The Sacred Song Of Spring

The fragrance of Spring.  It comes rushing in, with a healing hope.  On the wings of renewal, life is springing forth all around us.  Song, is in the air.  And, I think many of us, after a lingering longing for winter, to finally exit its bitter, blustering winds, we find our heart ready to be wrapped in the serenity of spring.  

Until that spring brings with it, a bludgeoning -

of a Mother’s life.  

Each year, it’s the doorway of Spring, that ushers in, the sacred reminder,

she’s gone.

And with that loss, much of herself is obliterated, as well.    And so it is, with great longing, we yearn- to remember.  We yearn to remember, the sacred.  And with each passing year, we realize just how much harder it becomes, to hear.  To see.  To feel.  

But-

the sacred
refuses
to be bludgeoned.

It’s a bit of that sacred, I would like to share with you.

Eyes.  Her eyes.  They were of the summer’s blue sky.  They held all of what the sky can hold...forever.  A sense of the eternal, shone forth, in her.  And her eyes, gave that gift, of the eternal, with every gentle word spoken, from her lips.  

Hands.  Her hands.  They held our little life within them, as she turned the pages of her life, within the reading of the Bible, so many days of our lives.  Her hands held our tiny little fingers as she guided us through the crossing of many perils, found within, those deeply treasured stories.

Her hands filled our home, with the comforting, and soothing smells of freshly kneaded caramel rolls, Mexican dinner, spaghetti, freshly canned vegetables, freshly picked blueberries, blackberries, and raspberries.  Her hands, forged a tapestry of needlework, that would find itself to be one of the sacred places where her little girls stories, would be heard.  And, those tapestries would become, sacred threads of time, holding a timelessness to them, like nothing else could.

It was through her hands, we learned how to pray, learned how to treasure the scriptures so specifically selected, leading anyone who she might have talked with into the very knowledge of knowing Jesus Christ, personally.  And it would be her hands, that tucked us in every night.

Perhaps, the most sacred of moment, come in a note that she penned to us, on Valentine’s Day, 2 months before her being bludgeoned, where she confessed her wrong to us, as a parent, her sadness of expecting too much of us, and her longing to pray so much more together as a family, than we were at the time.  

Ears.  Her ears became the very place, from which her prayers each night, ascended into the very throne room of heaven.  Listening each day, for the sacred to fall, from our four year old lips, our five year old tears, and our forever longing to strive for more.  She heard as well, the unspoken words.  The unspoken tears.  Those things that only little girls body language could communicate...  Somehow, she heard it all.  And somehow, she knew exactly what to do, with it all.  She not only listened to our voices, and all sorts of mannerisms, but she heard the voice of God.  And, she not only heard, but she listened.  
She responded, with courageous and confident character.  A quiet love, that seemed to move mountains, on our behalf.  Mountains, that she somehow knew, would not be moved for years later.  With those ears, she heard... the sacred silence where prayers for their children, solicit the realm of the Heavenlies, doing warfare beyond what she could see, in the here and now.

Voice.  Her voice. Took all she heard, into that place once again, where only the sacred things live.  It was her voice that taught me, how to know, Jesus.  How to receive His love, for me.  How to have, not just as a child, but for the rest of my life, “Little Visits With God”.  And not just on Easter, but everyday.  Through her words, I understood and learned what not only “doing to others” looked like, but what “saying to others” looked like.  How to use my words, in season and out, like salt, to bring the most of what I have to offer, to others.

Nurturing.  She had a gift in this.  And somehow, that gift was transferred on to us so much so, that now that we have children, people are amazed by all we have endured, that such a gift at all, remains.  She cared for our souls, like that of warm autumn rains, that come and water the earth, just before the death of winter.  She cared for our hearts like that of the scent of spring lilacs, moving to and fro, blessing every recipient it touches with the joy of memory, and the hope of tomorrow, and the kiss of the moment that everything will be, alright.  Even when the storms of spring, come.  

And, I have had the treasured privilege to know, that some of her last words, were this:  

“Do not worry for me.  For the Father has been doing amazing things, in me.  I know who I am, and I am His.”

And her life,...

was gone.

I must confess, that as I have written all I have, giving you a chance to peer into the sacred, her life was bludgeoned at the most pivotal time of our life, as daughters.  As women.  With the perils of moving from little girls, into beautiful young women, and the perils this bring, we became adult women, much too soon.  And, because of that, we have lived with a gaping hole- 


of feeling orphaned.

On every level.  

There is nothing that can ever replace the grave depth of loss, we endure.  We feel as though in great part, we are standing behind the movie camera of life, sharing that which we see and remember from afar.  However, we see and remember closely, her leading us, holding us, and bringing us, to our Savior, Jesus Christ.  And even though, we have endured a bludgeoning of much, within us, that this writing is not the place for...  and even though we have, lived knowing more, than many do, about the fuller story,  we have lived it in such a way...  that her legacy, has not been bludgeoned.  

It is from this place her legacy, the fragrant hope of Spring, rushes in.  It is from this place, healing has been flowing.  It is from this place, that life has sprung forth.  And, it is from this place, where when the bitter winters and the blustering winds, blow through,  we find the real story.  It is where the miraculous of who we have become, is sacredly mingled with who she was.  Where the realm of the not yet, breaks- into the here and now.  

And it is from this place, that the serenity of spring, sings, it’s sacred song.