Home from Kona on Wednesday, March 4 (off a red-eye), we had a full day counseling on the 5th and then hopped a flight to Boston early on the 6th to speak for the Seven Mile Road Church marriage conference in Melrose, MA.
We were both honored and thrilled to be speaking for the first time for this church, which is home to a number of people we’ve known for many years. Katie O’Hara Ryou (and her husband Marvin) were the instigators of this event and we were so delighted to partner with them. We’ve known Katie since youth group days with our daughters at Grace Chapel, and just in recent years have reconnected with her. She and Marvin attended a conference we spoke for last year in Melrose and that planted the seed for their church hosting us.
We were home the WHOLE month of December and it was good.
We continued walking five miles a day, praying for snow, and preparing for our family Christmas reunion: the first one in New England since 2015 and the first all being together for Christmas since 2019.
We had very high expectations.
Ministry events in December included Engagement Matters, the Patriots women’s study, and LOTS of counseling, but that left plenty of time for decorating the house inside and out, getting together with friends, wrapping and sending packages, sewing Christmas jammies, making gingerbread houses, and preparing for our long-awaited reunion which was to commence the 22nd of December.
Since my last post on Dec. 27, we’ve only been home eight days.
Maybe that contributes to me forgetting that when I last wrote, my reflections ended with Engagement Matters (EM), which was held Dec. 4–5, and not after Christmas, which the blog post date would indicate.
Whatever the reasons, before I write about our most recent last three weeks—which literally took us to the four corners of our great nation—we must finish December. Strangely, that seems SO long ago already. But what fun to sift back through my December photo library and have many sweet memories surface.
It happened.
The “decades birthday-family reunion” celebration, postponed for a full year, is now in the books, but even more deeply, in our hearts.
It was uncertain until an hour before the six flying from Oakland were to depart due to two lost Covid tests, but mercifully, new tests were done at 6 am, the results of which were registered less than 60 minutes prior to boarding.
The trip was on.
It was a sweltering summer day in Louisiana. My 8-year-old self stood in the kitchen of my paternal grandparents’ home in Shreveport, watching with fascination as Grandma Collins stirred the hot pot of boiling figs, on their way to becoming preserves. With sweat running down her brow, just beneath the thin brown elastic that kept her hair net in place over her thinning curly hair, she turned to me and said, “You know, Virginia, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” With that piece of wisdom pronounced, she simultaneously clicked her cheek and winked her eye at her wide-eyed granddaughter, leaving an unforgettable impression.
It wasn’t beginning to look like Christmas back when this photo was snapped on October 28! In fact, at that point, it seemed like Christmas was a VERY long way off.
And here we are. Christmas was here. And now it’s in our rear view mirror.
We’re continually being confronted with the reality that the older we get, the faster time goes.
In the past two months, we have made six trips to California, two to Maryland, one to Virginia, one to Pennsylvania, one to Tennessee, and one to Georgia. Of the 23 days we slept in our own bed (out of the past 62 days), we have had seven sets of houseguests, many full days of counseling, spoken at four weekend conferences, celebrated two God-honoring weddings, walked about 400 miles, gone apple picking and leaf peeping, bought and processed our annual supply of fresh raspberries for jam making, and been with all of our children and grandchildren at various points along the way.
Peace seems quite elusive as days turn into weeks, months, and almost two years of our pandemic ridden world. Contradictory beliefs, reports, statistics, advice, protocols, and professional voices undermine our confidence, elevate our fears, and divide our communities. “Unprecedented” is overused, leaving all of us wondering if we’ll ever resume our “precedented” life being unmasked, without having hand sanitizer as "standard operating elixir", and standing physically close to one another.
You can feel it in the air. It’s palpable when you’re in the mix of people, outdoors, interacting. At the beach. In parks. At celebrations.
Our God-designed, image-bearing, relational selves are reawakening after a long draught of imposed isolation and it is enlivening. Literally. Statistically, this past year-and-a-half has taken a toll on us far beyond the scope of the virus itself. In fact, the collateral damage seemingly far outpaces the Covid damage, when mental health, relational breakdowns, abuses of all kinds (from spousal and child abuse to substances and addictions), financial ruin, academic setbacks, emerging addictions related to technology, etc., are tallied.
Prayerfully, the worst is behind us and we can begin rebuilding with hopefully more wisdom and awareness of what really counts.
It happened.
The “decades birthday-family reunion” celebration, postponed for a full year, is now in the books, but even more deeply, in our hearts.
It was uncertain until an hour before the six flying from Oakland were to depart due to two lost Covid tests, but mercifully, new tests were done at 6 am, the results of which were registered less than 60 minutes prior to boarding.
The trip was on.
Following swiftly on the heels of the one-year anniversary of my mama’s death, we held our second virtual Engagement Matters.
Because engagement matters.
As much as we resisted this the idea of doing an online version of this seminal weekend, the silver lining became evident quickly: it was attended by people in Egypt, the UK, Norway, Iceland, NY, PA, OH, NC, CA, and MA. We’re pretty sure all of them wouldn’t have been able to attend in person. 😀
Today it’s been a year since my mama took her last breath on earth.
Though it was truly a mercy when her increasingly labored breathing came to an end, the eerie stillness which followed 3:49 am in the darkness of April 14 was surreal. Even more surreal was seeing how quickly her now non-beating heart and breathless lungs sucked the warmth of life from her earthly residence.
It was what we wanted, but simultaneously didn’t want. At 90 years and 3 months of age, she had just 18 days earlier survived a pulmonary embolism, which should have stopped her beating heart on March 28.
It was a sweltering summer day in Louisiana. My 8-year-old self stood in the kitchen of my paternal grandparents’ home in Shreveport, watching with fascination as Grandma Collins stirred the hot pot of boiling figs, on their way to becoming preserves. With sweat running down her brow, just beneath the thin brown elastic that kept her hair net in place over her thinning curly hair, she turned to me and said, “You know, Virginia, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” With that piece of wisdom pronounced, she simultaneously clicked her cheek and winked her eye at her wide-eyed granddaughter, leaving an unforgettable impression.
The new year got off to a relatively slow start as we remained “grounded” due to Covid. So from our home base, we continued to do a lot of counseling via Zoom as a couple, while Virginia met with a number of her clients “on the bike trail” for a “walk with a dual purpose.” The therapy was mutually beneficial as the fresh air and sunshine renewed both body and soul. We met up with a few friends in “safe” settings and continued to sort and purge various parts of our home. And we blessed as many people as we could with home made meals, breads, cookies, and jam, using recipes from or newest publication, The Family Table Cookbook.
“Gratitude is the heart’s memory.” (French proverb)
A plaque bearing this message was part of my birthday gift from my dear sister Laura, and it sits prominently on our buffet amidst fall decor, reminding me that during this year of unexpected crisis and hardship, gratitude is a posture of the heart. “Heart’s memory.”
I love that.
August and September seem to have vaporized, and in spite of so many of our scheduled events having been suspended, we have had remarkably full days and weeks. Though nothing is “normal,” we’re navigating this time relatively well overall, but we’re also aware that we live with an underlying presence of anxiety. Every slight sore throat, cough, or headache is immediately suspect, allayed so far with a quick temperature check and a deep, unfettered breath. We’re very thankful that though we haven’t “stopped living “ (as you’ll read), we’ve been protected in the midst of taking “calculated risks” while proactively doing all we can do to be wise. We are so very thankful for His grace, protection, and faithfulness. Morning by morning.
Denver!! We “rushed” to get there so we could spend the day with various friends, and even though the end of that grueling 18.5-hour-drive was tough, we were so happy we did it when just hours later, at 9 am, we met Jim and Lois for breakfast.
Theirs is a story only God could’ve written (and yes, I know that He’s in charge of all of our stories, but this one is super special.)
We can’t remember a time since 2003 that we’ve spent as much time at home as we have during this 2020 season of the pandemic. Admittedly at the outset, it initially seemed like it would interrupt life for a few months and then we’d be back on the road, but we know now that was wishful thinking. So here we are, 4.5 months into a very modified life, being forced to confirm this is the “new normal” for the foreseeable future.
In the midst of living a cautionary life, over the past two months we’ve managed to fly to Dallas, Texas, and San Diego, California, on two separate trips; to drive 4200 miles across country—from San Diego to Boston; to officiate two weddings and attend a third; to drive to Northern Virginia and back; and to visit (at safe distance) multiple sets of very important-to-us friends. We have masked, sanitized, met outdoors, and been prudent . . . but we have not stopped living.
I last wrote on April 6, predicting that my mother’s “mansion in heaven” was nearing completion for her occupancy. Eight days later, she received the key and entered her heavenly home.
Words will always fail to adequately convey the depth of gratitude my heart holds for having had the privilege of walking with her the last 11 days of her life, but I’ve been processing this for these last 7 weeks since her passing, and some of my reflections have crystallized.
Well this is different. Another blog, only two weeks later.
It’s obviously not just the timing of my blog that’s different.
Everything is different.
For everyone.
That’s what the “pan” in pandemic means.
As we continue to navigate these uncertain, constantly changing, unprecedented times—which will leave none of us unchanged—our prayers and hopes are vested in an unchanging God, whose assurances, presence, protection, and promises are unaffected by the coronavirus that is affecting everything else.
My plans to write “Part 2” have been derailed by the maelstrom of craziness driven by the Coronavirus Pandemic. I’m taking a break from all Coronavirus talk to take us back a month ago, when "Life as We Always Knew It” was all we really knew. What a difference a month has made!!
After speaking in Maine for the Valentine’s event, we flew to California for the annual ProAthletes Outreach “Increase” conference, which we fronted by spending two days with my dear mama. As per usual, I “made" her go on a field trip each day because getting out is good for everyone. Off to Coronado we went for Paul to get his every 4–6 week haircut by his favorite barber, and while he was getting shorn, my mom and I rolled through town. This photo was taken by accidental tourists, who just happened to be from Lexington, MA!! Small world moment. The time with my mom is never enough but we’re always so grateful for any time we have with her.
We’ve been on the move.
We felt a bit like a ping pong ball as we flew from Spokane, WA, on January 19 (following the Moses Lake Alliance Church ministry trip) directly to Northern Virginia, where we spent the next three days hanging out with Derek and Julie and kids, helping them get settled at their newest address. When they left Uganda four years ago, the last thing they expected was to live in three different states in the next four years, but that has been their journey. They are happily working with International Justice Mission (IJM) now and are hoping this will be a long term call. Nathan and Rachel are adjusting well, aided by the gift of having my youngest sister and her husband, Laura and David, living just 2 miles from them. Built-in family-neighbors. Hard to beat that!!
We’re already through the first half of the first month of the first year of the 2020 decade.
Wow!!
As is often the case, we’re flying today as I compose this first blog entry of the new year. And as usual, it is lovely to have six hours of internet and phone free time to reflect. We’ve only been in our own bed for 7 nights since Dec. 12, which accounts for the lack of quiet, reflective time needed to compose this reflection.
It’s Dec. 13 and we have whiplash from the speed which with the past six weeks have flown since I last wrote.
It’s good to be flying today, during which we’ll sit longer than we’ve sat in a while (at least since our last flight!). These weeks have unfolded much differently than we had “planned” and as the photos reflect, we weren’t in Lebanon where we were supposed to be at this time.
