading her arms above the local hospital and I pray with her. A grand hotel crowns the other end of the park, along with a surprising view of the Philadelphia skyline from a bridge.

As I write this I am granted a new perspective of my walk along this river. Camden, the city of so much death at one end and at the other, Cherry Hill, the place where I found my life again in the sweet anonymous circles of others’ experience, strength and hope. And God, like a current, His quenching radiance connecting it all.

The law of the Lord is perfect, refreshing the soul. The statutes of the Lord are trustworthy, making wise the simple. The precepts of the Lord are right, giving joy to the heart. The commands of the Lord are radiant, giving light to the eyes.   Psalm 19:7-8

There is a groundhog in one of my parks. She lives on the edge of the still memorial garden. Occasionally I find her several yards from her burrow and as I approach, back she goes, popping up once more to ascertain my whereabouts.

Pups came that spring and I walked right up to two milling around their front yard. I stared at them and they stared back, curious and comfortable. They didn’t know to hide or even why they should. They were enjoying the sun and fresh air and I was just a part of their neighborhood. Oh, little ones, I smiled at the darling pair, you will learn to hide soon enough.

Once as a child I took a puff of a cigarette. The shame of the act would not leave me, I felt  like a bad person. Finally one afternoon, holed up in my room, I cried out for my mother. She came upstairs and we sat on the top step in the hall. I burst out with my heavy load and she gently received it and assured me that I was forgiven.

I had probably done worse things, to tell the truth. I had been mean to friends and disobeyed my parents, but that day, that sin swelled so large in my mind that I would have no peace until I confessed it. I would have no fun with my friends, I would enjoy no bedtime story with my father, I could climb no tree high enough to feel the warm sun and sweet breeze on my shoulders until I chose to unburden them. I cannot carry my sins or those of the world, but Jesus did. When I confess, I remember who has already taken my sins and who has already made me free.

Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective. James 5:16

God is working in my neighbors’ lives. They haven’t told me this, but I know it to be true. Just across the street He is filling a new mother with joy. Next door He is drawing a young couple closer to prepare them for their years ahead. He is upholding the one with Alzheimer’s disease who perseveres in the parts of life he can still navigate. God is with all the little ones at the babysitter down the block and the big ones who left for college. I like to consider how God is moving in the lives and homes all over this town. In fact, I must.

These people are God’s children. They may not have told me this, but I know it to be true. It is important for me to regard them as such, that they may recognize and confess it too. Imagine the work God is doing in every life, drawing in the ones who have wandered far, nurturing and encouraging the ones who know Him well. I mustn’t interfere with a single person’s journey to know their Lord and Savior, by treating any one as anything less than a child of God.

It is incumbent upon me to see Him in them and acknowledge His love for them, the same love He has for me. He may not love what a person is doing, but He loves His children and wants each one to humble his heart and come to Him. Jesus said “Love your neighbor as yourself.” I must love my neighbor as the child of God he is.

Let no one seek his own good, but that of his neighbor. 1 Corinthians 10:24

One Easter my mother tried something new. Instead of a basket on the dining room table full of colored grass and jelly beans, my sister and I awoke to a bunch of strings tied to our bedroom doorknobs. One by one we followed each strand to its end, somewhere in our house. There, wrapped in pretty paper, was a small gift, like a white marble egg or a pack of barrettes. It was a delightful morning, so fun for us little girls to imagine where each string would lead.

That morning we happily dropped our strings in favor of the gifts Mom had hidden for us, but being “at the end of one’s rope” is usually how one speaks of loss and despair. As long as there is rope the possibilities are endless, but where the rope ends so do the possibilities. Or so it seems.

To come to the end of one’s rope, one must have had a long struggle, holding on for dear life, grabbing and pulling the rough cord hand over hand, staring down at each prospective length with expectation and hope until hope runs out. Then the dispirited moment of collapse and release. But this is the moment, on my knees God raises my head and eyes to Him. It is the moment He has been waiting for.

God always wants to begin something new in me but often I am staring down at my own interests, unwilling to see Him. It is only when I run out of rope, when my efforts fail, that I turn to see what He is offering. What looks like the end is only an opportunity to find God’s gifts of new beginnings.

The mind governed by the flesh is death, but the mind governed by the Spirit is life and peace.  Romans 8:6