How Heaven Became Real (pt. 1)

As he ran out the door this morning, hubby asked, "Do you want me to push your coffee button?"

"That would be great," I replied from the other room, not knowing the coffee pot was still in the dishwasher.

The smell of burnt coffee caught my attention. But it took a minute for my meager brain to process that an entire four cups had brewed without the pot in place.

It could have been worse. Coffee grinds clogged three fourths of the liquid, allowing it to only drip  through the small opening onto the  burner blow. There was still a mess to clean. But it leads me to this:

Life brews constantly. While I filter most experiences through a funnel of faith, if I don't have love as the carafe that holds what comes through, my heart can drip a mess of emotion.

And that's where my heaven story begins... with the reality of His love for me; the love that is wide and long and high and deep, and covers over a multitude of sins.

As a devoted follower of Christ and non-rebel type who always loved church, I didn't even realize I failed to understand this love in my early twenties. By the time I graduated from college, birthed two babies, and struggled to transition from academia to stay at home status, though, the pain of rejection nipped at my heels and a life of joy remained out of reach.

After much soul searching,  I realized I was inadvertently blaming broken human relationships on God. And that deep down, I wrestled with the notion that if He allowed such hurt from others, that He, too, must have rejected me.

A light bulb turned on after a long talk with a pastor friend one day. Heaven broke through the cloudiness in my soul and made it clear that what happens between humans on earth is rarely a reflection of God's affection for us.

I was not rejected.

Those words drifted though my mind often, "I am not rejected." My heart sensed there was something better to come but with no real comprehension of what it was. Joy? Hope? Contentment? I wasn't sure. But relaxing into the reality heaven was truly for me prepared me for what lay ahead.

Five months later, we sat in a windowless room on a sunny day while a doctor told us that my husband had only two to three years to live. While Jason went for a Pet Scan, I hunted down my pastor friend again. I left his office with hope and found that word almost every where I went. It had probably been posted on walls for years but my heart had never needed it so much.

There's a lot to this story. But I must jump ahead.

Six weeks later my husband attended a youth camp as a church counselor. Rain fell every day. I was adrift without him at home and fought fear, wondering what I would do with our young boys if he was gone for good.

By the time I attended the closing service with him at the weeks end, I was ready for God to heal him. Ready for the journey to be over. Our future secure.

As I sat in the back of the auditorium, however, I heard the visiting pastor close his sermon with an invitation to know more of God's love. I told heaven I was not leaving my seat unless Jason was healed. To which the Holy Spirit responded, "Is it not enough if I heal you."

The question lingered in my soul till my feet moved forward. I sat at the front with two dear friends and cried and prayed for almost an hour. At the end of that hour, I remember saying, "I can go on now. I can face tomorrow."

As I left the sanctuary, my insides felt different, settled, calm. Peace silenced familiar turmoil - turmoil I didn't know I could live without. And as we drove home the next day, I wrote a song. And as I woke day after day with this new awareness of His love, song after song spewed forth. Thirteen in three weeks.

My inner critique silenced; the writer finally born.

As our journey through Jason's illness continued, I learned to protect that feeling. To fight fear, worry, and angst with these words, "I love you, Lord, and you love me." I repeated them over and over till concerns melted into the reality of His presence and love.

So by the time Jason walked into heaven's door (two and a half years later) and left me a single mom with two small boys, my heart remained confident that the God of Heaven was for me, not against me; that His plan was good and would carry us through.

Walking with the assurance of this divine love led to the place where heaven became real. But I'll get into that with part 2.

For now, I'll close with two things. First, I've copied a portion of a monthly newsletter from John Eldridge and Ransomed Heart Ministries that speaks right to what I'm saying:

 "Disappointment is the ground in us in which the enemy tries to sow seeds against God. Like the seed of resentment... Satan whispers in our disappointments that God does not care, the he is not coming through, that he could have done something but did not... He even tries to sow in us hatred towards God... The heart in pain is the most vulnerable to this... We must not, must not, must not, let the enemy use our disappointments to turn our hearts against God, turn our love "cold". The most effective thing to do, right in the midst of the disappointment, is to begin loving God. Really - right then and there, begin  to love God, out loud, wholeheartedly." (Ransomed Heart Ministries, March 2014, monthly newsletter.)

Second, I'll post a song I began after marching around my back yard in serious prayer while my boys followed as armor bearers with sticks. The chorus flowed seamlessly; the answer to so many, many prayers. He loves us. His children. He really loves us.

2

Readying to be Radical

While I sipped heavenly java brew at my kitchen table this morning, I missed a call from my neurologist. My phone had buzzed in silent mode by my bed - the same way it did last week when she tried to reach me.

So I emailed her.

When we finally spoke mid-morning, she made it clear that she's not ready to dismiss the white matter spots on a recent MRI of my brain. She'd consulted with a neuro-radiologist and fellow doctor, which is good. But I'm not thrilled with the fact their discussions lead to me undergoing another spinal tap to rule out MS.

My third.

Ironically, I sat enthralled in Secret Church just last Friday night as the word radical permeated my soul. David Platt (aka. Mr. Secret Church) explained how a short conversation with Brother Andrew (aka. God's Smuggler) led him to name his book: Radical . Then he introduced Brother Andrew who encouraged us from a prerecorded video.

I know Brother Andrew's amazing story - read it years ago, before smuggling Bibles into China. Seeing him, listening to David Platt, and praying for the persecuted church stirred a deep desire in me to be radical for Christ. The old Susan felt alive, ready for action, wanting to go!

And now she needs a spinal tap.

So while I'm not signing up for the next missions trip just yet, I've decided to be radical in another way. Because as we drove to Don's family farm the next day, I learned that David Platt, (Mr. Secret Church whom I greatly respect), spoke out  strongly against the movie: Heaven is for Real. 



 My heart hurt when I heard this. On one level, I understand his dismay. We often long for the assurance of what's to come without a willingness to live the Biblical lives we ought to live. We want to know Heaven is for Real without living a Radical life.

But much of the person I am today is a result of the way heaven became real when my spouse breathed his last 16 years ago. And I've decided to tell my stories in a series of blogs... because they matter.

They're kind of weird.
Strange.
Not at all what I expected.

But God made heaven real and comforted my soul. And even though David Platt may argue they're far less valuable than scripture, the divine encounters changed me.

And it's my hope they will bless you.

(To be continued...)

4

Spillin' the Beans for Accountability - The Wahls Paleo Diet

I laid back down today, even after two cups of coffee. Heavy fatigue forced an attempt at rest.

Moments after my head sank onto my pillow though, our garage door began opening and closing right under my bed. The room shook. The grinding continued. So with my best British accent, I called my spouse and asked why the garage door was engaged in an exercise routine this morning.

Hubby explained he was trying to program the remote control into his fine, fancy car.

Hmmm.

Quiet ensued. But two phone calls later I gave up on sleep and made a green smoothie: 1 can of red grapefruit, 2 clementines, a cup of broccoli, 2 cups of kale, and a cup of ice.

While I can't claim 100% consistency yet, I've taken steps towards the Whals Paleo Diet. My main focus remains swallowing nine cups of varied veggies a day while avoiding gluten and dairy. Smoothies make the goal easier to accomplish. So I experiment with different combinations almost every day.

After ten good days, weekend events threw me off track. But I'm back at it again, knowing medical science doesn't have too many answers for me and my fragile body. After eighteen months of adding varied supplements to my daily regime and seeing a difference, swallowing food as medicine is the next reasonable choice.

It's not always easy. But it's the next step in honoring my body as a God given vessel. So I'm spilling the beans, putting this out there in black and white, to keep myself accountable.

And if you haven't seen this video, it's worth your time. I was most intrigued by the fact she mentions several supplements I've been taking. I've since purchased her book and spend more time in the produce section. Even ate heart of palms last week which is very grown up of me.

Yes, I still drink morning coffee. But maybe, just maybe, that will change some day too.

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My Thing About Princess Diana

While I own a Royal Albert china cup, I sip my morning coffee out of ceramic mugs. They're safer. Comfortable. And meld more appropriately with my random collection of pajama wear.

But while I only enjoy my china cup from a bookshelf, I love to look at castles and occasionally seek out photos of the royal family.

Yes, I'm one of those.

It's easy to catch a glimpse of them with Internet access. So I'm not sure what fueled my thoughts back when I didn't even own a cell phone. Pictures of Princess Diana covered many magazines in the grocery store check out line which must have been enough to feed my semi-obsession before computers changed the world.

John and Staci Eldridge would say something like... deep inside we long to part of a grand story; to live heroic, royal lives. And that catching a glimpse of a real princess stirs my own inner longing to grasp what it means to be a true child of The King.

Others might say it's sin run a muck.

Regardless, my brother-in-law had insisted I attend a singles beach retreat that Labor Day weekend in 1997, ten months after my husband died. And it didn't take long to realize what a misfit I was amongst the typical single crowd. "What do you?" they asked. "Oh, I'm a mom. My husband just died of a brain tumor so I'm staying close to home with my toddlers."

My transparency stifled more than one conversation.

So by the time we learned Princess Diana had died in a tunnel in Paris chased by paparazzi, I didn't mind huddling away on a balcony staring at the ocean with journal in hand. The song that spilled forth remained filed in my brain for years. And I'm still not sure why, when I decided to roll my piano on the porch last weekend and try a home made video, that I chose that song to record. My boys agreed I might have a chance at becoming an Internet sensation if I posted a bebop tune.

But alas, I recorded the song that at one point I hadn't thought of in years. Christopher Dickey, an award winning author, wrote,

"As I repeated that information live to CNN, my voice broke. Reporting the news of Diana’s death, I remembered my own need to grieve. In the days that followed, I think millions of people shared that experience in various ways: the world seemed to pause to mourn Diana, and in that moment people allowed themselves to mourn for many others they had loved and lost." (The Night Princess Diana Died; World News; 8-31-13)

And for those of you with chronic issues, I rolled my piano onto the porch because it dawned on me recording tunes at home would be an easy, non-stress way to share my music. Performing live just hasn't been realistic lately, so this may be a first, and a new way to keep sharing what stirs in my soul.

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