Finding peace in the wind.

I've been waking up early these days. Since my morning routine no longer involves a commute or work attire that needs to go all the way to my toes, I've added a few luxuries to these quiet early hours. I listen to a couple of my favorite songs while I lay in my dark bed. Long before this quarantine life, I had put together a Spotify playlist called Lent Songs for My Heart and when I ask that little box in the corner to play it I hear the comforting and convicting words of the first two songs--I Shall Not Want and How Long. Pretty appropriate for these days. I also know that currently the sun rises over my pond at around 6:40ish and I try to have a warm cup of coffee in my hand before I perch on my couch to watch it. Some mornings it's fiery and brilliant and some days it sneaks in under clouded skies. I pause to take it in either way.

One thing I've discovered during this daily pause is the amount of life that flourishes on the pond world just out my window. Ducks gracefully land, geese noisily debate and robins quietly watch while red-winged blackbirds fly from tree to tree with pretend urgency. I've never really stopped my morning world to spend time watching theirs. These days have given me that luxury.

Earlier this week it was breezy on the little pond. The wind grabbed what it could of the naked branches and swayed them to and fro. I watched as time and time again the birds landed on the spindliest branches and held on for the ride. As they flitted from branch to branch, it was impossible to tell if they were looking for another thrill or an unsuccessful reprieve from the commotion. Occasionally, but not often, one would land on a larger branch close to the trunk and if I could read bird body language, I would say that they relaxed their wing shoulders and unclenched their beak jaws. It seemed so simple looking from the perch of my living room window. Stay near the trunk, little bird! There's plenty of solid branches with lots of availability and there's no risk of getting tossed about by each unpredictable gust of wind.

How many times in this last month of our new and interrupted life have I chosen to spend too much time on the wind-whipped branches--taking in spoon-fed and panic-filled news, scrolling through random posts looking for encouragement. It's so easy. The unstable branches beg you to grab them when you're looking for a break from flying about.

Today is an Easter like no other. For the first time in probably all my life, I will not physically celebrate in the company of other grateful, joyful Christians. It's hard and I have a renewed appreciation for the stability and safety that comes from gathering with other believers as we celebrate Christ's victory or just worship God in unison. Church for me is one of those stable branches near the trunk. A peaceful calm in our busied lives.

The winds are strong right now on the other side of my four walls and sometimes even inside them. It will take effort to find the solid, peaceful places as Easter passes and we grow weary of the windy world that has settled upon us. Those solid branches, held in place by a solid trunk and even deeper roots aren't going anywhere, neither is the God who created them. He's there, just waiting for me to find safety in his promises that will last far longer than this pandemic or the stories that will be told for generations to come. I'm going to continue, maybe with a renewed effort each day, to find my way to the solid places, closest to the peace and security of a risen Lord. He knows my flitting about and quietly waits for me to find a peaceful place close to Him.


And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.

~Philippians 4:7

Parenting with the end in mind.

I've said dozens of times, maybe more, that Eric parented with the end in mind.  After maybe the twentieth time of this post-Eric-passing proclamation, my tween-year-old Beatrice set her hands on her hips, looked me squarely in the eyes and said, "Why do you keep saying that?!?  What does that even mean?"  The last question came out slowly with an emphasis on each word.  I stopped, speechless and took in the whole package of rather unusual frustration that had been sent my direction.  And I actually stopped for a moment and retraced her words:     What    does    that     even    mean?

I guess I used the phrase in my own head as a comfort.  I still do.  It was an encouragement as I faced the tremendously daunting task of being a single and only parent.  I wanted his help even though he was gone and if I continued to say these words to anyone that would listen then maybe, just maybe, his help would be there for all those days and hours and moments when I needed it.  It was a big part of my parental shield from a world of hard things that I knew my kids and I would have to face without his support.

Eric was the better parent, it's true.  He wasn't perfect and he certainly had moments where he disappointed or frustrated me and the kids--like most human parents do. That being said, he was better.  When it came to the hard things, the big things, the life things, he was wise and he gave solid and meaningful direction.  Eric was the executive branch of our parenting and I handled the administration of it.  We were a good team.

2019 is holding lots of transitions for our family.  Simon started driving and has a job that allows him to have hoodies and sneakers shipped directly to our house with little or no input from me,  Henry is now a husband to a wonderful wife and is in the process of setting up a household of his own, and in less than a week Beatrice will start making a dorm room in northwest Iowa her home while she prepares for the next stage of her life. I get asked pretty often how I'm holding up and if I'm honest, I would actually say pretty good and not so great all at the same time--because I've found it's entirely possible for those feelings to live side by side.  The kids are doing well and mastering all the things that should be happening as they mature and ready themselves to go out into this world.  We feel the lack of their father in all of this, but we're also humbly aware that his parenting style while he was with us, is probably a big part of why these transitions are happening with a relatively comfortable ease--because, he parented with the end in mind.

On the night of Bea's graduation her fourth grade teacher showed up with a big box covered with what I'm going to call fourth grade graffiti--stickers and Crayola marker drawings.  The box contained time capsules that had been tucked away for 8 years.  Time capsules carefully put together by these students to be opened down the road by the graduate version of themselves.  Each of those time capsules contained letters from the students' parents.  Now there were plenty of parenting assignments over the years that Eric and I probably botched, but we managed to accomplish this one, although I don't have much memory of it.  The letters themselves reflected our differing parenting styles.  Mine was typed and retyped on a computer, in papyrus font with a little embellishment in each corner.  It was obvious that I had reworked it enough times to get it to read just how I wanted it.  Eric's letter was handwritten on yellow legal paper.  The style was much like a conversation with Eric, jumping from humorous to heavy and covering a lifetime of advice in two short pages.

He wrote about his favorite memories that he and Bea had shared.  Of how he remembered holding her as a baby, watching the Twin Towers fall and wondering how it would change her world. Of his desire for her to obey God's plan for her life, for her to marry someone wonderful, and to have kids that would change the world.  He said he loved her since he had known she existed, but her heavenly Father had known and loved her even longer.  I don't know that he would have written the letter much differently even if he had known that he wouldn't be around when she opened that envelope.  I even wonder if he wrote it thinking that he wouldn't be.  He definitely wrote it with the end in mind.

I think it's pretty natural for us to feel a little sad that Eric's health forced him to parent with his end in mind. But I have to ask myself, isn't parenting with the end in mind the way it should be? Isn't our job to make them not need our daily prompting and guidance. Can't we be okay with all our advice, direction and wisdom statements to end with a silent "because I might not always be there to tell you this"? I think we should be able to live with that. I think we should actually embrace that and use it as a way to empower our children to be their own, independent version of themselves.

For me, the end I find myself thinking about has to do with the duties and jobs of parenting. The end of driving you from point a to point b, the end of checking your assignments or the oil in your car, the end of paying for your gas and reminding you to say please and thank you, the end of being the first person you turn to at the end of a hard day.  The end of so many things that are healthiest if they do come to an end.

Maybe the end should be as much of the whole process as the beginning. Maybe there should be as many books by the side of our bed to guide us through the final stage of parenting as there was when we prepared to bring these small people into the world. Maybe the end needs to be the concluding celebration of one thing as we launch them to the next thing. Eric's style of parenting with the end in mind was not so much sad as it was a real gift to us. We benefit from it every day. It's a gift that any parent can give their child.

Parenting with the end in mind says my heart wants to hold on forever, but I trust you to do this on your own.  Parenting with the end in mind says it was always my plan to not always be here.  Parenting with the end in mind says it was always my plan to let you go.



I'm going to leave you with some of my favorite lines from Eric's letter to Beatrice.  It was good to hear his voice again.

The most important thing to me in this world is belonging to God both in life and in death. 
The most important person on this earth to me is your mother. 
But, the most important thing I have done is to raise the three of you. 

Bracing Myself for Impact

Simon is learning to drive.  This process puts me back in the passenger seat, attempting to predict every thing regarding other drivers, road conditions and an inexperienced driver's reactions.  It puts me on edge and I long for the day when all my children are far better drivers than me.  So this is the scene.  Each time that traffic is slowing unexpectedly or I see the tail lights go red ahead of me, I fear that he's certainly going to run directly into the car ahead of us.  In order to stop this from happening or at least save myself and him from harm, I raise my right arm to the arm rest, grip the arm rest and brace for impact, absolutely certain that this small bodily action will keep us from peril. Just for the record, it probably won't. 

This time of year has me doing the emotional equivalent of strategic but useless clutching of the armrest alongside my passenger seat.  I see everything turn red in front of me and I brace myself once again for anniversaries, holidays, and all the milestones that come with this season. 

I was diagnosed with breast cancer on October 24, I had my first chemo on November 17 and Eric died on December 4.  Those are the tail lights that I see each year, lighting up and coming toward me.  You would like to think that by year five those lights would dim and maybe, just maybe, not light up at all.  I'm telling you that you that they still do and likely always will.  

In some ways this leaves me in a hard realistic place.  Secretly I had held desperately to the idea that at 5 years there would be no more useless gripping of the arm rest.  That at 5 years, my life would be uninterrupted or at least less interrupted by grief.  I know I've said this before and I'll likely say it forever, but as an eternal optimist and I hoped this would be true.  

Five years ago, I had to start over.  I had to figure out a new me and, sadly, the old me is never coming back.  Not at 5 years, 10 years or any amount of years.  I have adjusted to Eric's loss. I spend precious little time wondering what it would be like if he were suddenly dropped into our day to day lives.  I'm letting go of the hard work of trying to measure each life decision against what he would have wanted.  And yet I've spent so much time trying to uselessly brace myself for the unknown.  

On the eve of this December 4, I'm going to try to let go of the armrest.  I'm going to think of all the tender ways that my heavenly father has loved me, comforted me and grown me in these last 5 years.  We have accomplished things that I never dreamed was possible. And now more than ever I'm certain that He didn't create me to be a passenger grasping for some kind of imagined safety. He didn't create me to live in fear of what's to come. He created me to live fearlessly in Him--even when all the lights turn red.  He is all I need to face this year and all the years to come. 


To each of you who supports our family--who loves us from near or far, who prays for us regularly, who blesses us with your friendship and offers us a tissue and embrace when the tears fall--thank you, thank you, thank you.  You are a gift, and we are grateful and humbled. 



Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.  Joshua 1:9

Our Hope, Our Story

Our church has started a 6 week series of member stories and testimonials.  Bart asked if I would be willing to share our story on Easter morning.  It was a privilege to be able to share how God has grown and sustained us over these past 4 years. 


My name is Dawn Rynders and I’ve been a City Life member for a little over 7 years. I’m the mom to Henry off in college, Beatrice who is a junior in hs and Simon who is a freshman. Some of you know our story because you walked through it with us but others of you are new enough to City Life that you maybe know very little about our family. This is our story of hope and today is a pretty perfect day to share that with all of you.

In Oct of 2013, during Breast cancer awareness month, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. My children found it a little amusing that I managed to get breast cancer during breast cancer awareness month. I did not find it terrible amusing. My breast cancer was your pretty normal, run of the mill, trying to kill you variety. I quickly was surrounded by a team of rock star oncologists and surgeons and a plan was put in place to get me back to healthy after a year of different forms of not so nice treatments and surgeries.

It was strange to be the sick one in our household. Eric, my husband of nearly 22 years had a genetic heart condition that lived mostly quietly within our family and the attention we had to pay to it was very routine. He lived life hopefully every day--he hoped that his medication would work, he hoped that this or that procedure might help, and he hoped that he would have many more days with us. Eric passed away six weeks after my diagnosis. All his hopes on this earth were replaced with the hope of heaven that he had always held firmly to.

It was a dark and cold winter and to say that I needed something to hope in would be a dramatic understatement. I had a cancer battle that couldn’t be postponed and three kids who still wanted to be fed, still made dirty clothes and still needed someone to help them understand their grief and help guide them into their new life.

I was surrounded by all the support, meals and prayers that a person could ever hope for. But it’s hard to remember those things every morning when you have to lift your head from the pillow once again. The life ahead of me felt like a very long and dark tunnel. Because I had been raised in a beautiful and solid Christian home, my faith went into autopilot and I continued to put one foot in front of the other, both physically and spiritually. The hope I clung to in those days was the hope of Heaven--hope with and capital H where I could once again see my earthly husband and heavenly savior. This was the light at the end of my tunnel.

As I made my way daily through this dark tunnel, focusing on the heavenly light on the other end, I was surrounded by lovely people and the very evident power of prayer. But with each day I became more and more aware of how much life on earth was between me and that Heavenly hope.

You never feel more keenly aware of being alive than when you experience death. Eric was gone, but for some reason, I was not. I was alive. My kids were alive. And something needed to matter between where I stood and where I was ultimately heading. So I stopped and asked myself why are you here, in this tunnel and what might you be missing on your journey?

It was tempting to look back and long for what was our family, it’s was also tempting to look too far forward and miss the lessons and love and work that were right at my fingertips. I’m a visual person and I had to, in a sense, light a candle in that dark tunnel and appreciate the lessons and blessings that were to be found in every day, in every moment and in every step on this path I had been given. God opened my eyes to the hope and beauty that was in the sunrise each day, to the blessing of my children’s laughter, to a smile from a long lost friend across the sanctuary. He wasn’t just at the end of the tunnel cheering me on, he was right beside me, holding me up all along. He helped me to not only see hope as an exit plan but to also see it as a framework to look through and appreciate each day that I will be given. This kind of hope is a gift and it isn’t just reserved for cancer and death--it there for each of us as we face each day in each tunnel we have been given.

I’m going to leave with you some words of an old favorite hymn that have come to mind often in these last 4 years:

My hope is built on nothing less
Than Jesus’ blood and righteousness.
I dare not trust the sweetest frame
But wholly lean on Jesus’ name.

So today on this holiday of hope, we gratefully say Christ has risen!, He has risen indeed!

What I Miss

I miss the sound of his voice.

I miss his wisdom in parenting.

I miss his ability to make everyone feel they were important and that he had unhurried time for them.

I miss the smell of the skin on his shoulder as I curled up behind him on a sleepy Saturday morning.

I miss him asking if my car needs its oil changed.

I miss seeing his face when I walk through the door after a long day at work.

I miss him singing or talking in the shower.

I miss how he was always teaching the kids something--always.

I miss his advice.

I miss hearing about something he wished he had invented.

I miss his prayers at the dinner table.

I miss his very long voice mail messages.

I miss finding his daily lists.

I miss his patient homework help.

I miss his spaghetti dinners.

I miss his ebelskiver breakfasts.

I miss the curiosity that filled his days.

I miss him saying, "It's going to be alright."

I miss his confidence in feeling that anything was possible.

I miss his sense of humor.

I miss all the questions he always asked the kids.

I miss debating any and all topics on road trips.

I miss his bravery.

I miss WWII shows.

I miss his steady faith.

I miss his encouragement and belief in me.

I miss his conviction to do something significant in this world.

I miss being a partner.  I miss being his partner.


It's tiring work to miss someone deeply, knowing that the ache is not going to be satisfied by a phone call, a holiday visit or the reunion when someone walks through your door.  You have to learn to live with the missing.  As we pass by year 4 we're getting better at that.  Or at least we're trying.  I tell people often, he is worth missing. 

In this Advent season, we find comfort in the reunion that we're promised.  An infant king born into this broken and sad world who will wipe away every tear and give us the hope of a time when all things will be made right. When all this missing will come to an end.  When we are reunited with those we love and the God who gave us that ability to love...and miss. Until then, we'll hang on to His promises of that reunion.

II Corinthians 4:16-18

16 Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. 

17 For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. 

18 So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

Dear Grief,

Dear Grief,

You've been around too much this week and I need to work through why and how you are still in our home.  

You showed up at our front door as Eric left through the back.  You were a stranger.  We knew of you, but had never been formally introduced.  You stumbled in with baggage and all kinds of messiness.  Your movements, your ways were unfamiliar.  You were ruthless with your neediness. You didn't let up those first days, but pressed against all our unsteadiness. You were always there, taking up space with your uncomfortable presence.  You filled our rooms and our hearts.  When I had sleepless nights you paced my creaky floors and each morning you were there sitting at the edge of my bed.  

I hated that you had to come live at my house.  I hated worse that you now lived with my children.  I wanted to protect them from the hurt-filled baggage that you unloaded on us. But all my motherly love did not keep you away from them.  I couldn't keep you out of their hearts or their heads.  They felt different from their friends because of you.  You made them quiet and withdrawn some days.  You made them laugh less often.  You made them smile less genuinely.  You stole so much of the innocence they had known.  Innocence that I had known.  

I thought you would leave after a while.  Those who meant well said that you'd leave eventually--5 years, maybe 10.  I'm not buying it.  I think you're here to stay.  I think that our home is now your home.  

I started this letter thinking that if I was just direct with you, then you would do the right thing and go away or at the very least stay quietly in your room.  But here's the truth--although I hate, hate, hate to admit it.  

Because of you, I'm stronger and more driven than I ever was without you.  When you became a part of my household, I think I became my best self.  I'd like to think that I would have had the strength to get there on my own, but I know I would have always pushed that off to another griefless day.  I would have continued to settle for mediocre results in a slightly above average existence.  Don't get me wrong, life was good before you showed up--I mean, aside from the cancer thing.  I thought I had it all figured out, but I have never felt more keenly aware of my aliveness than when death moved you into my household.  

Your presence in our home allows me every shape and volume of emotion.  I have literally been driving down the road, having a little monologue about how well I'm handling this loss life and by the time I reach my garage I'm in tears because, because I don't even know why.  You are unpredictable and unplanned most days.  You make it okay to laugh through tears and cry through dinner.  You've made my children sensitive.  They read my eyes, my actions, the tone in my voice.  When they ask "Are you okay?" they mean it.  We have become realists.  We realize that hard things always happen to good people.  We have accepted the reality that you showed up one day, unexpected and uninvited and yet we have found pride in the in the life that we live, in spite of your joining our family.  

You've been part of our household long enough that I'm not quite sure how it would feel if you were simply gone one morning.  My fear is that we would feel a hole from that as well, or a guilt that we didn't give you the attention you needed and you might never come back and we'd stop feeling the way we do when you're around.  You came to remind us of the loss of a part of us.  You made it okay for us to talk freely about him, to laugh and cry at all the stories, to be more broken with each other.  You were our common ground when our world collapsed.  

I know you don't just live at my house.  I see your things scattered in other people's houses and corners, as well.  Some are okay with me seeing your mess, others do their best to distract from your obvious presence.  You maybe showed up at their home for reasons other than death--depression, addiction, infidelity, infertility or just the simple resignation that life hasn't turned out the way someone expected.  Sometimes you come in and slam the door behind you.  Sometimes you creep in unexpectedly because the loss you represent isn't as obvious as mine was.  I'm certainly not the only person I know who has to deal with you.  

In trying to figure out how to make peace with you, I went to my Bible for a list of directions or maybe a cancellation policy.  God has plenty to say about you.  I could make comment on his words, but He doesn't really need my help.  

Though he brings grief, he will show compassion, so great is his unfailing love.  ~Lamentations 3:32

But you, God, see the trouble of the afflicted; you consider their grief and take it in hand.  The victims commit themselves to you; you are the helper of the fatherless.  ~Psalm 10:14

Even in laughter the heart may ache ~Proverbs 14:13

Very truly I tell you, you will weep and mourn while the world rejoices.  You will grieve, but your grief will turn to joy. ~John 16:20

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.  ~Matthew 5:4

So there you have it, Grief.  All these things are true.  And because they are true, I can look you squarely in the eyes each morning and say, "Let's do this". You get to live in our midst, but you don't get to rule this home. The God who loves and protects me, allowed you to join us, but He is still the master of this house.  Out of your chaos, He continues to grow us into the people that He has created us to be.  His plan will always be bigger than your pain and problems.  

Living in His hope,

Dawn

Remodeling

My house remodeling took exactly 7.5 weeks from demo to completion.  Three years ago on December 4 my life got remodeled as Eric breathed his last.  No one showed up at my door with plans or contracts for approval.  It just happened.

When friends walk into my newly remodeled space the first thing they usually say is "It looks entirely different.  It's like you moved into a new house."  And they're right.  I feel it every morning when I leave the comfort of my familiar bedroom.  You go into construction projects wondering what the plans in your mind will look like when they become plans you can touch and walk through.  What it will fee like when they become your reality.  In all honesty, I was ready and eager for the change.

I used to think in my head about what it would look like to be a widow.  I could lay out the scenarios and plans in my head.  It's a thing you do, or at least a thing I did, when you live with someone who has a heart in less than perfect condition.  I thought about what our space would feel like without Eric in it.  I was right about some things, I was wrong about most.  It was like planning for remodeling.  Some things turned out the way I expected them to and some things couldn't be imagined until we were actually forced to be there.

As sad as another death anniversary is, this is a place that I longed to be.  When it had been one month, 6 months, 1 year or even 2, I longingly looked ahead.  I wanted to be here.  I wanted to be further down the grief road.  I wanted the sting to be less.  The ache is never really any less, but the acceptance of it continues to grow. For a long time it was an unwelcome guest that we hoped would pack up and leave.  Now we've added on a bedroom for it and stock the fridge with its favorite foods.  We've set a place at the table. It's just how it works.  Those of you who have made space in your own homes are nodding in agreement.

For the most part we are good.  Really quite good.  Yesterday I cried in church as I sang words that echoed my heart.  I do that lots of Sundays.  The kids and I planned a day surrounded by friends and activity. My sweet sister, kept me in good company all weekend as we looked onto the day.  I received lots of sweet messages and emails.  Many prayers were said for me, for my kids and for our families and dear friends who received sad news three years ago.  We are not alone in this walk.  We are blessed with an amazing support system.  Where we are all at emotionally, as we cross this mile-marker, has so much to do with that support.  God is good and so very much of his goodness comes to us by way of the people who fill your lives.

Our loss that day was greater than anything we've ever experienced.  But we continually find comfort in the fact that Eric's gain that day was greater than anything we could even imagine.



Some quick updates on life--consider this our Christmas letter.  About a month ago we wrapped up a major remodel of our living room and kitchen.  It's something that Eric and I dreamed about for years.  We had always loved entertaining in our home and now it got a little easier.  Henry has headed off to college and is doing wonderfully.  He's a rock star--literally and figuratively.  Check him out on itunes and Spotify (The Aircraft EP).  Beatrice is a sophomore at Eagle Ridge Academy and is my onsite therapist.  She is wise beyond her years.  Simon makes us laugh and that is good medicine for all.  He's in 8th grade also at Eagle Ridge.  My children keep me going, keep me laughing and remind me that the hard work of moving on and finding joy in every day is worth the effort.  I've recently changed jobs and am working for a much smaller company, but still as an executive assistant--I love it.  As for cancer, I see my oncologist every 6 months and take a pill every day to keep things in check.  I feel great and am grateful to have that behind me.  We are looking forward to all being together for the holidays in our new space.