S E A S O N S

S E A S O N S

                                                     
   When I feel unloved and unwanted by my husband, when I remember the countless times he was unfaithful to me for the first seven years of our marriage, I have a hard time believing that anyone can love me, even God.

      When I remember my dad, always absent even when in my presence, when I remember his unfaithfulness to my mother and his eventual desertion, I feel like that is also who God is; unfaithful, untrustworthy, and just biding His time until he will abandon me forever.

      These are lies. GOD IS GOOD. God is merciful and just and holy and God is faithful. Jesus is faithful. The Holy Spirit is faithful.    Yet in the darkness, in the loneliness, in the mire; I do not feel what I know is true. I am alone in the darkness of my mind, and see no light.    And yet, is the Light not there? Perhaps my eyes are closed too tight to see Him.

    God, grant me eyes that want to see You and only You.    Help me to cling to what I know to be right, even when I feel completely alone.

Fifteenth Year

Unpublished Sketch by 

Susan Kobzev

   

Spring

Spring by Elysia

Spring

 Summer   

Autumn 

                                 Winter 

6.18.18

                                                      J U N E 18 2018 

    June is here at last, and that sweet elusive scent of bluebells and the soft warm scent of ferns.  Silver vases range across the mantelpiece and countertops, brimming with wild bounty.
      Flowers, flowers everywhere and all to be had for the taking. Thick sprays of chokecherry blossoms in a thick crystal vase, so tall they brush the chandelier that hangs over the dining table.    Small bunches of wild roses, their rounded green leaves pointing up and out and everywhere, the yellow stamens in stark contrast but still perfect unity with the rounded pink petals, proving once and for all that pink truly does belong with yellow. Dandelions like tiny, forceful suns crowding their way down the hill and into the lawn, and Naomi crouched in the long grass, her golden head like yet another ray of sunshine. The lupins we transplanted three years ago are finally growing like the beautiful,  decadent, glorious weeds that they are, their blue spears thrusting towards an even bluer sky. 

   Oh God, to see you as my King- that is what I long for. Not just my friend and brother, not only  my Creator and my savior- but my King. 

     Summer is here, and it is full and rich and good. May we enjoy each moment to the brim.

The name of the Lord is a strong tower; the righteous run to it and are set aloft.

                        Proverbs 18.10

A Christmas Tale

A Christmas Tale 


         Once upon a time there were two little girls on Christmas Eve, pulling their white nightgowns over their heads and wishing and wishing for a horse of their own. They fell asleep wishing, and dreamt of horses, horses with flying manes and tails, foals with big wondering eyes and delicate legs like young deer, horses standing in long stables, softly whooshing their breath as they contentedly munched their oats and nibbled at their Christmas hay.      
  It's a glorious thing to dream of your wishes, and never more so than at Christmastime. 
          They woke early, and pelted down the stairs to the landing window,  their heels twinkling below their long white gowns as they ran. Perhaps, just perhaps, one of those dream horses was a real live flesh and blood horse, standing on the snowy lawn, or waiting at the gate of the tiny stable (which looked very like a garden shed, but as anyone knows, a garden shed is just a stable waiting to happen). 

     The two girls, Clara and Emma,  pressed their noses against the cold window panes, their breath making smudges against the glass. There were no hoof prints in the freshly fallen white snow, and the garden shed still looked sadly like what it was. Their hearts fluttered with sadness, but the stars were shining bright, like handfuls of diamonds on a dark velvet blanket. It was Christmas, after all, and there would be other Christmases, and perhaps with enough wishing one day it would come to pass.
     They continued down the curving wooden staircase, the glow of the Christmas tree casting shadows against the walls. The tree was a small one this year, fat and round and jolly,  with long loops of red cranberries  they had strung themselves, and peppermint candy canes, and glass balls as delicate as soap bubbles, every color of the rainbow, and small glass animals quite crowding every inch of the little tree.    The girls felt the familiar happiness bubbling up in their chests, remembering the presents they had tucked under it the night before, gifts that had been long in the making, small things, but crafted with an uncommen love, for they loved to give gifts and always had half a dozen in the making at any one time.   

       Clara  untied a tiny package from one of the branches and handed it to Emma, her outstretched hand a little shy, as is the manner of someone giving a small piece of themselves away on a Christmas morning. "Here, this one is yours- I made it for you. Merry Christmas." Emma  unwrapped it, also a little shy, as is someone receiving a piece of someone else. 

 A little box fell  from the gilded wrappings and she opened it, turning it round and round. It was just the size of a matchbox, and Clara had painted a  winter scene inside, with a little lake made from a broken piece of mirror, and tiny figures cut from cardboard skating on it. The blue snowy hills had been painted on in watercolors, and gold stars twinkled in the sky. Flecks of golden glitter twinkled around the frozen pond, looking very much like candles for a skating party, as they were supposed to. 
    Emma cupped it safely in her hand, "I love this- Thank you," she said. They smiled softly at each other and then both turned again to the tree. Something gleamed, brown and shining from beneath the branches.  A brown china horse was grazing from a painted china feedbox, a red halter on his finely shaped face. His neck arched and curved,
and on his back was a red and gold saddle. The girls took turns holding him, looking at him first one way and then another. One of his back hooves was a pale pink, like the inside of a shell, and his eyes were deep and lustrous.

      Around his neck was tied a card with a silk ribbon; "To our dear girls Emma and Clara- may the dear Father in heaven always smile upon your dreaming. All our love, Mama and Papa" 

 He was the most magnificent toy they had ever seen, and they hugged him to themselves, exhulting in his beauty. The day passed in a happy blur, the gifts all given and properly exclaimed over, the Christmas feast a success, and the goodnight kisses given and received. 
   The china horse was put to bed in the playroom, the little china manger put close by him in case he should feel a little hungry in the night, and a cream pitcher  borrowed from a doll's tea set was pressed into service for his water.

     Again the two girls went to bed in their long white gowns, and again they slept, deeply and sweetly, this time about a horse with a red and gold saddle and eyes dark as chocolate. 
   Again they awoke early (but perhaps not as early as before), and remembering the china horse they again ran eagerly down the steps and around the corner, this time to the playroom, Emma (who was littlest,) bumping into Clara as she stopped still in the doorway. 

    They heard a soft whooshing sound, and a low gentle nickering. Papa was there, and beside him was a horse. Not a painted china stallion, but a real live horse, looking old enough to be wise with children but young enough to be a friend for many years.  The girls still stood in the doorway, breathless; "Don't you even want to meet her?"  said Mama, coming smiling down the hallway, the fullness of a Christmas miracle quite shining out of her eyes. "She's for you.. She's yours!"  Papa said, laughing at their still startled faces. 
    
 Clara reached out gently, slowly, touching the soft velvet nose, running her hand under the warmth of the long black mane. They took her through the house and across the snowy lawn,  heading towards the garden shed that now looked more than ever like a stable, with a bucket and rake leaning up against it, the fresh smell of new hay coming out over the half door. 

The girls never forgot that morning - the first time they they saw a wish and a dream, living and breathing before their very eyes.

12.23.17

        I found myself sitting in the floor, wrapping gifts with squabbling children and muttering quietly under my breath, "I hate children". 
Then my husband came home after working late, and everyone treated him like a waiter at dinner and I heard him mumble, "Oh I hate children." 

     We don't usually say this kind of thing. God has blessed us with a large and ever-growing family, and we love our kids, love sharing our lives with them, and we love Christmas- the lights, the music, the cozy times reading, the Christmas baking and visiting. 
But this year I keep hearing a whisper in my ear; "This is empty. This is worthless. This has no meaning." 
Only in the last few days have I realized how often I have listened to that whisper, and how I had begun to believe it. 

      Advent is a waiting time, a waiting for the light to burst into flames in the darkness. But the advent of Christ, his lowly birth in a stable also heralded weeping and grief as the mothers of babies had their children torn from their arms, as Herod sought for that tiny, lovely king-baby gifted to a Jewish virgin. Satan has always hated children, and stops at nothing to snuff out their life, their breath, their very souls. 

      The celebrations God ordained for his chosen people always centered on remembering Him; remembering what He had done for them, what miracles he had performed, what feats of daring and mystery they had witnessed, what laws should be upheld and obeyed.  And always the proclamation, "And ye shall teach them your children, speaking of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way, when thou liest down, and when thou risest up.

     As a Christian, celebrating light in seasons of darkness ought to be
second nature. Giving gifts thoughtfully chosen in memory of our true Gift  should be a joy and not a drudgery.  But I kept hearing this low, mocking voice as I pick up my Bible to read from Proverbs or the Christmas Story out loud to my kids. 
"This is empty and meaningless and worthless. It is all worthless." 

       It is not worthless! God came down and clothed himself in our flesh and bone- he nursed,  he slept, he grew and cried and laughed. He was full human. He was full God. 
      Our earth was hallowed by his first footsteps to his mother, and his last footsteps towards the cross. Our earth can have joy and sorrow side by side, as we live in the light of his life. 
The things we do have meaning, they have purpose, and one day we will see all the threads connected, glorious, spread out like golden stars across a dark blue sky.

Merry Christmas, and this joyful, sorrowful, holy Season's Greetings.

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.

James 1.17

For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counseller, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.

Isaiah 9.6

11.1.17

                               Wednesday, November 1

        Driving through the fog yesterday I was listening to a somewhat somber song by John Michael Talbot, when suddenly the music changed, and with an exultant rush the chorus almost shouted, "On the third day! On the third day! On the third day, He rose again!"  Such a feeling of joy and sweetness filled my soul and overflowed down the edges. There are seasons of waiting, like those three days in the tomb when most of the believers faltered in their beliefs. There are seasons of mist and fog, and gray days, and stumbling. But because of that third day, because of Christ rising and ascending from the grave and then into heaven, the sun is always just around the corner.

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.

My help cometh from the LORD, which made heaven and earth.

He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber.

Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.

The LORD is thy keeper: the LORD is thy shade upon thy right hand.

The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night.

The LORD shall preserve thee from all evil: he shall preserve thy soul.

The LORD shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore. 

Psalm 121

October 19 2017

                                               October 19 2017

       This house hums loud in the quiet dark of a Thursday morning seven o'clock. I lie in bed awake, remembering my evening prayers;  I asked for singleness of mind, gentleness for my children, and the ability to stay present in my daily life. I don't want to check out of reality any more- clicking and tapping away, a blank, black device obscuring my face from my children. Kyrie Eleison. Christe eleison. Lord, have mercy. Christ have mercy.

          In the last few years I have one by one checked out of most forms of social media- first Facebook, then Instagram, then slowly but sadly deleting each hoarded Pin Board.   

     Many of the perceived connections that I thought were so valuable proved empty, the relationships carefully stroked with picture comments and exclamation points proved hollow.
   I don't regret it.  And yet, always temptation beckons at the door, and idolatry is always ready to meet me more than halfway. EBay and Amazon can be just as alluring, the promise of a package in the mail just as exciting as the old red notifications in my FB inbox. Shopping fills a void. .. for a moment. 

The moment passes; the void is still there. 

       Oh, to run to God the way I've run to material things! To run to Christ the way I embraced my sexuality as a means to security! If only I could be as fervent in the Holy Spirit as I've been fervent in finishing projects- always finishing, finishing, rushing towards the final step as if it will complete me. 

         Kyrie Eleison. Wake me from my complacency O God. Wake me into your holiness, your living, breathing, satisfying righteousness.

        Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them;  While the sun, or the light, or the moon, or the stars, be not darkened, nor the clouds return after the rain...

       ...Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern. 

Ecclesiastes 12

9.18.17

                                   September 18,   2 0 1 7 

          The hills are green and golden again, and the  gray autumn skies that seem to last forever make the blue ones even more incredible by contrast. The leaves fall, quickly, thickly, and the sound of winter hovers just around the corner.

        David falls asleep on my chest, his hair soft and sweet against my lips. He is such a precious boy, and I love to see his serious little face occasionally break into the widest, most delightful of grins. The nine months of waiting for him seemed to last forever, and the two months since his birth have flown by on wings. I can't get enough of him, and am always rushing through my tasks in order to be with him again.
   
       I am so grateful to God, who blesses me beyond belief and knows always what is best for me. May I remember Him, even on those dark days, dim with uncertainty. May I remember always, His love for me has never, and will never, fail.