Redemption

 As 2013 dwindles, my mind and heart are still wrestling with the host of unexpected things this year brought us. Still trying to recover bits of meaning and purpose, and things I would do well to remember and learn from, that may have slipped by me in the dark. It is not a year I would ever choose to repeat.

Yet on this, its 365th day, the word that lingers in my ever-busy mind is redemption. 

In a sense, it has been a year of losing and redeeming Sanctuary. The Big House looks better than it did pre-flood, with its new, beautiful Acacia wood floors and soothing neutral-colored paint where there had been 18 kinds of wallpaper. I stand in the entryway and remember that this is how I wanted it to look, what I had planned to work towards, should we actually be able to buy it.

Somehow I expected to feel more delight when things would finally be complete. I thought the joy I felt when we began living our dream up here in the woods would magically reappear. And certainly, I am very grateful. But the redemption of Sanctuary has come at such a steep price. I will probably name it the Lost Year, because it was so unusual and utterly unexpected and held so many disruptions and troubles in addition to a housing disaster. It is as if a protective wrapping has been removed and we now live exposed to whatever trouble decides to land on our roof. 

But life, of course, comes without a warranty. Something akin to Pandora’s Box was opened when those old pipes froze and split in five places up in the ceiling of the second floor. I won’t bore you (again) with the lengthy list of troubles we have combatted during the past twelve months. Undoubtedly you have your own list. Jesus said we would have trouble, and we can surely all say ‘amen.’ But this year wears heavy on me, like a big winter coat with so many buttons that it is hard to take it off with my stiff, cold hands.

But Jesus had more to say: Be of good cheer, I have overcome the world. And just like the last little thing to fly free from Pandora’s mythical box, He offers hope.

Jesus didn’t come to redeem lost things. He came to redeem lost people. He came to redeem me. And thankfully, it doesn’t depend on the state of my spinning mind and whether I have processed or understood all the things 2013 has pelted us with. He has bought me back at an unimaginable cost, a price no one else would even consider paying for one such as me. I have been the blessed recipient of His redeeming love.

This redemption makes me see all the other things for what they really are – temporary. Houses and good health and financial security…you name it, they are all temporary. I wrestle through this in good company as I read the book of Job. In the middle of his extraordinarily troubled life he states unequivocally that  “I know that my Redeemer lives, and that in the end He will stand on the earth. And after my skin has been destroyed, yet in my flesh I will see God, I myself will see Him with my own eyes – I, and not another. How my heart yearns within me!”[1]

So at the close of a year that I will not soon forget, a live coal still flames in this trouble-fatigued heart of mine, sparking hope for the future. My Redeemer lives.

This is my New Year’s wish for you –

the one who has endured a year of chronic physical pain;

who has buried a precious little one;

who has carried memories of a painful family history;

who has said goodbye to a faithful equine companion of many years;

who has struggled with depression and wonders if your life has any value;

who is forging a path through life without the support of those you love;

who has laid a beloved parent to rest;
who wonders if life really does hold any meaning and purpose;

who questions God's plan for your life regarding a spouse, children, or career;

who ponders what the future will bring;

-   

- that you will experience the sustaining comfort of knowing that our Redeemer lives, and will live this coming year in the hope of His unfailing love.[2]

Who taught the sun
Where to stand in the morning
Who taught the ocean
You can only come this far
And who showed the moon
Where to hide till evening
Whose words alone can
Catch a falling star

Well I know
My Redeemer lives
I know my Redeemer lives
All of creation testifies
 This life within me cries
I know my Redeemer lives
Yeah

The very same God
Who spins things in orbit
Runs to the weary
The worn and the weak
And the same gentle hands
That hold me when I'm broken
They conquer death to bring the victory

Well I know
My Redeemer lives
I know my Redeemer lives
All of creation testifies
This life within me cries
I know my Redeemer
He lives
To take away my shame
 He lives
Forever I'll proclaim
That the payment for my sin
Was the precious life He gave
But now He's alive and
There's an empty grave
And I know my Redeemer lives
I know my Redeemer lives
Let all creation testify
Let this life within me cry

I know my Redeemer
I know my Redeemer lives
I know my Redeemer lives
I know my Redeemer lives
He Lives.

Nicole C. Mullen

---

[1] Job 19:25-27

[2] Psalm 33:18

Return To Sanctuary

“I think we should leave today,” says National Asset.

We had been debating when to make the drive back to Sanctuary for our Christmas stay. The norm means getting up in the dead of night to be on the road by 2:30 or 3:00 am. This way we avoid the intense morning traffic through Orange and LA counties. 

But it is now early afternoon.

“Okay,” I agree, after discussing of the merits of this plan. I make the house ready for departure, and gather things to load in the Prius. I find National Asset staring at the computer screen.

“What?” I ask.

“The road is closed up by the Grapevine,” he says sorrowfully. “They are diverting traffic to 101. It will add two hours to the drive.”

More discussion follows. We decide to go anyway. By the time we get through L.A. we are delighted to find that  the road has opened. We reach the summit, and just before descending the Grapevine in the early dusk of a winter day, the mountains are iridescent with a layer of fresh white snow. But the road is clear and dry. We keep moving on.

The long drive is uneventful. The cats mostly sleep by my feet, tucked under a small quilt so they aren’t frightened by all the things flashing by outside the windows. On about our eighteenth such trip, they began poking their heads up to watch out the windshield, paws on the dash, as we turned onto Madrone Forest Drive. I thought: it must be the scent of evergreen trees that signals we are almost there.

Several trips later they began to surface earlier, as we would turn off Highway 49 onto Brunswick Road, about ten minutes from Sanctuary.  I thought: it must be the reduction of our speed. Smart creatures!

But last night the cat version of are we there yet? began way down by Stockton, still a few hour's drive from Sanctuary. I’ve tried, but I just cannot think of a reason for this one. Must be the shear fatigue from being cooped up in the little car. I can certainly relate.

By now it is very dark, and the roads are becoming less and less trafficked as we drive. We watch the outside temperature drop degree by degree. We begin to see patches of snow alongside the roads. I hold the two car-weary cats tightly on my lap.

“It’s 22 degrees,” I announce as we head north on Highway 49, through Auburn's fourteen stoplights. Since there is almost no cross traffic, we hit most of them on green.

“It’s 20 degrees,” I chirp, noticing that now the roadsides and woods are mostly covered with white.

We exit the highway. I read the road sign on Brunswick Road. Out loud.

“Chains advised when snow on road,” I quote. “Should we put the chains on?”

“No,” says The Asset.

We turn left onto Idaho-Maryland Road, where the perennial Icy sign is finally in season once again.

“Should we put the chains on now?” I ask as we navigate the curvy, upwardly inclined road.

“No,” says The Asset. Again.

We finally turn onto Madrone Forest Drive. Thankfully, it has already been plowed by one of the residents who takes care of this with his tractor. But there is still some packed snow and ice on the roadway, shiny in places with the ominous black spots I have learned not to walk on.

“It’s 19 degrees,” I say with increasing panic in my voice. “Chains now?”

“Not yet.”

By now Domino and Simon are straining towards the dash to look out the windshield. They know the end of the drive is near and are very impatient. We make it about half way up the mile long road, to the place where it makes a big ‘U’ and climbs most steeply. The car slows down. The wheels are slipping. We start sliding backwards down the road, then manage to come to a stop. I feel like we are perched precariously in the extremely dark mountainous woods and fear we may still be there in the morning when our neighbors wake up and try to get down the road to church.

The Asset slowly backs farther down the hill, guns it a bit and tries to make another run. No good.

“Chains?”

“Yep. Chains.”

He backs, well, slides down to a mostly level spot, gets out and rummages in the back of the Prius for the brand new chains we had picked up at the dealer just this morning. Just in case. He finds them on the bottom of the pile and climbs back in the driver's seat. We huddle in the now freezing car. I pull out the actual chains and try to figure out how they work. He reads the small print instructions by the light of his iPhone. Incredibly, having never put chains on anything before, I see how they work and get out and begin snaking one under the front tire. He does the same to the other, and we get back in the car to make another run up the hill.

This time it works. I am incredibly thankful no one will find us there blocking the road when the sun comes up. We make it to Sanctuary at the end of the road. It is a challenge to open the gate against the thick blanket of snow, but I do. Extreme cold is a powerful motivator. The Asset decides to chance the sloping, snow-covered driveway to get closer to the house, and I agree. We can worry about getting it back up another day. I don’t particularly want to carry cats all the way down it in my non-snow-shoes. We successfully park in front of the house. I unlock the doors and we begin unloading stuff.

“It feels warm in here!” I announce in amazement.

“It’s 45 degrees,” The Asset says. I marvel how 45 degrees can feel so warm.

The first thing I do is build a fire in the wood stove. The next is turn on the brand new heat pump system we had installed during reconstruction. But it isn’t working. We are too tired and too cold to mess with it, so I pile extra quilts on our bed and we climb in it. All four of us. Even the cats with their thick winter coats are cold tonight.

I can’t get warm. Our bedside clock/thermometer shows the temperature outside is still dropping. It is now 15 degrees out there, and still 45 in here. I pull quilts up over my head, but I need to leave an air hole to breath through. My nose feels like a small iceberg.

“I can’t get warm,” I say, my voice sounding fractious even to me. It is about 1:30 am, and I am just done in for the day. I get up and put on a second pair of Solmates to help my frigid toes. I pull the knitted sweater I had worn all day long in the car over my flannel pajamas. Even with the soft wool of its hood wrapped around my head and neck, I am still cold. I think about the romance of Yuri and Lara in the snow-bound country house in Doctor Zhivago. It doesn't help.

Eventually the combined body heat of two people and two cats under pounds and pounds of quilts wins out and I achieve the necessary body temperature to be able to sleep.

The next morning The Asset discovers icicles in the outdoor unit of the heat pump. He yells for me to bring him a flat blade screw driver, and I am horrified at the thought of him desperately sticking it in the frozen workings of our newest appliance. He dispatches the ice in about three seconds and I hear the heater turn on. It seems miraculous that the unit can extract heat out of 15 degree air, but somehow it does. And I must confess that I am sorry about all the things I wanted to say to the nice young man who sold us the unit while laying awake during the dark, cold night.

We are now up to 66 degrees, indoors at least. The bare oaks stretch their arms up, up into the cloudless blue. The evergreens bow under the weight of fresh, clean snow. Deer tracks crisscross the thick blanket of white that spreads over everything, erasing property boundaries.  No birds twitter, no squirrels leap from branch to branch. Everything is utterly still, waiting.

Thanksgiving

The morning light has not yet touched the tips of the tall trees that surround us. I hear Ron lighting the fire in the woodstove to warm the house. We have moved back into the Big House, at least mostly. There is still furniture to replace and pictures to hang. But we are in, and will prepare a Thanksgiving meal to share with his parents later today.

Upon awakening this morning, I ponder this day of giving thanks. It has been a difficult year, a quicksand kind of year. I barely find my footing from one bad thing when another opens up before me. I don’t know where I would be if I did not recognize with absolute certainty that God is my rock, and God Most High is my Redeemer.[1]

As more and more stores are opening today to fan the flames of America’s seemingly insatiable appetite for owning more and more things, I remember the people who celebrated that very first Day of Thanksgiving. What would the few who had survived scurvy and malnutrition, due to the kindness of the local Native Americans and the mercy of God, think about our preoccupation with acquiring the latest gadget or getting the best deal in giant stores filled to overflowing with goods they would not even be able to identify let alone use?

This year we experienced a devastating flood and the long, slow process of rebuilding Sanctuary; having to replace 50-year-old sewer pipes that had mostly disintegrated under our San Diego home; four months of illness followed by major surgery and another month of recover; the major disruption of life caused by traveling between San Diego and Sanctuary regularly, living life in two very different places, often with Ron in one place and me in another; trying to move my piano students forward in their music with sporadic lessons; having to give up our midweek church community group; the personal financial consequences of Sequester and unpaid furlough days for Ron, in a year of unexpected additional expenses.

Then there are the smaller sand pits. I’ve come to expect about one new leak from some old appliance or faucet per week. And even when they are relatively minor, I will never look at plumbing the same way again, having seen the incredibly destructive power of water and its companion, mold. A relatively new dental crown that seemed solid decided to break. This in itself isn’t such a big deal, but since our dentist and doctors are all in San Diego, and the wait to see someone new near Sanctuary is at least two months, medical/dental needs require the 568 mile trip each way, back and forth. We’ve driven interstate 5 more times than I can count, during wind, rain, fog, sun, and dark of night. We’ve measured the exact halfway point where we can get gas so we only have to make one quick stop on each trip.

And so, as this incredibly unusual year draws to a close, I ponder giving thanks. My list is decidedly different than in previous years. I see God’s goodness through the lens of trouble and sorrow and uncertainty. I find that He is indeed faithful. He is not trite or capricious in these consistently challenging circumstances. The trouble He brings into my life fits unerringly with His perfect plan and purpose. Even, perhaps especially, when I have trouble seeing how.

So on this Thanksgiving morn, I am grateful for the God who is My Rock. I am thankful for a year of being reminded that He is good when life is not, that He remains faithful when everything else seems to be falling apart around me. His love, His mercy, His redemption are sure and certain. They are the things I can count on to always be true. I am learning to bow to His will more quickly when events occur that I would rather not experience. I am finding Him to be worthy of my trust.

Many months ago, when I was just entering the Year Of The Quicksand, I turned to my piano and wrote a new tune for a favorite old hymn. I played and sang these words over and over and over, usually with tears falling freely.

My hope is built on nothing less
Than Jesus’ blood and righteousness;
I dare not trust the sweetest frame,
But wholly lean on Jesus’ name.

Refrain:
On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand;
All other ground is sinking sand,
All other ground is sinking sand.

When darkness veils His lovely face,
I rest on His unchanging grace;
In every high and stormy gale,
My anchor holds within the veil.

His oath, His covenant, His blood
Support me in the whelming flood;
When all around my soul gives way,
He then is all my hope and stay.

When He shall come with trumpet sound,
Oh, may I then in Him be found;
Dressed in His righteousness alone,
Faultless to stand before the throne.[2]

Today, with a heart that is both somber and at peace, I give thanks to God simply and sincerely because He is my Rock and God Most High, my Redeemer.

---

[1] Psalm 78:35

[2] By Edward Mote, c. 1834

Thrifting With The Girls

Friday is 50%-off-day at the local thrift stores. I’d heard about this from my neighbor Bobsie. She and her octogenarian gal pals have made this humble occurrence into a major monthly outing. She has told me stories. Like the time one of them donated a couch only to have another buy it back later.

I love these women. Collectively they have supported each other through cancer, Parkinson’s disease, and hip replacements; through the loss of one spouse, and the various life-threatening diseases of the others. They prize being able to live independently, and do everything within their power to face the challenges of each day with courage, optimism, and humor. Lots and lots of humor.

When I analyze the remarkable friendships of these women, I say that Bobsie is the honey that attracts the others. And now she has me, too. We are a cluster of bees that laugh at her jokes and put up with sitting in the second-to-the-front row in a huge church auditorium for the 8:00 service on Sunday mornings. Ron, who also tags along when he’s available, calls this the cheering section. Bobsie claps enthusiastically with the worship music whether anyone else does or not. I get the giggles when Jeannie whispers stop now! with absolutely no effect. I’ve come to expect spontaneous hugs whenever Bobsie is particularly moved by a song or testimony.

One Sunday we had this whole whispered conversation, in the second-to-the-front row, about how, when I would get my harp replaced, she would see to it that I get invited as a guest harpist. I gaze up at the huge stage with its carefully designed set and large group of musicians who probably do this for a living. I whisper back that I’m not a member, and anyway, she’s never even heard me play. To which she replies that neither of those things matter in the least. She’s sure I must be good.

On Friday I accepted Bobsie’s invitation to join them on their 50%-off-tour. I didn’t know quite what to expect. She did not offer many details along with the invitation. But I can’t remember the last time I’ve laughed so much, or gone to so many thrift stores, in one day. We ended up supporting single moms, victims of domestic violence, cancer survivors, rescued animals, and the local hospice all in one whirlwind shopping trip.

The Girls have a system. We were each given a designated portion of the well behind the way-back-seat in Bobsie’s van. This was where we were to deposit our purchases. And if we happened to have a lapse of collective memory and couldn’t actually remember just who bought what, we could rely on this designated-spot method at day's end.

On the way to pick up Sharon at her daughter’s place, the others were discussing Sharon and Dean's new house in Roseville, about an hour’s drive away.

“Why did they move to Roseville?” I ask.

There is a chorus of I don’t know, do you know? No, do you know?

“Why don’t you ask her, Kathy? We all want to know.”

I make small talk with Sharon for the first leg of our outing, so it won’t be quite so obvious that I’ve been commissioned to extract information from her. But en route to the second shop I pop the question.

“So Sharon, why did you and Dean move to Roseville?”

Now Sharon has a gift for carrying on any conversation on any given subject for an indefinite period of time all by herself. She was pleased as punch to give an extraordinarily thorough explanation for their move, one to satisfy any curiosity remaining in the rest of the group. I was quite pleased to have accomplished my task so easily.

I found the rocking chair at about our third stop. There it was, right by the front door waiting for me. I  sat in it and rocked back and forth, ran my hand over the wood to find possible cracks or flaws. The Girls took turns oohing and aahing and sitting and rocking to make sure it would also fit Ron. We took a vote and agreed that it should be the very rocker to replace the one lost in the flood.

I continue browsing as the others shop. I wait when I see Jeannie approaching me with her slow gait.

“Are you going to buy it?” she asks in her quiet voice.

“Yup,” I reply.

“Don’t wait too long,” she cautions me. “It won’t be there tomorrow.”

I heed her advice.

Now Bobsie’s van is spacious, but there is no way this rocker is going to fit in my designated spot in the well. One of the lovely women working in the store marks it ‘sold’ and says I can pick it up within three days.

Suddenly I look around and I panic.

“Where are we anyway?” I ask Bobsie, having completely lost my bearings. I should have been leaving a trail of bread crumbs or something. She gives me a few points of reference so I will indeed be able to come pick it up tomorrow.

While the others are still browsing, Bobsie and I sit in her car chatting. The back hatch is open to receive purchases, and we have our doors open to let in the cool breeze. I happen to glance out the window where a gray haired, gray bearded man is mouthing words and making odd motions with his arms. I turn to look behind us, to see who he is talking to. But no one is there. When I turn back to look at him again he mouths more words. I raise my eyebrows and point to myself. He nods, and I finally realize he is asking if we need some help. I politely call out the door to say we are okay.

“What does he want?” Bobsie asks.

“I think he is hitting on us,” I tell her, which sends her into raucous laughter.

“So, what do you think of him?” she asks conspiratorially, like we are still in junior high or something.

“I’m a married woman,” I say piously. “And so are you.”  She giggles. As if either of us could forget. Our combined years of married life are just shy of a century.

Later, in another store, I see The Man again.

“I think he’s following us,” I whisper to Bobsie as we squeeze between tightly packed racks of women’s clothing.

“You are paranoid,” she announces, much too loudly for my comfort. “You really need to work on your observation skills. You’d never make it as a witness. The other guy didn’t have nearly such a big belly and was much better looking.”

But who’s watching.

The day includes a drive to the Happy Apple Farm so we can have lunch at the Happy Apple Kitchen. They grow apples there. Very happy apples. We talk and talk, and eat like hard working farm hands. We order dessert, and Bobsie trades bites of her desert for bites of ours. And we all agree to this, for goodness sake. It’s the bees-and-honey principle at work.

The 50%-off-day tour takes all day. After the fifth or sixth shop we forget to close the back hatch door and drive off down the road. The women are all chatting, but I hear a funny sound.

“The hatch is open,” I yell to Bobsie. We pull over so she can press the magic button to close it. (She insists that we don’t shut it manually. Evidently, it must be closed from the key fob to be done correctly.) There is much giggling among The Girls. No treasures are lost. No harm no foul. I am really glad we aren't on the freeway.

I’m the youngest one in this group, and I am exhausted. They finally decide to call it a day, and the others are safely dropped off at their homes with their treasures. Bobsie drops me off at Sanctuary and heads home up her driveway.

These women are the real treasures. I want to be just like them when I grow up.