When He comes back for me.... copyright 1985 S Linn Gomez

Time alone,

To tidy the rooms and chase the dust,

Knock down the cobwebs of time,

Before He comes for me.

He has allowed me these days

To be myself

And so badly it went without Him,

And I cried for needing Him so.

How I ever

Let such a mess be

I am so amazed as I look at it.

But this was what I chose

For my time alone.

He did not chide me

When He came back for me

But took me gently by the hand

And showed me the rooms,

And the miracle was..

They were all clean!

Seasons of life (circa 2002)

I decided to cheat today and use an old writing.  Not so much that I don't feel like writing, but this is so appropriate for what I am feeling today, that I can't say it any better than I already did.  So here you go.. Flashback from 2002..

A Season of Butterflies

Out in the southwestern desert, we don’t have seasons like every other place on earth.  Yes, occasionally there is the abrupt change of color in the leaves for fall, in fact, I think I have seen that twice in the 26 years I have lived here.  And most assuredly, we have snow, I remember 5 times exactly.  And of course, there is spring, sometime in mid December, when most of us who came from somewhere else are ready to go hibernate somewhere else.    No, it is not the same here, but God does send seasons. 

There is the traffic season.  This occurs twice a year, once before Christmas when the snowbirds arrive, and once when school is out and everyone is trying to escape to a cooler climate.  There is hunting season, which in Tucson means that Dillard's is having a sale on sheets, and the women have blood in their eye, and a credit card firmly clenched in their hand. 

But really, we do have seasons here.  One of them, Fall, is almost imperceptible, just a hint of light changing, and then it is gone.  I mark this season by what I see.  One of the things I see are Monarch Butterflies.

Monarchs are beautiful creatures, even if they are bugs.  They are enormous, and drift through the sky like birds, and may even fool you into believing they are if you don’t have enough patience to watch.  Every year they migrate, (YES, I said migrate) to Mexico to breed, and then return to lay their eggs.  Lately I have seen them drifting through the sky southward.  This tells me that Fall has arrived, and soon another season will pass.  Just like the seasons in life pass.  Some of them so quickly they too are almost imperceptible.

In reality, when the seasons change we are happy at first and then we start to moan about whatever it is we don’t like about the season.  If it is Summer, we are ready for the heat to end, If it is Fall we are ready for snow to come, If it is spring, we are ready for Summer to hit. If it is the season of traffic, we want the snowbirds to leave, and if it is the season of sales, we don't like what is on sale.  It seems we are happy, but it is only for a brief period of time, and then we are looking for something more.  I think this is part of why God created deserts, to teach us to be content with what we have.
Arizona is unlike any place on earth.  Dry, hot, but green.  Go figure.  One of the amazing things I see about this land is that people react different here than anywhere I have ever been.  In Colorado, where I lived prior to my desert experience, if it rained everyone ran indoors.  When it rains in Arizona, everyone rushes outside to see it before it is gone.  Then of course, we start to complain about the humidity.  As humans, we just can’t seem to be content, and this is why God created seasons, I believe.  To wake us up, to give us something to think about, to turn our hearts and eyes back toward Him. 

Today as I watched the season of the Butterflies enter, I watched as they drifted around on the Fall breeze and I thought about how discontent I have been with my life at times.  I find myself wanting to go home, to Colorado, but when I was there I wanted to go everywhere else.  I guess I am sort of like those butterflies, always having the urge to migrate. I think if I really stopped to see what they go through just in their everyday existence, I might be more content at home.

I can picture Ma and Pa Monarch, packing all their shoes, 3 pair each for an outing, and Ma exclaiming that she just doesn't have enough shoes, and there is a sale going on at Dillard's and can't they just wait until the traffic season comes, so she can hit the 75% off sale.  Pa is glaring at her, and muttering under his butterfly breath, that he needs a Stinkin' new RV, cause last time they flew south, they almost got plowed down by a flock of Canadian Geese, (who by the way, Pa says are aliens, and really should take themselves back to where ever it is Canadian Geese come from.)  He is busily packing all of his hunting equipment, and wondering where he left the shells to his itty bitty butterfly shotgun, ‘cause this time when those rude geese go by at 120 miles per hour, he has a present for them, and he snickers under his breath.
In the end they just give up and flap their big butterfly wings and head south, with Ma complaining she is not sure if she left the coffeemaker turned off.  Pa is busy keeping an eye out for those darn geese. 

Now how silly does this really sound?  In reality, it actually sounds just like people.  Think of that, before you start to pride yourself on being Homo Erectus.  A butterfly has more common sense than a human does.
He knows when to pack and leave, and when to come back.  He sees the times and seasons, and does what he is supposed to do without complaint.  He notices every little bit of seasonal change, because his existence, and the future existence of his offspring, depends on it.  He is totally aware of the things God has put in place for him, and he doesn’t sit around complaining and waiting for something good to happen. 

Now I like seasons, some more than others.  And this season of the butterflies opens my eyes to see something much subtler than a change of light or the direction of the sun.  It opens my eyes to see the changes of the seasons of my soul.  I think perhaps I should take heed, without complaint, and pack all of my own shoes, take the lead of the butterflies, sans shotgun, and be grateful I got to see another season, either of the earth, or my soul.

So I am making a promise to myself, in writing so in case the season of Alzheimer's hits me I won't forget,
To be content in what God gives, spring or summer, winter or fall, Traffic or hunting season, and yes, even those dry desert seasons of the soul.  Today I think I will just enjoy the butterflies.

He Called My Name.....

When the sacrifice was finished, the body of Jesus securely hidden away, and the political machine that had ordered his execution satisfied that even his body could not be retrieved, the disciples, and those that loved him hid in fear.  For three days, they were hidden away, in grief, fearing for their lives and the lives of their families. 

I have been hidden away in grief before.  It is a darker pit than any grave, for your soul burns within you to hold that dear one again.  Your mind races over all the things you should have said and done, but didn’t.   You heart begs for one more chance to make things right.  Your body longs to go to the grave with the one you loved.
I can only imagine how these men and women were feeling.  Not only had they lost their dearest friend, they had lost their hope.  For this one who now lay in a tomb, was the one they believed would be the savior of their nation.  For them, all hope was gone.

The women, as women will do, went about the tasks that still had to be done.  To them fell the task of the body being properly prepared for the grave.  Early in the morning, they woke, took the necessary things, and went to the tomb where the soldiers were guarding Jesus body.  I am sure they were thinking how would they get the soldiers to let them pass, or who would roll the great stone away from the entrance, but more I am thinking, they were, as women do, trying to just get on with life, without any hope for the future.

Imagine the vision.  The soldiers are gone. Where could they be?
What would have caused a Roman soldier to leave his post, knowing his life would be forfeited if he did?  And then the sight of the entrance to the tomb… the stone rolled away to the side.  Had they taken his body and hidden it? 

Picture yourself in that circumstance.  What if this were the body of someone you love, and now it is gone?  You are powerless.  Your body, overcome with grief and fear, trembles.  Tears flow in unceasing, uncontrollable great rivers.  Where have they taken him? 

The scripture at John 20: 11 - 16, describes a meeting that forever will hold my heart. It cannot be said a better way…
“ But Mary stood outside by the tomb weeping, and as she wept she stooped down and looked into the tomb.  And she saw two angels in white sitting, one at the head and the other at the feet, where the body of Jesus had lain.  Then they said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?”  She said to them, “Because they have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid Him.”
Now when she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, and did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?”

She, supposing Him to be the gardener, said to Him, “Sir, if You have carried Him away, tell me where You have laid Him, and I will take Him away.”

Jesus said to her, “Mary!”

He spoke her name.  It was all she needed to know it was Jesus. 

We all know voices. We get a phone call from a friend we have not heard from in a while, and we know their voice instantly.  Children who are out playing, hear a women’s voice calling and know exactly who is calling them.  From birth to death, we begin to recognize voices.  Each voice distinct in it’s tone, it’s urgency.  We only need to hear it to know if it is a cry for help, a voice of recognition.  Think of someone you love, saying your name.  You know that voice. No one else says that name the way they do.

And so it was for Mary.  And so it was for me.  I have heard that voice call my name.  “Susan” softly as if in a whisper inside my soul, and I needed nothing else to know that it was the voice of my Savior. 

He is risen, He is alive, and He is calling your name today…

The Gift of Life.

 

Please listen to the video

Matthew 5:44 But I say to you, love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who spitefully use you and persecute you.

It is morning.  Jesus is being condemned to die, and he offers no defense for himself.  He stands before his accusers, in silence.  They beat him.  Not just any beating, but a Roman beating that consisted of being whipped with a nine tailed whip with pieces of metal and rock tied to the end of it.  The barbs rip the flesh from his body.  The blood flows.  Their fists pummel his face, leaving him nearly unrecognizable as a human.  They tie a cross to him, and force him to carry it to the place of execution.  They spit on him and laugh at him in derision.  The crowd follows along, some watching, some jeering taunts and laughing at him. 

His emotions run rampant.  For these who are torturing him, are the ones he loves.  Those who he came to save, are now condemning him.  The hurt in his heart runs deeper than any cut the whip gave. 

At the top of the hill, they lay him on the cross.  The soldiers bring a large hammer and roughly hewn nails, and as he willing lays down his arms across the wood, they laugh at him, place the nail at his wrist and pound the nail through into the wood.  The first blow brings a stunning pain.  The second one sends shocks of pain up through his arm and into his head.  They nail his other wrist.  The pain is indescribable.  They lay one foot over the other, and drive a large nail through both feet into the wood.  By now the pain is enough to cause death.  That, coupled with the cuts from the whipping and the beating, would alone leave him near death.

They raise the cross, his body hanging from only the nails, every fiber of his being in agony from the beating and the nails,  and  they drop the cross into the support hole.  It drops with a loud thud, shaking his entire body, worsening the wounds, increasing the bleeding.  He hangs waiting for the last breath, gasping for air.  Watching his accusers, watching the crowd, and knowing every thought that goes through their minds.  He cries out in agony, to God the Father, but not to save himself, to forgive his tormenters.   

Imagine how you have felt when you realize something you have done is wrong.  The worry, the fear, the aching inside feeling sick because of something you have done. 

Now picture Jesus on the cross. All the sins of every person, from time beginning to the end of the world, bearing down on him.  A man who knew no sin, now experiencing all the emotion of murder, adultery, lying, thieving, every little sin and for every person ever born or to be born, all at once, all at this time. 

It grows dark suddenly.  An eclipse has occurred.  He cries out, that it is finished.  He has accomplished something no one else could ever do.  The creator of the universe has given his own blood and body as a sacrifice for those who he loves.  Those who hate him. 

This is not the end, and He knows it.  But He is giving the highest life as sacrifice in exchange for the lowest lives.  Because He loves them even more than they hate him.

I am at the foot of that cross. You are at the foot of that cross. Whether you love Him or hate Him, this sacrifice is for you.  He took your place at the execution.  He paid with his life, so you could live.

He, the highest life, died forgiving the highest wrong, and loving even the lowest life.  Can we not then forgive, from the slightest wrongs to the deepest hurt, love our enemy, love everyone, and turn those who hate to those who love?
Romans 5:8  But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.

Never Walk Alone

Please listen to the song... It will inspire you, as it did me. 

Listening to this song brought back a memory that is painful to think of, but too beautiful not to share.  In the 44 years since this happened, I have never put this down in writing.  It is time.

I was just a girl, 15 years old; I had spent the last two and a half months waiting for my grandfather to come home from the hospital. He and I had lived alone together for over a decade, most of my life, and I could not imagine living without him. I planned on how I would care for him, but most of all, how we would have more time together, to laugh and share our thoughts. But that was not to be.

My father had moved him from the hospital to a nursing home, and after just a week there, knowing he would never return home, he gave up on living.
I saw him two days before he died, on a Christmas Eve, when I had promised that when Christmas day came, I would be there with him.  That also was not to be.  My father decided that he did not feel like going into town on Christmas, and I had no way to get there.  Christmas was a bleak day without him, but the next day and the days that followed were even darker.  He died the next day, alone.  When my father came to tell us, I felt like I was going to die too. 

In the days that followed, I kept up with all that he had taught me.  Chores were done, as they were supposed to be done, with the exception of dishes and bringing in kindling and firewood to heat the house.  I didn’t feel like eating, so that chore, that I had so despised, was not necessary. And my heart felt cold like a stone, so why heat up the rest of the place.  At night, I lay down in my bed, the house dark, empty and silent, and cried myself to sleep. 

The day of his funeral came, and I was not prepared for the emotions I would feel.  The long ride to the cemetery from the church was familiar, having done that with my mother and grandmother’s funerals, but this time, my grandfather, who was always my support and comfort went along for the ride in the hearse.  I sat in silence, afraid to cry. 

The graveside ceremonies, with the 21-gun salute, the folding of the flag, the quiet prayers committing his body to the ground, all were a blur. And then they began to lower the coffin into the ground.  Something snapped inside of me. Like some tight band that held me together just broke loose.  I sprung into action to try to save him. I screamed, “No!” at the top of my lungs and ran toward the gaping grave hole, with every thought and nerve within me to get him out of there and keep him forever.  I almost made the jump into the grave, but my brother and my friends held me back.  No matter that they held my body back, they could not keep my heart from going down with him into that grave. 

I do not even remember the ride back home.  The days that followed were cold, bleak, empty.  I wanted to die.  Tears fell like a flood for days on end, until there were no more tears.  Just emptiness.  I was alone. That was it.  Abandoned again. Just the same as when my mother died and my father moved me in with my grandparents. Daddy didn’t visit much, only long enough to give a tongue-lashing, or dole out some form of punishment.  Emotionally and physically, I had been abandoned, but I had always had my grandfather, even after my grandmother died.  My child like mind felt that this was someone who was invincible, who would never leave me.  Only now, he had, even if not by his own choice.  Living each day now seemed a fantasy that I would never achieve. I was alone.  I could not do this on my own.

One of those nights, trying to sleep, unable to come to terms with what my life would be like from now on, I picked up a little book my grandfather used to read to me when I was very small.  It was a little story book, with stories from the Bible, with a picture on the cover of Jesus with children sitting in his lap.  I began to read, and as I did, I felt a presence in the room.
No one was there, but someone was.  Something within me recalled the same feeling as I had when I was a little girl out walking in the corn field alone.  I remember coming to tell my grandfather about my friend who walked with me in the corn rows, and how he was watching over me so I would not get lost among those tall stalks of corn. 

I continued to read, still feeling this presence with me.  And there, on the very last page, was the answer to who was with me in the darkness of that night.

“I will never leave you nor forsake you, for Lo, I am with you always.” 

My senses and my knowing suddenly came to life, and I knew it was He, the one from the corn field.  I suddenly knew he had been with me through each of these dark, shadowed nights of sorrow.  I knew suddenly that He had always been with me, in the corn fields, at every graveside, in the fear and the torment that life had brought. He had always been with me.  He had not forsaken me. I felt His presence so strong, it was like I could have turned my tear stained face around, and seen Him standing there.

 Thus began my entrance into adulthood. At too early an age, without worldly guidance, I began to grow up.  I came to know the One who would walk with me every day of my life. I began to understand that He was always there to hold me, comfort me, guide me and watch over me.  

I still felt loneliness throughout my life, but it was never because He was not there, it was because I had pulled away to other things.  Whenever I would come to myself and understand that I was the one who was absent from Him, the loneliness would leave, and I would feel His presence. 

I will never forget that night.  Every time I recall it, I remember the fear, the sadness, the feeling of being abandoned. But I remember more, the knowing that Jesus, Yahweh, God, was with me, and that I never walked alone.    

So where have I been lately?

So where have I been, you ask.  Good question.  I have been here, or at least part of me.  Back on December 7th, when I was just getting into full swing, I went out for my morning walk and ended up in the hospital. 
So I have to tell you the story, before I get on with the rest of my blog, so you will understand why it has taken me so long to get around to this. 

It was a beautiful, dark December morning, at 6:30.  Being myself, I figured I could get in a good walk before I started work, then do my work, then more Christmas shopping, then off to the nursing home, then…. More stuff, that was not to be.  

Our dear little Piper, all 75 pounds of her, spooked all of a sudden, running in front of me and tripping me.  I went down face first, hitting the dumpster with my head, cutting my cheek and eye. But we shall not stop there, nooo, we must do this right. 

The leash was wrapped around my left wrist; the dog ran right, launching me through the air.  And, when I collided with the pavement, out popped my shoulder from the socket. Thank the Lord, I hit my head first, so I was at least stunned. 

But I was lying in the middle of the street, in the path of the cars that would soon be leaving for work, wearing black clothes on black pavement.  I was sure I would soon be a speed bump, so I tried getting up. However, my left arm didn’t want to come with me, it was just laying there, above my head, sort of disconnected, like a toy dolls arm that gets ripped off. 

What do you do when there is no one around and you get in a Pickle?   You cry to Jesus.  I just said a quick prayer, something akin to “Jesus, you are the only one can get me out of this mess.” and then I cried out for help. 

The maintenance men at our complex don’t come in until 8:00 or so in the morning, so I figured maybe someone in a nearby apartment would hear me.  But I was so wrong.  The Lord had this one planned out.  One of the maintenance men had just pulled up to get an early start.  He ran over, said “Oh, my”, dialed 911 and caught my dog.  Then he went down to our apartment, woke my daughter and delivered Piper to her. 

The ambulance arrived, and the paramedics were having a dickens of a time trying to figure out how they would get my arm and me into the ambulance.  It might have been easier for them had it been totally ripped off. But they rigged up a couple of boards, one for me, one for my arm, and off we went.

Remember I said that I think the Lord had this one planned?  Well, if the maintenance man was not enough evidence, then the paramedic who rode with me was.  I just looked at him and asked him if he knew Jesus, and he said, “I sure do.” And right then and there, he moved up by my head, held my hand and prayed for me and for my family. 

It was a short ride, probably because of the morphine he gave me, and the next couple of days were a jumble of putting the arm back where it belonged, stitching up my face, throwing up blood, because of course, I ruptured something inside when I hit, and broke my ribs, front and back.   A couple of days there, and I got to go home, where the true agony would begin.

I discovered that when you injure an arm, you can’t sleep.  Oh, I could fall asleep with a pain pill, and get all of 15 minutes of sleep, but if you added that up over the course of 24 hours, I was getting a couple of hours of sleep a night. 

This incident changed a lot in my life besides sleep.  I used to love to watch America’s funniest home videos and Dumbest stuff on wheels.  My daughter even commented that she wish someone who saw my accident happen had recorded it, because she was sure it was hilarious to watch.  But something inside me gets a little sick now when I see a skateboarder go head first on the concrete or a car drive through a store front.  It’s something like sympathy, with a little nausea thrown in.  I started watching “ the Doctors” now. 


So here, at home is where I still am.  If you were wondering.  My arm still doesn’t cooperate with me, in spite of repeated physical therapy sessions commandeered by a physical therapist that puts an army general to shame.  However, I am able to type now.  I just FORCE my arm and hand  to do my bidding. I can get along fine if I just lift my hand up and put in the proper place.  And occasionally the fingers on that hand get confused so I am thankful for spell check, even if it doesn’t recognize my name, and wants me to be “Sustained”.  Which I am.  Clearly sustained by Jesus. 

Now that you have the whole story, I can get on with the real thing of writing.  All that time, moving around, but not doing anything left lots going on inside my head.  I have lots to get caught up on.  Thank you all for being so patient with me!

A Grateful Life

On this day, I am thankful.  In this season, I am thankful.  When I think about it, in this life, I am thankful.  I have learned to live a grateful life, and all with good cause.  I have been blessed!

Life has not been easy for me, as I know it has not been for many of you.  Life abounds with struggle, trials, fear, anger, hurt.  And for these things, I am also grateful.

Had I not known struggles in my life, I would not have gained the endurance to continue on.  Had I not had trials in my life, I would not have known I could pass the tests of life.  Had I not known fear, I would not be grateful for my peace and safety.  Had I not known anger, I would not have learned forgiveness. Had I not been hurt, I would have never known healing.

All the blessings in my life came through the hardships in my life.   When I was young, I lost my mother, and my father just drifted off into himself.  Had I not lost them both, I would never have known my grandfather, who became the one who showed me where and how to anchor myself in times of trouble.

When I was 15, my grandfather died, and I was left to fend for myself.  Having never done so, at first I believed I would never make it to the next day, but that particular trial served to teach me that life goes on, and I was capable of taking care of myself.  From this one thing, I learned to work, to have a work ethic, to study, and to apply myself.

During much of my life, I lived in abusive situations, first with my father, then with the men I would marry.  I would go to bed at night wondering what horror would befall me the next day.  But drawing on the anchor that my grandfather gave me, I learned to be fearless, to stand up for myself and those I love, and to walk forward from bad situations.

It was in those times, I also learned anger.  Anger at the people who had abused me, and anger at myself for letting it happen.  I learned that being angry does not give me cause to sin, but does give me the propellant to drive me forward to good things, from those who caused the anger.  And then I learned that, just like my abusers, I was guilty.  From this, I learned that there is a loving God, who longed to forgive me and embrace me. In turn, I learned that I can walk forward from those who anger me, forgive them, setting them free, and in the process, setting myself free.

From God I learned that change is possible, and embraced the chance to change, and to learn that healing is the greatest gift I could receive.  To be healed is to be free. Free from nightmares waking you in the middle of the night, free from looking over your shoulder at what someone might do to you, and free to walk forward, without the loneliness, without tears, and to walk, in freedom, away from the things that enslaved me.

It has been a year since I started my blog.  I started out joyfully, thinking that this year would be one of joy and freedom.  I was right about that, but I had no clue how God would work it out. 

Shortly after the new year started, within the same week, I lost my cousin, a dear friend, and another friend.  Not two months later, I was called to my brother’s bedside because they thought he would die.  Just five months after that, I lost another friend, who was as dear to me as a mother, suddenly and unexpectedly.  Then I began to get sick every day, until I finally went to see my doctor who told me I had to de-stress, relax and learn to live a different life than I have been living all along.  

None of this was welcome news.  I cried half the year, if not more.  But I learned something from these losses too.  I learned to rejoice that I had known my friends and family, rather than pining because I lost them.  Yes, I miss them, but I have assurance I will see them again, in Heaven.  In the case of my brother, I learned what Mary and Martha must have felt when their brother was restored from the grave to them.  For he did not die, and once again, I have the opportunity to talk to him every day.

I complained and whined about being sick.  I do not like this going to the doctor thing.  I want to get up in the morning and go on with life like it was.  But I am learning something new from this, also.  I am learning that life, my life, is precious, and I need to take care of myself.  I am learning a new path, even at my age.

Am I grateful for these current hardships?  Not in themselves, no.  But for the effects that they have worked in my life, I am.  I have learned that time is not a given.  I have learned that you can go to bed one day, and wake up and someone you love could be gone from your life forever.  Because of this, I have learned to embrace those I love, and some I don’t, because we never know how much time we will have with them.  I have learned to cherish every phone call, every embrace, every bit of time I have with them.  Because I have been sick, I have learned that I am just as mortal as those I lost. I only have this moment in my life to do some good thing, to say something kind, to hold a hand, to comfort someone, as I have been comforted. 

Tonight, as I sit here writing, I am so grateful.  I am grateful to the Lord, that He did not shelter me from the hardships of life, but most grateful that He walked through each one with me.   I am thankful that He has never left me, and that He has showed me the way to walk, even when the path seemed the darkest.  

I am thankful for the hard times, the lean times, the good times, the glad times.  But most of all, I am thankful for the Lord. Without Him, I would have had none of these things in my life.   

(Please take a moment to click on the song and listen to the beautiful sound of grateful hearts!)  
Copyright © 2011 by Susan Linn-Gomez. All Rights Reserved.