"And grace will lead me home"

“Through many dangers, toils and snares, I have already come
“’Twas grace that brought me safe thus far and grace will lead me home.”


When John Newton penned this familiar third verse to Amazing Grace, he had abandoned the family business of slave trade and could not have envisioned modern-day toll booths lined up lined up with horns honking and nasty gas emissions.

When I was a little girl and heard these words sung in church, I knew them by heart and could sing with the congregation. I warbled: “Through many dangerous tolls and snares…” My parents had no idea that later on vacation, in the back of the station wagon, I shook with fear as we drove on the Florida Turnpike waiting through the dangerous tolls and snares. It did not help when my frustrated father would in no uncertain terms implore the toll keeper five or six cars ahead to move the line more efficiently. I feared for what could lurk in those “dangerous tolls” and snares, and miraculously we always made it through safely. Amazing grace.

Yesterday, as we finished a yoga class by lying quietly on our backs, our instructor played a beautiful solo rendition of Amazing Grace. I listened and breathed deeply, enjoying the luster of the music and the moment until it was time to move into a seated position and she cut the music. I thought of the “dangerous tolls” I have been through in the last year and smiled in spite of myself and the gravity of the past year.

Yes, we surely have had our share of toils and snares. The wake of losing our beloved adult child is akin to taking one’s worst night mare and making it scary – then adding quicksand, muck, poison and fire. I have told people I know the wallpaper patterns on the inner chambers of hell, as I have stared at them recovering from this tragedy.

But through the pain, toils and snares, I know that grace brought me safe thus far and grace will lead me home. If I were to survive the trauma of losing Nick on my own and without God’s help, survival would not be an option; I would have sunk in the quicksand months ago. An unmistakable presence stays with me and my family and has brought us closer together than ever. There have been times in this process when peace will wash over us at the most trying and difficult of times, and a peace that we could not have drawn on our own.

I don’t know the official dictionary definition of grace, but the one I learned over the years is that grace is a favor that one does not earn. I do know that the grace that has led me safe thus far is one that I did not earn. In our grief, we have often just sat back and passively suffered. God knows we often do not have the energy or strength to work through to a peaceful place on our own, and swoops in to offer inner comfort.

When I shuddered at those “dangerous tolls” as a kid, I am so glad I could not have known the true heartbreak that would be to come much later in life. But, here we are on the other side and faring well despite the snares. I treasure the Amazing Grace that will surely bring me home.

Perseverance and the help of a village brings family together at last

Sometimes patience and tenacity pay off in immeasurable reward.
Spoiler alert: Peter has been reunited with his wife and daughter here in the United States.

That is the happy ending/beginning – kind of the end of the story that is really just a start. The middle is the heart string puller and tear jerker that makes the end/beginning so sweet.

Three summers ago which could be a decade or more in times of life happenings, I had the privilege of working with a young Sudanese man, Peter, as he studied for his American citizenship test. Peter faced every possible odd in passing the very difficult exam. His English was very limited, and his native language is Arabic which reads from right to left. A fact I learned deep into our tutoring sessions.

Together, Peter learned key facts of our country’s history, customs, and government structure, and I refreshed on long-forgotten details. To gain American citizenship is a very hard-earned reward and I don’t know when I ever watched a student work more diligently toward a goal.

Peter works an early-morning shift at our church in Tennessee, and at the time, he also worked full time in a factory. He is still employed as a full-time laborer in addition to working at the church. We plugged away each morning that summer after he finished his job at the church. We tuned his reading skills, as well as test preparation because the test is administered in written form only. I tried to have the test read orally, to no avail.

In August of 2008, I received a phone call that gave me one of my proudest moments ever as a teacher. “I passed” was all he said as a cherry on the top of his dedication. He made the accomplishment of a lifetime and without fan fair, he called me on the drive from Memphis back to Nashville and dropped some of the heaviest good news I have ever heard. This was his first attempt at the American citizenship examination.

Gaining American citizenship holds meaning different for each person who endures the rigors, but for Peter, passing the exam carried a weight of significance far beyond flag waving at the swearing–in ceremony.

Peter has a young Sudanese wife who fled that country with her family to Egypt. In Egypt, people from the Sudan suffer terrible persecution. Peter did not have the money to go and visit her and the only way to bring her to live with him and his family was through American citizenship. A great weight rested on this young hard-working man’s shoulders.

We all held the simplistic notion that with Peter as a full-fledged American citizen, he could bring his wife to America. The transition turned out to be a very arduous one. Staff from the church made phone calls and helped as much as they could. Peter’s congressman helped, but the process proved complicated and long.

Peter visited once and a child resulted. Now, the need to bring his wife to his new homeland became even more urgent. Months turned into years; uprisings erupted in Egypt; travel complications ensued.

Last weekend begins the end of his story. Peter’s wife and baby arrived in Nashville, Tennessee. After a life of uncountable obstacles and trauma, this New American and Lost Boy of Sudan rests together in his American home with his family.

Thanks be to God.

Celebration through a new set of lenses

The Fourth of July comes pretty much every year (it really did not happen the years we lived in China), and we celebrate America’s birthday in the usual ways with the aroma of meat cooking over charcoal, desserts featuring Cool Whip, newly singed skin stinging against clothing, and bombs bursting in air.

This year, I had the honor of seeing the Fourth through a new set of lenses and it looked pretty good.

We took a trek to Northern Michigan this weekend at the kind invitation of American friends, Kevin and Amie, who lived in Shanghai at the same time as we did. During our time in Shanghai, when Mary (her given “American name”) who works for Amie, needed additional work, I hired her to help me around the apartment. Her quality work lived up to all of Amie’s bragging, and the year I came back to teach school, Mary took care of the housework for Roger and cooked Chinese meals for him. I am so grateful to her.

As the time nears for our friends to repatriate, they gave Mary the gift of a lifetime and brought her to “Mei Guo” (America) for a two-week trip. The only sky Mary knows in her homeland is gray and pollution-laden, lined with sky scrapers much taller than the ones we visit in New York City. Crowds of people are inescapable and nature consists of spotty flower gardens planted, fertilized and tended in small court yards among city buildings.

Mary and her son, “Daniel,” (also, a given American name) landed in Michigan last week to puffy white clouds and clear blue sky. With jet lag weighing heavy on the mother and her toddler who had never journeyed out of a time zone, they travelled from Detroit to our friend’s cottage on a lake. There, the view consists of tall pines and still water. Traffic sounds involve the occasional Jet Ski, with no horns honking or bicycles disturbing the peaceful setting.

We joined this group at the cottage on Sunday, and at the sight of Mary, tears welled up in my eyes of seeing such a special part of my former life here in my own home land. Mary knows more English words than she did when I knew her in China; I have fewer Mandarin words in my vocabulary, but we found common ground sitting on lawn chairs in the shade overlooking the lake. Daniel played with a little boy his age nearby and the two seemed to have no translation problems at all. They used the universal language of play. Neither of the little boys knows a word to share between them, but they passed the miniature cars back and forth with what seemed to be very accurate communication.

Mary squealed with what I think was surprised delight when I stripped off my outer clothing down to a swim suit and dove off the back of the boat. Lake swimming is just not part of her world.

When Mary worked in my home, and as she works with Kevin and Amie, she does not get first-hand account of watching us break a sweat. It seemed to do her good to sit in a chair watching Amie scurry around the kitchen and me loading the dishwasher.

Daniel is not yet three and though he does not speak English, he knows “dog,” and enjoyed speaking Chinese to Bing and Clover; he also delighted playing in their sleeping crates and crawling around on all fours barking.

During fireworks, Daniel, who is used to enormous amazing fireworks displays filling the night sky during holiday in Shanghai, looked up, then nodded to his mother and simply said “xiao” – little.

Fireworks brought up emotion in me, as all things that remind me of Nicholas. When I sat away from the crowd with tears quietly streaming, Mary came over and consoled me in Chinese. I recognized the word son and the words I love you. That was enough to bring me back to calm.

While we did eat all the traditional American delicacies for the Fourth of July and participated in the outdoor festivities, my favorite sight this Fourth was to see our country’s birthday through the eyes of a first timer. It looked good.

Winds blow, but cannot destroy what is inside

Today is another significant day for my family– eight months ago on the 22nd a terrible cyclone rushed in, left a path of destruction and changed the color of our lives forever.

I do not like to call these days “anniversaries” because I feel that word should be reserved for occasions of celebration. The day my only son died is certainly not cause for festivity, but nonetheless, it is a monumentally significant day.

When I call our tragedy a whirlwind, I think of the personal devastation tornadoes leave behind for residents and helpers to dig through and clean up. Eight months and one day ago, I saw my life as a neat and tidy little house. It could be one of those cute houses from the story books with large front porches, dormer windows with lattice work, and white picket fences.

We felt we had it all, relative security: a strong marriage, two handsome children who follow all the rules and make us proud at every turn, a house almost paid off, and a couple cars in the garage. Just as tornadoes come in with little warning and rip lives apart at the seams, changing the very lay of the land, the tragedy of losing our son has done the same.

About the time Roger and I were married, his uncle and aunt lost their home to a tornado in Northeast Ohio. This was not just a home, but one that Roger’s grandfather built by his own hands during the Great Depression. He built the tiny house and added on as years progressed and prosperity built. His son also added to the house with intentions of keeping up the family homestead.

The tornado ripped through some time in the mid-1980s – taking out a path of homes. The family’s belongings were strewn unceremoniously about the property with what was once valuables and treasures reduced to dumpster fodder. Little by little the family would return to their home site and gather what they could recover from the waste. They collected, cleaned and repaired as best they could to begin from scratch and re-build their lives.

Soon, a group of volunteers from the Midwest – if memory serves me, from the Mennonite faith, came out and helped the actual home rebuild. A few years after the tornado, Roger and I visited his uncle and aunt and they were living in a larger, nicer home on the same property. This was not the home build by Roger’s grandfather, as the original home could not be salvaged, just bits and pieces of memorabilia from their old life placed among the new things.

At eight months since Nick’s passing, Roger, Elise, Scott, and I reside somewhere in between the gathering stage and maybe a baby step beyond toward rebuilding. We work through grief in our individual ways and on our own time tables. We pick up pieces of our former lives, just as tornado victims – then try to create some sort of a mosaic of what used to, know we will eventually have to rebuild.

Acceptance that the pieces we gather from what we know as life will never come together as a whole again is the most difficult part for me. I miss my son. I miss the wholeness our family embraced just last summer. I want to turn back the clock and change events; this will never happen, but the facts remain that our options are now to keep gathering relics – protect the memories and gather the materials needed to rebuild our lives.

The information I read about families in grief tells me that we will rebuild. The new lives we construct and nurture will be solid and good. Our family will grow, and our family will heal. We stay close to each other and continue to carve out a new “normal.”

Just like tornado victims and victims of so many tragedies around the world, survivors learn the process of rebuilding one day at a time.
While today is a significant day, I chose to not dwell on the dreaded 22nd. I followed my regular routine and even finished out the afternoon by knitting on the front porch with friends. While winds blow in and cause devastation, we always have the chance to look ahead to brighter days.

As steam rises, cares float away

At the end of a good day, or the end of a lousy day, no therapy works better for me than a long soak in a hot tub.

My love for a hot evening bath did not begin with me, nor – I am happy to report – does the legacy end. My mother was a school teacher and every night after school, she would take her bone-tired self to the hall bathroom, fill the tub and “wash off the day.” During her bath time, we knew better than to knock on the door. When she came out revived, she was more than happy to take on motherly duties, but until then – forget it.

Recently, on the hunt for a new apartment, my daughter directed her dad and me to the Website for a possible rental. As we perused floor plans they marked, Roger noticed one apartment had a stand-up shower and no bath tub. Deal breaker. Elise winds down at the end of the day in the way she was brought up; she takes a good novel and fills the bath with water as hot as she can stand and allows the cares of her day to melt into the bubbles.

When Elise was a teenager, we lived in a house where the hot water tank was probably not adequate for the size of residence. As the evenings would progress, and one of us would make an oh-so-subtle move toward our respective bathrooms, the other would drop whatever she was doing and sprint to get first dibs on limited hot water. I have so say that sometimes regrettable words were uttered to the winner of the daily quest.

I did not see the house we bought last summer in person until the day we closed. Miles separated Roger and me, and the Internet provided plenty of pictures to give him my stamp of approval. The master bath is a product of renovation and originally served as a small bedroom. The renovation has a bath tub placed up a tiled stair (very dangerous when wet) and in a corner with large windows on both walls overlooking a huge oak tree in the woods.

Every evening, I climb up the slippery stair and down into a bath tub that would fit a small family – together. When giving a tour for a friend recently, she asked if I ever use such a large tub. Are you kidding? This dream bath corner has a place for books, candles, and numerous beauty products that get moved when I clean around them. I slide in, hit the hot faucet and forget any cares that might have bothered me just a few minutes prior.

Have you ever noticed that conflict from a novel heightens when your muscles are soaking in soapy water? It is true. When reading inspirational literature, the text jumps out and grabs my heart as steam curls up the pages. Even metaphors and literary devises seem more alive and creative with water stains melding the words together.

I have bathed in tiny apartment bathrooms; hall baths after slimy toddlers were dried and put in bed, wooden outdoor tubs in Asia, and more. The luxury of the surroundings helps, but it is the feeling I get from submerging just to the neck in hot water without interruption causes me to close my eyes, forget the surroundings, and allow relaxation to consume me.

After all, appreciating a hot bath at the end of a good or lousy day is how I was raised. I cannot help but enjoy.

Bing and her tilted halo

Evenings have taken a new twist in our house, and we are looking to the sky for possible answers. When I write “twist,” I do mean in the literal sense, as Roger gets down on the floor and contorts his body in all sorts of directions at Bing’s beckon.

Bing, whom we embraced in the household a year ago this week, came as the shyest and most timid four-month-old puppy I have ever seen. She was afraid of everything and shuddered at the sound of a cricket. The sight of another dog evoked pitiful howls and true panic attacks.

She did become comfortable with Clover last summer when Nick lived about 45 minutes from our Tennessee house, and came along on all visits. During the tragic and sad events that brought Clover into our home last fall, one blessing is that she and Bing became immediate soul mates, and Clover has brought Bing out from the umbrella of timidity.

When a puppy turns a year old, typically, the battery starts to lose a little charge. Bing certainly cannot be described as overly active, so at 16 months, when she began a siege of strange, unusual and downright goofy behavior, Roger and I have spent the last couple weeks of evenings looking at each other with the puzzling look of bewilderment.

Something has gotten into Bing and we are scrambling.

No one loves the pursuit of a good game like Bing. Whether the game centers on a Frisbee, a ball, or a laser light we call “Mr. Green,” Bing loves to play the game. We often confine Clover during Frisbee throw because Bing is forced to play wide receiver. Clover pulls no stops in her own game of interference; a referee would bench Clover, and we often do.

I don’t know if the warm nights have jazzed Bing, or if she has reached an age where she really understands the games and their pursuit, but when the dust settles and we relax for the evening, Bing’s alights with uncontainable carryings on.

Typically, anytime either of the dogs grabs a burst of playful energy, they invigorate the other to raise the bar for fun. Lately, this practice has taken a turn. Our evening ritual includes Roger and me having after-dinner downtime on the porch. The dogs play in the yard and this sometimes involves us, and sometimes not. When we are ready to go in the house (it gets chilly in the evenings here in Michigan), Bing and Clover take their places on their respective dog beds in the living room.

So, recently, when we come in the house, Clover settles into her spot and takes a breather while Bing tears through the house at breakneck speed unraveling the carpet and unearthing every chew bone, ball, or torn-up toy she can find. Balls roll under furniture quite often in our house where they collect dust for up to a few weeks before discovery. Bing now darts from couch to chair to buffet to desk in her quest to release the captured rolling toys. This brings both Roger and me quickly to our feet as we do not want the furniture marred with Bing’s long toenails and voracious paw swipes. We find our faces on the floor with hers pressed against ours, as she defers to opposable thumbs for assistance.

Once the ball has been set free, she takes off like a firefighter in pursuit of flames for a few seconds until the ball finds itself lodged again. Repeat process.

Last night after Roger bravely endured a tough Father’s Day, Bing and her antics were in full play. He questioned me about her caffeine intake and slid down to the floor to pet her and bring her under wraps. Meanwhile, Clover who never turns down a party invitation, watched angelically not batting an eye at the scene’s frenzy.

Out of nowhere, a random thought struck me. Clover is almost never innocent of mischief, and Bing is almost never an instigator, but loves to follow her doggy sister into the abyss of trouble. Could this be the energy of Nicholas’ spirit goading Bing to her frenetic level just for the sheer fun of watching us chase her? Is it possible that he is playing her like a puppet on a string to keep his dad and me active in the evenings when we are typically quiet and blue? Funny, how Nick’s beloved Clover quietly observes, innocent of all charges.

When I shared the thought with Roger, he smiled and agreed that it would follow Nick’s dry wit to drive us batty with a revved up poodle. Nonetheless, we may just look at Bing’s goofy gallop just a little bit differently tonight.

Be still and allow the quiet to speak

“In the midst of your daily storms, make it a point to be still and set your sights on God. Let God be God. Let him bathe you in his glory so your breath and your troubles are sucked from your soul. Be still. Be quiet. Be open and willing. Then you will know that God is God.” - Max Lucado from The Great House of God

I recall many years ago listening to a speaker share with an audience that she makes it a habit to keep the car radio in the off position, and when driving alone, she always keeps the passenger seat free of bag debris. With no built-in entertainment distraction, the speaker said the quiet allows her to meditate and the open seat reminds her of God’s presence.

That very day, I turned off my car radio, and it was only a short while that I sorely missed National Public Radio. In the hustle bustle of those days, with children and job, I quickly discovered that car time was my only truly alone time. I practiced and eventually taught myself to use that time as quality meditation.

Now, years later, I regret saying my hand bag and shopping bundles do clutter the front seat, and where I never regained my car music habit, the cell phone is a constant companion. I offer apologies to those with whom I share the road.

Today, I sit alone on my porch and read these words by Max Lucado. As I read, I listen with intention to the sounds around me. We have an abundance of crows near the house and I enjoy their “caw caw” coming from different directions and the ensuing answers. A lawn mower away from my sight, but within earshot disrupts the calls of the birds, but creates a dull and quiet whir in the distance.

A water fountain just off the front porch calls my attention to the sounds of falling water, and pulls my consciousness temporarily away from the lawn mower drone. Hearing the water reminds me of continual replenishment. The level of the water does not rise or fall, but flows through a filter and pump that keeps the level even and the flow steady.
As I devote my intention to listening, I notice squirrel chatter voicing displeasure in Bing sleeping in the shade of a tree. The wind creates movement that drowns out the water as I try to keep the sounds of machinery from disrupting nature’s stillness.

The lawn mower finally pauses and cacophony turns to symphony complete with bird song, water, and wind.

Somehow, in our society, we are not programmed to steal even a few moments away for the sheer luxury of listening. I did with great intention today and I can attest to Lucado’s assertion that to bathe in the sound of stillness, to allow God to be God does indeed suck the troubles from one’s soul and leave it open for peace.

Oh, but as I opened my eyes from my quiet vacation, I discovered Clover’s white beard black and my impatiens unearthed from a pot. I will dedicate moments to quiet tomorrow, but I believe I will keep my eyes open.