Grumpy

 

I grew up on the edge of my grandparent’s ranch.  When we were little, we spent time playing in the fields while mom hayed.  We played in the junk pile, while the adults branded, then as we got older, we helped sort and manage the calves.  We helped grandma and mom care for the new lambs each morning.  We got lambs ready for market, drove the truck while grandpa fed, watched as twin calves were born, moved pipe, and watched C-sections on cows.  We helped in the milk barn, the cow barn, the sheep shed, and the hay fields.  We played in mountains of grain and got wounded by aggers.  We climbed in the trees in grandma and grandpa’s yard, and sailed boats in the huge puddle that was always between the yard and the milk barn.  I learned to love hard work and the life of caring for animals and the land.  I learned to love the seasons and the order that God built into his world. 

                We ate at least one meal a day with Grandma and Grandpa, sometimes more.  We went on vacation with them to Alaska, Mexico, and on countless camping trips in the mountains around our home.  We spent time cutting wood, hiking to lakes, snowmobiling, and fishing with them.  I learned the names of wildflowers, and the lore of rocks.  I learned to love and enjoy the natural beauty of our world.

                They came to every race that I ever ran.  They came to visit me in college and took me clothes shopping.  They came back when I graduated and went to Disney World and Cape Canaveral with us to celebrate.  They were at my wedding.  I visited them in Arizona with my first son.  Grandpa took my eighteen-month-old son for walks and when they came back, he told me what I needed to do to cure the crying.  When they were eighty, they came to visit us in Colorado.  Grandpa helped dad fix my fence so that the deer wouldn’t be able to eat my garden.  I learned to be present, and to love and serve others.

                My grandpa died a week ago.  I don’t get to be at the funeral today.  In thinking about death and the death of my grandpa who my brother and I called Grumpy, I turned to Romans 8.  I think that I first thought of this passage today, because I want to be at Grumpy’s funeral.  I am having to remind myself that all things work together for good to those who love God.  God is good in his not letting me be at the funeral today, but as I was reading this chapter, I was also considering verses 18-25.  My Grumpy, was a follower of Christ, a believer.  He lived his life caring for the creation.  He was a true son of Adam and he spent his life caring for the garden that God put him into.  He knew first-hand the groaning of this creation.  He saw it in calves not born right, in lambs rejected by their mothers, in drought, in blight.  And yet, now, today, he has experienced first-hand the setting free of creation from the “bondage to corruption” and he has obtained “the freedom of the glory of the children of God.”  Today, my Grumpy is glorified.  He is perfected and is present with the good God who works all things for good.  I get to imperfectly join with my Grumpy as he perfectly praises our God.  To God be the glory; great things he has done!

Christmas: Joy and Sorrow

     "Joy to the World, the LORD is come!"  Christmas reminds us of many things that bring joy.  When we think about the birth of God on earth, the coming of Immanuel, we can't help but rejoice that God keeps his promises and that he will eventually redeem all of his creation and set it all free from sin and death.  Christmas is joy!  

    Maybe because, I am a visual learner, I can't help but close my eyes and imagine the place of Christ's birth.  Maybe because, I grew up helping care for newborn lambs, my picture of that event smells and sounds and feels an awfully lot like the sheep barn that I remember as a young child.  It is cold but warmed by the animals; it smells of dung and sheep but also of hay and earth; it sounds removed from the bustle of the street, and full of the noises of animals shifting, chewing, breathing.  What better stage on which the Lamb of God should make his entrance into the world for which he came to die?  He is right where he belongs with shepherds, whose job it is to watch the sheep, to gaze first upon his holy face.  

    In my mind's eye, after imagining the place of his birth, I can't help, but try to imagine a bit of what Mary must have been thinking.  As a mother, I think that Mary must have been marveling that this was the Seed of God.  Surely, she must have held other infants.  Maybe she looked him over to see if he was different in any way from other infants that she had seen.  She must have like other mothers, counted fingers and toes.  She must have gazed into his tiny face and thought, "So this is the face of God."  

    It is then that my own emotion takes over and tears blur my vision.  I have held my own children moments after their births and marveled at their perfection and their imperfections that make them unique.  I have counted fingers and toes.  I have held five of my children after birth and looked into their tiny faces and loved them as Mary must have loved Jesus, God born in the flesh.  And that is what causes my tears.  One of my own children held after birth was born too early.  He was born because he had passed away in my womb and needed to be born so that he could be buried. When I picture God the Son as a tiny child in the arms of his loving mother, and I meditate on the flesh that God the Son took on to be born, I remember that flesh is weak, that flesh dies, that we cannot overcome our flesh, but that God has conquered it for us by taking it on and dying too.  

    There is comfort in knowing that Jesus, Immanuel, God's Anointed One, didn't stay buried.  He rose, conquering sin and death, and flesh.  And there is comfort in hoping that one day, I will get to know the children that God chose to give for only a short time.  Christmas is joy and sorrow mingled with hope that is founded on the faithful promises of a God who is powerful enough to keep each and every one.