In the Best of Hands

When we return to Italy in the fall, it will be with one new notch on our growth chart of surrender; our firstborn.

As Shailey began to talk out her interests and potentially map out her next year and her subsequent undergraduate studies it quickly became evident that a gap year in Italy was going to create some impracticalities. As a non resident of Canada she would be forced to apply as an international student which is substantially more expensive. Secondly, since she was homeschooled she is going to have to take entrance exams when she applies. Thirdly, she needs to get her driver’s license sooner than later. Being able to work part time as well as have independence and mobility (on foot or by bike) in our community to serve in ministry would be huge advantages as well.

So we started to realize that she has a lot to do this year to prepare for the next. It was a super emotional time for her, and for us by proxy when we started coming to this conclusion. It meant the year we were looking forward to spending with her had just been chopped off leaving us with 6 weeks. I now know what “heart wrenching” actually feels like.

As Shailey started to feel more determined about what she wanted to study, we started to pray for God to work out all practicalities. It was emotionally overwhelming for us to even imagine  how God could bring all of this together quickly enough that we would feel absolute peace and confidence about so quickly and suddenly settling our daughter and returning to Italy without her.

We prayed to the God of minute details. I asked Him to please make it all come together in ways that only He could so that our daughter would not just “accept” His will for her this year, but embrace it with joy and excitement. God did not disappoint. The past week or so has been one story of Divine Provision after another.. To see Him in all the details, bringing the perfect people into her life in all areas, home, work, ministry, etc, my heart is so full and thankful for her!

A few of God’s fingerprints:

When I prayed about Shailey’s living arrangements God brought a couple to my mind. When we approached them about the possibility of Shailey living with them as a homestay nanny in exchange for room and board they were excited how this was answering not only our prayers but prayers of their own as well. When we met to discuss expectations of both parties, we were on the same page in every way, and when I saw Shailey’s room I couldn’t hold back tears as it was painted and decorated in her favorite colors of robin’s egg blue and chocolate brown.

The little guy that Shailey is going to get to care for 2-3 days a week is going to be such a comfort and joy to her as she has always been such a nurturing and loving big sister, and I am so excited for her to get to live surrounded by other role models and team leaders as she steps out and spreads her wings. She is super excited to live out real life discipleship together with our youth pastor and ministry team, and to pour into younger girls in our community.

We have been praying for the people who can give us confidence in finalizing Shailey’s undergraduate career plans, as she has expressed the desire to pursue a bachelor of arts in Social Work, specializing in youth and family counselling. Wouldn’t you know that this week at family camp we are surrounded by some of the top christian people in Saskatoon with years of expertise in this field.

As Shailey came to terms with not returning to Italy she began a grieving process. This is healthy and good. I wanted her to have the tools to transition well. The other night I was lying in bed praying for her. God brought the Canadian MK (missionary kid) Network to my mind and I remembered that they have a reboot camp for kids transitioning off the field. I felt the urgency to actually get up and send an email to our missions agency explaining the situation and requesting information (even though it was close to 1 am). The next day I received a hasty reply that our agency was strongly encouraging us to send her, and would help sponsor the cost, and that the deadline for registration was that same day.

He’s a good, good Father. It’s who He is. Our girl is in the best of hands, being loved by Him.

On Celebration and Mourning

 It's Canadian Thanksgiving, one of my favorite times of year and favorite holidays. Okay, so I say that about every time of year and every holiday... but there is something uniquely nostalgic about the sights, smells and savory delights that are Thanksgiving.

Holidays are one of those missionary things that you can and you can't recreate. I can make Pioneer Woman's creamy mashed potatoes, and if I am lucky I can find sweet potatoes at the big french grocery chain a few towns over. I can whip up a creamy pumpkin pie and if I am really, really lucky I will be able to get my hands on a whole turkey somewhere.

What I can't recreate is the crispness in the prairie air touched with the soft amber glow of indian summer sunshine. I can't recreate the damp smell of fallen leaves or the pallette of fall color in field and forest. I can't make my special version of cranberry sauce with the secret addition of saskatoon berries, and I can't make crabapple slush with Canadian Gingerale and apples from my very own tree. I won't hear the geese honking and their strong wings beating as they take off from the field in front of my house and I won't hear the crunch of the gravel as my parents and other loved ones pull onto the yard.

Today I mourn the loss of those things for the first time. Last year God gave us the gift of being able to be home for a week over Thanksgiving and to celebrate it at the lake with my parents. A gift made even more precious when death later touched our lives and made it the last Thanksgiving we would share with our strong, quiet, faithful father figure at the head of the table. In loss, special days become not only days of celebration, but days of mourning.

Mourning is a beautiful thing. It means you love, you feel, you miss, you desire.  The strangest thing about mourning that I am learning is that one can both mourn and celebrate at the same time, that the two realities are not mutually exclusive, and that one does not preclude the other. I miss Canadian Autumn and my character home on the prairie, but that doesn't mean that I am not rejoicing today in the reality of my new home and the fall sun, like gold on my head here in Naples.

I miss worshiping with my Canadian church family and the amazing food and fellowship but that doesn't mean I didn't experience pure joy worshiping with my Neapolitan church family and eating fresh buffala mozzarella for dinner.

I miss people that are sooooo near and dear to my heart but that doesn't mean that my heart isn't overflowing with joy and gratitude for the new friends God has brought into our lives.

So as I look ahead to setting my own Thanksgiving table, and surrounding it with special people, I think back and remember with tears of joy and thanksgiving all the special people we have shared it with in the past. You are in our hearts, and part of our life, and you make us want to know and share this kind of love, with others too.

Cloaked in Comfort

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our sorrows so that we can comfort those with the comfort we have received from God." 2 Corinthians 1:3,4

This passage has become so real to me in the past two weeks of suffering the loss of a loved one. Sorrow. Comfort. Praise. These are stones I lay reverently in the road. They are stained with tears and my heart aches painfully as I lay them down but it aches equally with joy as with sorrow. It is indeed better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.

There are times when I feel I am just a phone call, a click of the mouse away from those we have left behind. When death strikes your family and you are on the other side of the Atlantic, it feels like you are light years away, completely cut off, utterly helpless and alone. In those moments of after shock I felt like gravity didn't exist anymore. There was no solid ground for my feet, no oxygen for my lungs. I felt like a large chunk of my universe had just gone hurtling away into space and left this shocking, gaping void. Pietro was on his phone with our care team back home, while I sat there clutching my own phone, stunned.

In that moment the phone in my hand rang. The caller ID showed it was a messenger call from a friend of encouragement. I answered it, knowing that comfort would be on the other end of the line. Imagine my surprise when no one voice answers my tearful greeting but rather a whole sanctuary of voices, worshiping; our church family back home. I could picture my friend standing there, arm outstretched to capture their corporate praise, and I felt those voices envelope me as though I were in the room. My heart calmed, my breath returned, and though tears streamed down my face I felt gravity restored as Pastor Darrell's voice spoke from the mic and the congregation responded with laughter and camaraderie. I felt like I had been wrapped in a comforter.

The call was to take on a whole new depth of comfort when I learned that my friend had not called me purposefully and she most certainly was not holding her phone up for me to share in this moment. Her phone was on the bench beside her, where she had left it after sending me a condolence text upon hearing the news of my loss. It's possible that somehow she "accidentally" touched the phone in just the right way that it put through a messenger call to me, but I don't believe for a moment that it was an "accident". The God of all comfort reached down and connected me to home in an intensely powerful way when and how I most needed it.

This week I was able to stand surrounded by my church family in the flesh. At the very end of our service we sang "Good, Good Father". As we sang the words "Because you know just what we need before we say a word" I was just overcome by how deeply He loves me. How profound His comfort is. How deep his own sorrow and loss was in handing over his beloved son to suffer and die, rejected and alone. How deep the Father's love for us! 

"Love so undeniable, I can hardly speak;

Peace so unexplainable I can hardly think."

Where I came feeling stripped of joy, I return feeling cloaked in comfort.

Welcome Home

It's hard to believe that just three short weeks ago I celebrated my 42nd birthday. When sorrow hits, it makes days feel like weeks and months feel like years. Yesterday we celebrated the life of the most influential man in my life. In some strange way we were celebrating his birthday too, only one that took him from this, into eternal life and his eternal home.

I remember meeting him as though it was yesterday. I was a troubled kid with a lot of emotional baggage, being placed in foster care for the very first time, scared out of my wits about what (and who) awaited me at the end of that drive with the social worker. I remember walking up the stone path in front of her with my one black garbage bag of clothes clutched in my hand and my heart stuck in my throat.

The door opened and he was standing there, with Laura right behind at his shoulder. He had a smile as warm as the sun and eyes that twinkled like they were reflecting stars. He opened up his big arms and wrapped them around me and said "Welcome home."

And home and family is what God gave me, everything my weary heart needed to heal and grow and thrive. When I left home, when they left the home we shared, wherever they were, whenever I showed up at the door, I was home and home was the most wonderful place to be.

For me every day spent at home was what I referred to as a Glory Day. It was always etched in my mind as something remarkable, captivating your senses and impressing itself into your soul. They were always the most special of days and there was no place I would rather be. I can't remember him ever saying goodbye without hugging me warmly before stepping back, squeezing my shoulders, looking me straight in the eye and saying; "I'm proud of you, Nic." What a gift that can never grow old or lose its value.

Yesterday we all got to say how proud we were of him. He was the most Christlike person I and any of us have probably ever met. He truly lived out the fruits of the spirit, daily, faithfully, as though it were effortless although I know it was not lack of effort but amazing exercise of discipline. Today I am "going home" but for the first time he won't be at the door with his smile and his hug. One week ago today he walked another pathway, another door opened for him and big fatherly arms embraced him, welcoming him home. I can picture his Heavenly Father squeezing his shoulders, looking him straight in the eye and saying; "Well done, son. I'm proud of you."

We all are.

The Sweet Sorrow of Surrender

The paradox of sweet sorrow is a difficult one to put into words. But I need to try. Because I can't just talk on my strong days, or my up days, or my inspiring days. I need to talk just as candidly on the weak days, the down days, the this-is-so-not glamorous days.

There are things I don't mind giving up. My house, my stability, my possessions. This year has taught me it's just stuff. Home truly is where the heart is. Where your family is. Where your friends are. But just because I don't mind giving up my house doesn't mean I don't mind giving up my neighbours. I miss the "knowledge" of the nearness of the people I have grown to love like family over the years. I mourn the regular "sight" of their space as I drive by on my way places. And though I'm gone in body, my heart remains as near as it ever was.

I've heard various times from a number of people "In a way it's like you're already gone." I get that. But I'm not. And I haven't changed.  I love you like I always did, want to enjoy you like I always have and want to cherish each moment we have in the flesh. I fear that in being willing to surrender all I may have given the impression that I can surrender you, too? That I can just "move on" and leave you behind and find someone new to take your place? Never. There will never be another you. I have not, will not, can not surrender you. It's only BECAUSE of you (dear family member, dear friend, dear neighbour, dear church) that I can survive the surrender of everything else.

You know those bratty little kids on TV who say "I'll do it cause I want to, not because you told me to."?  Well, in a roundabout way, that's as close as I can get to describing this surrender thing, only in reverse and with a twist (or two). "I'll do it cause You told me to, not because I want to... but I want to want to because You want me to..."  If forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it, sweet too must be the fragrance of sorrow, pressed from a heart surrendered.

That's as close as I can get to describing the complex position of a heart bent on surrender.  It wants to want to even when it doesn't want to. Because what I really want is to never leave, never grieve, never change a thing about the glorious thing that's called life right here, right now, with you.