Out of Africa

I recently went to Africa for a mission trip.  It was a desire to go and serve and offer help to those in need.  A couple years ago I went to Honduras for the same reason.  God has been good to me and He calls us to serve others and so I went.   I may have accomplished some small things while there, but when I left, they were still hungry and poor.  There were still major third world problems that were not solved.  Realistically,  all I can offer in way of aid are my hands and feet, maybe a little money, and most importantly, prayer; for prayer can move mountains and console the poor in spirit.  But something clicked in Africa and upon my return, I have been reflecting about what I have seen and known in my own life. 

Zambian village women

I have observed that there is a sort of disconnect in the way we think about helping others.  More often than not, we participate in helping others as a special occasion rather than an extension of our every day.  We establish our willingness to help on merit, by deciding who is worthy, and who is deserving of our precious time and talent.  I began to wonder why we think we need to travel across the globe to help the poor and unfortunate.   I noticed how we willingly go and “live” in conditions that are less than ideal, to work and serve alongside people in need where they are.  We are more gracious, compassionate, we have a new respect and empathy because we have experienced what others are experiencing for a brief time.   Then we come home and after a couple weeks, slip back into our normal way of life, the lessons we learned still inside, but now buried by other distractions.  

 

Lusaka road vendor

I began to wonder why it seems traveling elsewhere is the way to make a difference in the world, when right here in our own backyard live millions of poor and needy?  Maybe we know too much about our own poor.  We see news story upon news story of the effects of poverty, and we think “those people” deserve their circumstance rather than thinking, “but for the grace of God there go I”.  Maybe we don’t stop to think that each poor person has a series of experiences that has molded their world view, their decision-making capabilities, their own insecurities.  Maybe we understand deep down, that the problems of poverty are too overwhelming for us to fix on our own.   Maybe as a kind of way to avoid feeling paralyzed by the size of need, we distract ourselves with judgements and rationalizations.  I have seen, more often than not, that the poor in America are held in disdain, contempt, are unseen, and ignored….and worst of all, feared. 

I have seen it first hand, I have experienced it in my own life.  I grew up with a paranoid schizophrenic father and we did not have a lot of money or normal stability.  We lived in a shabby house and we had a lot of challenges and obstacles.  My family experienced prejudice and judgement and we endured whispers and stares. I had a lot of shame as a child, and while I may not have had what most Americans would consider a wealthy existence, I can look back now and say I was very rich and I would not change a thing.  The one precious possession I had was hope.  Hope, I believe is the answer, and we all have the ability to offer it to others right where we are. 

My parents had hope, along with a deep faith in the providence of God and a quiet obedience to His will for their lives, even when His will seemed so unfair.  They gave me the richest of gifts in the way that they raised me.  They raised me with the knowledge of what was really important in this life.  My mother taught me loyalty, love, and empathy.  My father taught me faith, perseverance, and honor.  They raised me to see people for who they are, not how they look.  To treat others as you would have them treat you.  And to love others as Jesus has loved us, in our poor sickly condition, because we are all poor and sick in some way.

We can all be considered physically poor.  Our bodies are deteriorating and dying every second and all the money and material possessions cannot stop that.  The best medical care cannot change the time of your death.  It is all ordained by our Creator, who numbers our days and knits each of us in the womb; just as it says in Job 14:1-2, 5:  Mortals, born of woman, are of few days and full of trouble.  They spring up like flowers and wither away; like fleeting shadows, they do not endure.  A person’s days are determined;    You have decreed the number of his months   and have set limits he cannot exceed.  And Psalm 139:13, 16: For you created my inmost being;  You knit me together in my mother’s womb. Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in Your book   before one of them came to be.

 

Zambian village children

We can all be considered spiritually needy.  We are all in different stages of growth and maturation.  We know inherently that growth can be painful.  It occurs when you no longer fit in your situation and you must enlarge your mindset.   It arises from looking beyond the immediate circumstance and out of self, developing patience and persistence.  Maturity happens when we submit to the situation and recognize that we do not have control, just the illusion of it.  It is leaning into the pain and growing from it not avoiding and running from it.  It is recognizing that there is a higher purpose and power at work and we are all part of the plan.  There is no “me”, “we” and “they” in God’s design.

Street vendor, Lusaka, Zambia

So how does all this and lessons learned in Africa translate now that I’m home and back in my life? And what is my life now anyway? I am in a place where my career as a mother is now part-time at best.  But those years of staying home and raising my kids have helped me find my new niche.  I love to drive and I have years of experience and God graciously gave me the best job in the world, second to being a stay-at-home mom.  

I am a courier and I mostly do medical deliveries to and from area hospitals.  Once in a while I deliver prescriptions from an area hospital to individual’s homes.  Sometimes I get orders to deliver in some of the more dangerous and worst areas of St Louis.  Before going to Africa when I would find myself in these neighborhoods, I would be kind of fearful and even judgmental.  These are the same neighborhoods that appear on the news; the neighborhoods of drive-by shootings, fires, ghetto homes, and gang violence.  I would have never set foot in them if I was not required. 

Before Africa, when I would make a call to one of these homes, I admit, I would knock on the door furtively look around, half afraid I will be caught in some kind of crossfire while waiting for an answer, hand off the prescription as quickly as possible and leave.  The lessons about loving people, that my parents taught me, would take a backseat to the lessons of self preservation and prejudice that the news, the movies, the books try to teach us about those who live in the impoverished areas of America.  But as I said, I have a new outlook and I decided to have the same attitude I had in the dangerous areas in Africa and Central America.  That of kindness, love, and the hope to make a difference in every life my path crosses.  I decided to ignore the foul language, the foul smells, the foul surroundings and see the individual.

 

Wellston, internet photo

I have found, that those who open the door are people like those across the globe and they are people like me.  They have been created by a Creator for a purpose and they want to be seen, they want to be loved, they have hopes, they have dreams, they have sick bodies that need care, they are on their own personal journey through this life, just as I am.   I get to bring them the medication that makes their life bearable or is healing their body and they are happy to see me.  We exchange pleasantries and for a moment we are friends and have more in common than not.  And as I drive through these torn up neighborhoods and see the hopelessness and bleakness, I realize that the poor are in every country and our poor deserve the same respect and concern that the poor in third world countries deserve.

   

North St Louis, internet photo

As I have driven in these areas, and as I have spoken with these people, who are not that different from me,  I remember in Matthew 6:3, where Jesus says,  ^“But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.”  And I begin to think what if Jesus is not just referring “the needy” that most tend to think of..those who are poor and destitute?  What if Jesus was referring to all of us.  If we are honest, we can agree we are all poor, we are all needy, we are all foul, and we are all sick in some aspect.  We may be poor in spirit, needy in time and attention, foul in attitude, sick of heart.  We are all human and share the trials of the human condition.  

Thankfully, this life is temporary and its poverty and suffering can be as such.  For when we recognize Jesus as our Savior we have a hope for a future, knowing this life is not the end, but the beginning.  We know from John 3:16-17, that "God so loved the world that he gave His only son, that whoever believes will have eternal life. For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him".

So rather than separating our everyday life from our mission trip life, what if we just lived missional and saw everyone as people in need.  I am not diminishing the fact that there are millions of physically and financially poor people in Africa, in America, in the world; and there are major problems that are difficult to solve.  We have millions of dollars in government programs and organizations trying to fix those very needs.   But what if we started in our own hearts and took Jesus’ advice?   

What if our right hand did not know what our left had was doing and we started “doing” in our life with all those that come in and out of our life whether they be family, friends, acquaintances or strangers?  What if what 2 Timothy 1:3-7 says, "...God our Savior, who wants all people to be saved and to come to a knowledge of the truth.  For there is one God and one mediator between God and mankind, the man Christ Jesus, who gave himself as a ransom for all people." is truth?   And if Jesus gave himself as a ransom for ALL people, then shouldn't we give compassion, love, and respect to ALL people as well?

If you think about it, we are all “those people” to someone.  People make judgements based on a whole list of things.  The way we talk, dress, where we live, the kind of car we drive, how attractive or unattractive we are.  So instead of judgements, we just offered our hands and hearts to those around us, not based on whether we determined they deserved it, but because they are created by a Creator that loves them as much as He loves you and me.  

What would happen if we treated everyone:  rich, poor, black, white, man, woman, child with love and respect first?  What if we acted as we do when we go into the far reaches of the world to share our love and offer hope.  What if we shared our love here?  What if we took the extra minute to really look at people and see them for who they are, a human being with hopes and dreams and fears?  What if we tried to encourage their hopes and dreams and alleviate their fears?  

It can start with just a quick silent prayer, that God might bless them and protect them through their day. And then a simple acknowledgement.  I challenge you to smile at every stranger and say “hi” or “have a good day”.  I will venture to guess that 9 out of 10 will smile back and offer the same.  And for a second we will have bridged the gap and touched another human for the good and that is a start. 

 

Zambian compound children

When we start to really see others as people like us, then change happens. Because once you see, you cannot unsee. And once you see, you understand need. And once you understand need, you can offer hope. If we all looked around us and offered our time and gifts where we are, maybe the whole world would change for the better. Maybe each act of kindness, each offer of help, each extension of love would send hope through the world like a pebble sends ripples through a still pond. I’d like to hope so anyway.

The Miraculous Story of a Boy Named Juan Carlos

Saturday was the one year anniversary of my boy's homegoing.  It has been a whirlwind of a year, hard to believe that much time has passed.  I miss him every day and I have held it together pretty well, I think.  We all have.  Our faith in God and our confident knowledge that he is with Jesus, living his real life has to be the reason for this.  For it is illogical to think that time should move on and people should be going about their everyday lives as if all was normal, when John's earthly life is over, and our lives will never be the same.  I would be lying if I didn't admit that it's been hard the past few months.  I guess the shock is wearing off.  His shoes are still right by the back door.  The clean clothes he had set on his desk in our sun room are still sitting there.  He put them there after a workout and I guess had planned to wear them after a shower.  Who knows why they were there, since he was spending the night at his friend's house the day before his accident. 

That would have been something I would have noticed and yelled at him about.  He was always leaving his stuff laying around and I was always telling him to put things away. Of course, the first time I noticed them I cried.  The next time I noticed them I was mad and then I decided I would not move them...ever.  But sometimes, when no one else is home, I do yell..."JOHN, WHY ARE YOUR CLOTHES LAYING AROUND IN THE SUNROOM????  FOR THE 500th TIME, QUIT LEAVING YOUR STUFF LAYING ALL OVER THE HOUSE."   I wait for him to come into the room with his sheepish grin and the silly way he would fiddle with his fingers when he was "in hot water" about something and say, "oh sorry Mom".  But he never comes and I know he never will.  

I've had so many people sending prayers and kind words to me this week and I started thinking about how it all began.  It is a truly miraculous story...one completely designed by God.  The details make that perfectly clear, because as they say...God is in the details.  So in memory of my dear son....Here is the miraculous adoption story of our boy, Juan Carlos Crisostomos Ramos Brandt.  I’ve included some back story because I think it lends to proof of God’s hand in every desire we have…which I believe He instills in us, some even from childhood.

As a young girl I always thought I would have 4 children.  It was a nice sounding number.  I wanted a big family, because growing up I only had a brother and I always wanted more siblings.  My brother and I are adopted, biological siblings and both adopted at birth…that’s a story for another time!  Somewhere in my late teens and early 20's, my desire for children faded.  My husband and I both decided we didn’t want any children.  We were going to travel the world and be the fun Aunt and Uncle.  A couple years into our marriage, we bought a house in a new subdivision and met a couple with two little girls.  We became fast friends and we loved those girls as if they were our own, and we thought we could have kids if they were like Anne Marie and Casey. 

So after being married almost 5 years, we had our first daughter on June 16, 1995.  I had planned to have my children 18 mos apart, because don’t you know we always think we can plan these things?!   But God had other plans.  All was on track, we became pregnant and I thought my plan was in motion, but at 4 months I had a miscarriage.  I believe that God designed our family on Earth to include Olivia, Lily, John, and August.  Only He knows why those lives needed to be placed together in a home with Paul and I as parents.  Only He knows why He needed our baby to live only 4 months in utero before going back home to Him.  His ways are higher and His purposes are a mystery on this side of Heaven.   I rallied after a few months, got pregnant again, and we had our second daughter on September 9, 1997. 

All was well, and I was loving life until about September/October of 1998.  I had this deep longing for a child.  It was almost pathological and it was all consuming.  I really didn’t understand it because we were all just fine and happy.  Paul was not really interested in any more kids and so I would try to squelch my desire for another child.  Although I loved being pregnant, I didn’t think I ever wanted to give birth again.   I was always afraid something terrible would happen to Paul when I was pregnant, and I really didn’t want to go through nine months of worry.  We had a lot of responsibilities with caring for my brain injured brother and ailing parents and the thought of doing it on my own was scary.  Plus I had been adopted and I thought I would want to give a home to a child that needed one.

A friend adopted a child from India, and I thought that was a great alternative to my situation.  So I talked my husband into going to international adoption seminars.  It was all too expensive and unrealistic for our situation.  The cost for most international adoptions was over $30,000.   Most countries wanted you to go and stay for a few weeks and we would never have gone without each other and we had no where to leave our daughters, so it seemed that door was closed.  Yet, I still wanted more children.  Then I got pregnant and had my son on March 17, 2001.  We went ‘round and ‘round on names for him.  We settled on two:  August Alexander or John August.  We finally settled on August Alexander, but I always wanted a son named John, so it was a hard decision!   

Flash forward a few years.  We were settled into a routine with 3 kids and all seemed great on the outside, but inside I was still missing a child.  I would go on Precious.org’s website and look at all the children’s pictures and pray for them.  One day, December 29, 2003, I was online and Paul was due home any minute.  I was scrolling through pics and this face appeared.  He looked like my son August and he had a look on his face that said, “Come and get me, Mom!”  I couldn’t stop looking at his face and Paul walked in and I asked him to come look.  I showed him the picture and said this is our son, we have to go get him.  He looked at me like I was a nut and said, “It’s all on you.” At the time, I was homeschooling my kids and did not want to deal with any DFS or gov’t agencies and to adopt kids you need to get a home study.  I think he thought I would not go any further, but my need to get my son was more important than my fear of being hassled by the gov’t for homeschooling. 

So the next morning I called the adoption agency.  It was located in Florida and the social worker, Sue, answered the phone.  I told her that I had seen a boy named Carlitos on Precious.org’s website and I wanted to adopt him.  She laughed and said, “well ok, first things first.  Do you have a homestudy?”  I said no.  She said, “are you in contact with an agency to have one done?”  I said no.  She said, ”well, we really don’t do adoptions quite like this.  You can’t just pick a child and get him.  You need to have a home study done and get all your paperwork done and then we will assign a child to you.  It could take at least 6 mos before we would even begin to assign a child”.  I said, “well, I understand that, but this boy Carlitos is my son and I need to get him”.  I asked her to tell me about him.  She said that he was 5 and that he would be 6 in October.  She kept calling him Juan Carlos and she said he was left in a hospital at  18 mos old because he was so sickly. She said that he had some kind of lung disease and that he was sickly and frail and had been tossed around from different homes.   I said, “ok, I can deal  with that, can we get this process going”.

She continued calling him Juan Carlos and I said, "are we talking about the same boy?" The boy I’m referring too is listed as Carlitos.  She said, "Yes, in Guatemala boys go by their middle name and are called little, so he was Carlitos, which means little Carlos, but Juan means John in English."   Then she told me he was born on October 28, 1998.  I told her I knew he was meant to be my son and she said, “well, I can’t hold him for you, but if you get to work on the paperwork, we will see what will happen”.  We finished up exchanging information and ended the conversation and I called Lutheran Family Services. 

We completed our home study and the copious amounts of paperwork in 5 months.   Sue was incredulous and we decided to go visit him over Memorial Day weekend.  The way Guatemala adoptions were structured, if you visited the child before the paperwork was finalized, he would become an automatic US citizen and would not need to be readopted in the States.  Also, we wanted to meet him, because Guatemala allowed a child to be escorted and there would be no need to go back to the country for the finalizing of the paperwork.  We thought about having him escorted, so we thought it best to meet him so he wouldn’t be terrified when they brought him to us in the airport. 

We decided to take our 3 children with us, because we wanted this done as a family and we didn’t want to leave orphans if something happened to us on the way to adopt a child.  The Friday we were to leave, my oldest was still sick with a fever and sore throat.  She had been dealing with it for a couple days and I had taken her to the doctor hoping it was strep so she could get some antibiotics.  It was not strep, but a virus.  I went back and forth about leaving her home with our parents, but in the end I just couldn’t.  So the poor kid was drugged up on Motrin and went along.  She was a trooper and fortunately no one else caught the bug.  It was so important to me that we go as a family.

We spent a wonderful weekend with our boy at a Guatemalan family’s home.  There was a very warm and generous family that had a bed and breakfast set up for adoptive families.   We stayed at the home and they fed us and we basically lived with John for the weekend.  He was so cute.  He was a total clown and he was a ball of energy.  We didn’t speak Spanish and he didn’t speak English or much Spanish, for that matter. I had few people ask how we thought we could communicate with this child, so in the days before we left for Guatemala,  I wrote out a bunch of phrases that you would say, in the course of a day, as you were dealing with your child, and I translated them and kept them in a notebook.  Armed with my Spanish dictionary and notebook, I went to Guatemala prepared to explain to this boy that we were going to be his new family. 

The weekend went amazingly well and I didn’t want to let him go.  He became fast friends with the kids and they all loved him.  It was like he had always been ours.  I kept hoping and praying that they would let us take him home, but it was not to be.  We had to leave him and I cried most of the way back to the US.  We had to wait until August to get him back and so I had 3 months of the worst labor pains imaginable.  I was so worried about him and missed him and time could not move fast enough. The process was finally completed and we decided we would go back and get him, rather than having him escorted.  The whole family flew to Guatemala to pick him up and the paperwork was signed on August 29, 2004.  He was now officially Juan Carlos Brandt.

Now here are the miracles associated with this boy:

- He was born October 28, 1998.  That was the time when I was feeling so desperate and like I was missing a child.

- His name was Juan Carlos, which is John Charles in English.  If you recall, we were very close to naming our son August, John.

- I always knew I would have a son named John and I did have those 4 children that God had planted a desire for so many years ago.

- The cost of his adoption was $35,000. We had sold our house 2 years before and made a very large profit, so the cash was sitting in the bank.

-Not only did we pick him and turn the normal adoption process on its head, but from the time I saw his picture to the time we brought him home was exactly 8 months to the day.  The average international adoption time frame is 2-3 years!

-We did not speak a lick of Spanish and he didn’t speak English or much Spanish, yet we communicated just fine and within 6 mos he was speaking English.  One day, I explained that in English his name translated to John.  I asked him if he wanted us to continue to call him Juan Carlos, or if he wanted to be called John.  He said, “I want to be John, Mom”.

- Sue, the social worker made many claims throughout the process, that John was frail and sickly and had some type of lung disorder.  Not only was that untrue…he was very healthy all through his life and didn’t even need braces on his teeth.  But the testament to his healthy and robust body came a few days after his accident.  It was clear to the medical staff and to me that he was brain dead.  Because he was so young and no one wants to give up on a young life, they assumed his heart would give out and then he would be both brain dead with no heartbeat.  His heart raced for three days at over 170 beats a minute and yet it never quit.  He was a swimmer all of his life and a triathlete.  He was a strong, athletic, fit young man and never a sickly or frail boy.

I use to tell John that he was the luckiest boy in the world.  I told him that most children have God and a mom and dad that love them.  But he had three sets of loving parents.  He was loved by his mother who made a courageous decision to put him up for adoption, because she knew she could not give him the care he needed.  He was loved by God the Father, who protected him and put the desire in a family's heart to bring him home and teach him about Jesus.  And he was loved by that far off family that lived on another continent and went searching for him to bring him home.  

I wish we could have had more time together, but I'm so grateful that God picked us to love him during his time on this Earth.  See you again, my boy, until then your clothes will be right where you left them.

 

The Momma Duck

It was a brilliant day.  The sun was shining, the air clear and cool with the perfume of budding flowers and new grass that can only be smelled in the spring.  Spring, the hopeful time of year, when life emerges and possibilities are endless.  Where color bursts with the intensity of newness; unbleached by time and weather.  The day proving to be one of uneasy fulfillment, it was an almost biological need for me to go out and be there in nature, soaking it in, an attempt to renew my hope.   

I have been in a difficult place and the pain in my chest unbearable and the pressure intense at times, as if I'm hemorrhaging from the ache.  It sounds new agey, but I feel other people's pain in my soul.  I sometimes know whose it is, sometimes not, but I feel it.  And my own hurt is always there, fringed around my heart, like the errant prick of an invisible splinter. 

We arrived at Forest Park and school buses lined the lanes, cars and people crawling everywhere.  We found a distant parking spot and parked. The kids all clamored out of the van and we decided to eat lunch before heading into the zoo.  My friend made lunch and we sat like our own little school group, eating and sharing stories and watching the kids perform tricks and athletic feats.   Their bodies full of energy, crackling and unable to sit still.  Spring was in the air and in their bodies.

With lunch completed we marched into the zoo and the place was a hive of activity.  There were children on field trips and young mothers and families, all there with their charges scurrying from habitat to habitat.  Excitement permeated the air as voices chattered and chirped and the animals perfomed their own coping rituals, or slept, or tried to live their lives as they have, in captivity, with some sense of satisfaction.  I felt removed from my body, surveying it all, taking it in, wondering what does this life mean?  Is this what God really has for man to do?  Is this the meaning of life?  Distracting ourselves by observing animals that are held in benevolent little prisons for our enjoyment? 

I was numb, yet in pain, and talking to God, questioning His providence, and His plan.  Now and again, one of the children I was with would come and hold my hand, or pull me to look at an animal, or tell me they would like to live with me.  Little dollops of love, like a balm to soothe the gaping hole in my heart.  All day, I tried to find promise, or a sense of relief or feel God’s loving presence, but it was hard and He was hiding from me.  So I tried to approach Him in gratitude and offer praise or thanks for small things. 

The time came to leave and after piling in the van we drove down a winding lane.  It was wooded and trees arched over on both sides of the road.  They were filled with tender leaf buds creating a verdant tunnel of renewal.  Now and again the new magenta flowers from the red bud trees floated in and amongst the other trees adding beautiful splashes of color.  I was thanking God for my sight and the ability to see it and then everyone erupted with exclamation as the van rolled to a halt. 

Crossing the street ahead of us, was a momma duck and her six little ducklings.  Head held high, she was prancing across the street, squawking and craning her neck around to keep account of her little babies.  They were bouncing along, jostling and peeping, all on their own little field trip.  We were all cooing and ahhhing and ohhing over them.  They were so cute, so innocent, so alive.  They were a metaphor of spring and new life and love and motherhood.  It was like a beautiful little present of love that God handed me and I was thanking Him and getting my camera ready to take a picture.

They had just crossed the road and hopped up on the sidewalk heading into the woods, when as if in a movie and in slow motion, the mother duck spread her wings and took to flight, heading deep into the trees.  Meanwhile confused, the babies began to run in circles and cry as a red tailed hawk swooped down and grabbed one.  He perched in a tree right above them looking to grab more.  I jumped out of the van and ran at him and tried to make him drop it, but he looked at me and flew away, the baby dangling from his massive talon.  The other ducklings were totally at a loss, panicking and running into each other, running in circles, falling off the curb into a drainage pit, crying and trying to understand what happened.  The mother was nowhere to be found.  Obviously, she flew off in an attempt to divert the hawk’s attention from her babies.

I could barely get back in the van.  I thought I was going to die.  I could hear the momma duck's thoughts in my own head; those that would swirl in her head when she finally got back to her babies and realized one was gone.  She would be saying, wait, where’s, John?  I did everything I was supposed to.  I kept them with me and taught them how survey their surroundings, and how to make their way across the street, and how to find food, and how to be a family and how to live in the world.  But there was nothing she could have done about the hawk.  Nothing.  What could she have done?  She had no ability to fight it with its massive talons and swift flight.  She had no way to shelter all six from the hunter.  She did the best she could by trying to direct his attention on her, once she knew he was there.  She had no way to know he had been stalking her for some time.  But it was too late.  It was God’s will, God’s timing, God’s plan. 

I crawled into the van needing to scream, but unable to cry or release the excruciating flood of emotions, because there were six human children present and chattering away about how nature works.   I sat there stricken, understanding and feeling the momma duck’s torment because I am the momma duck.

I do not believe in accidents or coincidence.  So why would God set my day in motion, all the little steps and stops and detours that had to occur, some even  days in advance, leading me to be in that place and time to see the most horrible thing I could see?  What does God want me to know?  In the moment of praise I was offering Him, why did God give me that? 

And so it goes with grief and God.  Grief is like a hawk, its talons razor sharp and ready to shred. Stalking me and seizing me when I least expect it.  Clawing me and carrying me off.   For the hawk is not evil, it is doing as it is created.  And grief is not evil, it is doing as it was created. 
At some point, the duckling’s synapses no longer fire and the scorching agony no longer registers.  And the momma duck soon forgets, for it is her instinct to move on.  The animals have a protection of amnesia that God gracefully gives them, because it is the circle of life.  

Yet, it seems I have no reprieve from the pain as the poor duckling does.  God allows the memories of my John to roll on endless loop, always teaching and purifying and rebuking.  Only He knows why His natural world is so wild, untamed, and unforgiving.  Only He knows how long grief will stalk and attack.  Only He knows why He uses pain to purify.  And only I know that that will have to be enough of an answer for me.

I write this, not as a bid for sympathy or attention.  I write this because I know that God allowed that whole episode to unfold before me for a reason.  Just as He has placed many people who are suffering in my life right now.  I can not give grace and mercy if I first do not experience it myself.  I can not offer comfort and hope, if I first do not experience it myslef.  His ways are not my ways and I do not see His whole purpose and plan.  

We are all part of a tapestry and He is the weaver.  He creates us each with unique sensibilities to interact and thread through our lives and those we meet along the way.  And while nature seems cruel and life is pain filled, there is the promise of something better.  And spring is the glimpse of that promise.  Spring comes after winter, a renewal and new life after death.  

So God this I know, I don't always like your ways and I don't want to be purified anymore, I do believe you are good and I will experience that final Spring one day.

Poem: The Desert Heart

Dry and dusty, parched and pale

The heart shrinks from a life, selfish and stale.

For the quickest way to a long slow death

Is living without hope and love's sweet breath

No horizons expanded if Self be not bound

Just despair and drudgery is all to be found.

No clear purpose seen, from the Creator in Chief

Just monotonous minutes taken by the Thief.

How long does one wander in the desert of days?

Where loneliness paints its forlorn glaze.

When the colorless bland fills the eyes

There the monochrome mind withers and dies.

I try looking for things to quench the thirst

I long for my heart to beat and burst!

Like in memories from days long ago past

Where warmth from love’s promise was wildly cast.

I try living in prayer and giving praise

In hopes that color will drown the grays.

To look out of myself and care for another

Maybe it’s the giving of love that will my despair smother.

For with each selfless thought I think

Drips living water for my soul to drink.

Saturating this listless life of desolation

Saving my heart from utter starvation.

For we are not meant to live without dreams

Nor be brittle and dull, but be radiant beams!

The desert heart is no place to dwell

Give endless love and ride the swell!

                                                        ~drbrandt 2/18