Family

The empty nest

/ Patsy Kuipers / 1 Comment

I’m a frequent visitor at my daughter’s house. Mary has her hands full taking care of three little people under the age of five and I enjoy helping out even though I’m now sorely outnumbered!

Several weeks ago I became aware of a “whoosh” whenever I’d step out the front door and onto their small porch. I soon realized I was being strafed by a mamma bird who’d built her nest in an eave of the portico. She picked a perfect place. Not only were she and her carefully constructed home sheltered from the elements and out of reach of any predators that might happen by, but we could observe from inside the house without disturbing her. My son-in-law peaked into the nest when mamma bird was away and found five tiny eggs. We watched as she faithfully warmed and protected the eggs. And one day we saw five little heads, with open mouths clamoring to be fed. Mamma bird diligently cared for her brood. The little ones grew quickly . . . and then one day I went over . . . and the porch was quiet . . . and they were gone.

Even though we human mothers are given years to nurture our children, time passes so quickly it sometimes seems it’s only days, like the time it took the mother bird to raise her young. Over the years I’ve shared this bittersweet sentiment with other mothers: “If we do our job well, the end result is an independent adult.” Mothering requires a balance of holding on and letting go and the wisdom to know which is needed at any particular time in our children’s lives. It’s a difficult but necessary process.

Yet my own dear mother has often said, “Once a mother, always a mother”, a statement every bit as true as the one I wrote above. I’m convinced the mama bear syndrome knows no age limits. IMG_1073After all, of the many people who were upset when my 30-year career ended via termination, my mom was the most incensed by the treatment I’d received. Even now, at age 84, I have no doubt she’d be my staunchest defender – all 98 pounds of her. And don’t even think about messing with my kids and grandkids!

It’s that time of year – the time of graduations and weddings. So for you mothers reading this and contemplating the emptying of your nests, I offer this: one day you may realize the independent adult you worked so long and hard to raise has become one of your very best friends. Someone who brings joy to your life in new ways as you continue to cheer them on and are blessed by the fruits of your labors, and theirs.

I can still remember driving home after Mary and Justin’s wedding. I thought, “That’s it. I gave her away. It’s all over.” I was so wrong. I gained a son that night and now seven years later, there are those three little people I mentioned at the onset of this post. Mary and Justin’s nest is full and I am welcome there. Welcome to help nurture a new generation and introduce them to plants and mamma birds and to their Savior – the One who loves them even more than I do.

 

Thrashing about, epilogue

/ Patsy Kuipers / 2 Comments

Often my blog posts are a result of me needing to remind myself of Truth and then deciding to share it with you, my readers, in hopes it will be an encouragement to you as well. Little did I know when I wrote “Thrashing about” (January 18th) how many times I’d need to tell myself to “stop thrashing” in the weeks that followed.

A new little family member was scheduled to arrive exactly one month after I published that piece and I had things to do and people to see in the interim. Observing my behavior during that month, those closest to me probably wondered what the uproar was about. After all, I must have said “I’ve got to (fill in the blank) because Emma’s coming” dozens of times, like she was a hurricane barreling across the Atlantic and I was battening down the hatches before her arrival. I crossed most of my pre-Emma to dos off before the big day. But the battle against thrashing was far from over.

I took up residence at daughter Mary’s house on the evening of February 17th, knowing I’d be the around-the-clock responsible adult until she and Justin returned with Emma several days later. No big deal, right? I stay with 4 ½-year-old Joshua and 2-year-old Lyla on a regular basis, usually two days a week, eight to ten hours a day. But I go home at night, home where it’s quiet and I can recharge. Being on duty for 60+ hours straight – well, that’s a different story. I wasn’t sleeping or eating normally, much less having a meaningful quiet time. My focus was almost entirely on the immediate demands in front of me. I gradually lost sight of my Center and by the time daughter Jessie arrived Saturday morning to provide back-up, I was so tired physically and mentally I could barely stay on task.

But mid-day Saturday Mary and Justin returned home with baby Emma in tow. As I held her, I marveled at the fact there’s a brand new person to love and get to know. The stress of the previous three days was so worth it – my miniscule contribution to the process of her entrance into the world. After a few more hours, I went home, admittedly looking forward to quiet surroundings and to sleeping in my bed instead of on an air mattress . . .

. . . hmm, the water never got past lukewarm when I was taking my shower. Sure enough, a trek to the basement revealed the hot water heater was leaking. I put a bucket under the drip and spent a restless night praying I wouldn’t find a flood the next morning. I passed Sunday afternoon trying to drain the tank with a garden hose. It drained alright – for five straight hours! Any remaining shred of patience and good humor quickly dissipated when I realized I’d have to turn off the main water supply and spend the night at my parents’ house. I’m sad to say I met their warm welcome with, “I didn’t need this to deal with. I’m too tired. I just wanted to be at home and regroup for a couple of days.” Whine, whine, whine. I imagine I sounded a lot like Jonah when the worm devoured the plant God had provided to shade him from the blazing sun.

I must admit I don’t like myself much when I lose sight of Truth and let circumstances get the best of me. I knew it was time to resort to some major self-exhortation, reminding myself of a hard-learned lesson . . . 

My husband Ray was very even-tempered. For the most part he took things in stride, remaining calm when I’d be all bent out of shape about something. One such time when I was complaining to him about some long-since-forgotten “tragedy”, I had the audacity to ask him, “Does anything short of death upset you?” His reply: “Not much.” Though many years have passed since our conversation, it still saddens me to write those lines. Just a few months after that exchange, I’d learn Ray was oh so right. One of the difficult lessons God taught me in the aftermath of his death and one I never want to forget: there really isn’t much short of death worth getting upset about. Situations that are fixable, even though they may be annoying and require you to spend time and money you’d rather spend elsewhere don’t merit significant hand-wringing, worry or angst. But no matter what we’re facing, be it life-changing or trivial, God has promised to never leave us or forsake us.

I’m blessed my parents live close by. My hot water heater’s been replaced and I slept in my own bed last night. There’s a new baby girl to love, a precious gift from God. The One who tenderly holds me in the palm of his hand knows every detail and will provide for every need. No thrashing required.

IMG_0552

Joshua and Lyla watching over baby Emma

 

Give life, remix

/ Patsy Kuipers / 1 Comment

For over 20 years I’ve been blessed to know Susan Hunt, author, speaker, friend. I’ve benefited from her Bible studies, her writing, her wisdom and her gentle yet firm guidance when it comes to truth and the need to obey God. She is and has been a spiritual mother to me and countless other women.

Of the many Biblical doctrines I’ve learned from Susan, one that resonates most deeply for me is that of being a life-giver instead of a life-taker. Moment by moment, as we go about our daily activities, interacting with others, we have opportunities to give or take life, to build up or tear down, to encourage or criticize.

This precept has become one of my guiding principles.

On an early November day two years ago, I was on the receiving end of life-taking and life-giving actions. The events I’m about to describe occurred one after the other, providing a vivid contrast between the two . . .

When I arrived at a local place of interest for a tour I’d signed up for, I approached the organizer of the event. Instead of greeting me, she turned away. Any benefit of the doubt I tried to grant her regarding the possibility she hadn’t seen me or was having a bad day was quickly erased when she cheerfully welcomed another attendee. Indeed, she spent the next almost-two hours happily interacting with others in attendance without speaking to me or acknowledging my presence in any way. Although I conversed with other participants, the icy treatment I received was difficult to endure. If I hadn’t been concerned about offending the person leading the tour, I would have disappeared somewhere along the way. In many ways I already felt invisible.

I made my way back home in tears, depleted physically as well as emotionally. As I drove into my cul-de-sac, I realized there was a car in my driveway, my daughter’s car. My gaze shifted to the front door where she and my then-two-year-old grandson stood. In an instant, I knew God had sent me a much-needed gift. As I got out of the car Joshua trotted toward me enthusiastically, clutching a bag of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies he and Mary had made. The sticky note on the bag said, “Hi, Grammie! We love you!” I felt life flowing from these two dear ones, warming my heart that had been so badly bruised by the unkindness of the morning. By the time we shared a picnic and I watched Joshua frolic on the playground in my neighborhood, my well-being had been restored. (I would be remiss not to mention my house was Mary and Joshua’s second stop. Their first? A life-giving cookie delivery to a long-time family friend who’d lost his wife to cancer a couple of weeks earlier.)

Admittedly, these actions may seem relatively small in the overall scheme of life – dismissive behavior and a cookie delivery – but isn’t that the point?  As I write about them two years later, both still have the power to bring tears to my eyes albeit for very different reasons. I can feel the pain inflicted by life-taking silence; the healing wrought by life-giving inclusion.

Jesus himself essentially instructed us to be life-givers when He said, “Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.”  Likewise, He refers to the command to love your neighbor as yourself as second only to the command to love God with all our heart, soul, mind and strength. Mighty affirmations of our calling to be life-givers; important reminders of the profound impact our words and actions can have on others . . . for good and for harm.

As we enter this Advent season, when to do lists are long and patience is short, when distractions abound and expectations are high, let us make an extra effort to be life-givers in our homes and our communities. In so doing we’ll honor the One who came that we might have life and have it abundantly.

Eating apples

/ Patsy Kuipers / 4 Comments

I don’t have many distinct memories of my grandfather since I was in first grade when he passed away. Yet I cherish the recollections I do have. Details provided by my mom as she’s spoken lovingly of her father over the years complete my mental portrait of this kind and gentle man.

Born July 31, 1890, James Alton Phillips was a short fellow, about 5’ 3”, who weighed in at 125 pounds, give or take a few. No doubt genetics played a part in his slight build, but a lifetime of hard work farming his land surely contributed to his wiry physique. My mom was the baby of her family, the youngest of eight siblings and her father’s darling. He called her “Babe” and warmed her clothes by the fire for her before she went off to school on cold mornings. Occasionally my grandmother, a bit more stern in her demeanor, would delegate the task of disciplining a wayward child to my grandfather. He would take the offending party outside beyond her view and tell the child to cry out while he used the switch on some inanimate object instead of their legs.

As for me, I recall walking hand in hand with him to the small general store, stopping by the post office to check Box 73 for mail, and waiting for the train to come by so we could wave to the conductor and count the cars. But my favorite activity was eating apples with him. “Papa” as I called him, would sit me on his lap, produce an apple in one hand and his pocket knife in the other. He’d cut a slice for me, then a slice for himself. Back and forth the ritual would continue until the tasty fruit had been consumed. For as long as I can remember, I’ve eaten an apple almost every day. And when I do, I always think of my grandfather.

This photograph was taken on July 4th, 1910, three weeks before my grandfather's 20th birthday. It sat on the mantle in my grandparents' bedroom until my grandmother's death in 1974. It was then passed on to me as my grandfather had requested many years earlier. Now prominently displayed on my mantle, it is one of my most treasured possessions.

This photograph was taken on July 4th, 1910, three weeks before my grandfather’s 20th birthday. It sat on the mantle in my grandparents’ bedroom until my grandmother’s death in 1974. It was then passed on to me as my grandfather had requested many years earlier. Now prominently displayed on my mantle, it is one of my most treasured possessions.

“Mr. Jim”, as the people around town knew him, was a man of faith, a deacon in the tiny country church where he worshiped. He embodied the fruits of the Spirit – love, joy, peace, patience, goodness, kindness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control. When he suffered a heart attack a few months before he died, the doctor told him he had to limit his physical activities. For a man who loved his garden and was used to being outside, it was like a death sentence. He’d sit in the kitchen of the home he shared with my grandmother, his wife of 55 years, turn his gaze toward the little church and comment he’d rather be in the cemetery than just sitting around. Fifty years ago today, on October 25, 1965, he was called Home. He had gone outside to check on some work being done for him, work he would much rather have done himself. In a fitting end to his earthly life, he died in his garden. I can still hear my mother’s anguished cry, “No, not Daddy!”, when she received the phone call telling her of his passing.

Although our relationship was brief in terms of time, Papa’s love impacts me to this day. Years after his death, the large corporation I worked for sent me to a training course, one of many I attended during my career. But this one, a self-awareness workshop, was different. It was facilitated by a team of psychologists and it was intense. One of our first exercises involved closing our eyes and imagining a safe place. I immediately envisioned myself in my grandfather’s lap, sharing an apple with him. The physical nourishment we’d partaken of paled by comparison to the bonds of unconditional love and acceptance that were formed.

Today I’m privileged to be a grandparent to two precious children with another one on the way. Sharing snacks, especially apples, while snuggled close, is one of my favorite things to do with them. It connects me to them and them to my grandfather.

It’s been much too long since I last visited the small graveyard where my grandparents and a number of other maternal relatives are laid to rest. My husband is resting there too, alongside my sister who died in infancy. But when I worked, my job frequently took me to that area of North Carolina and I’d visit the cemetery as often as I could. As I gazed at the tombstones, each representing someone I love and miss, I’d think about how glorious it will be when we all rise to new life, a life that will never end. For the love we share now is but a shadow of the Love that awaits when the Everlasting Arms reach out to embrace us and welcome us Home.

Until then, I’ll remain thankful for little rituals and rock-solid faith, lovingly shared, that can reach across the decades, blessing one generation after another.

Family matters

/ Patsy Kuipers / 4 Comments

Week before last, a friend from church and I made similar journeys. She and her husband drove to Texas with their two small sons while my daughters and I flew to South Dakota. We were traveling to be with our extended families – she to say goodbye to a much-loved grandmother; me to help lay to rest a cherished brother-in-law. Back in our home state of Georgia last Tuesday, we hugged and tearfully shared details of our bittersweet treks. We affirmed to each other the assurance our loved ones are safely Home and agreed the tears we shed weren’t for them, but for ourselves, the ones temporarily left behind.

And then my friend said something that resonated with me just as deeply: “When I’m with my family, I remember who I really am.” Yes! The world uses myriad criteria to judge us, each with an implied worth – income, education, appearance, occupation, and so many more. But in my family I’m valued simply because I’m one of them. I belong. Not that we don’t encourage each other to do our best and celebrate our successes, but they aren’t the cost of entry. And our calamities, even when self-induced, aren’t reason for dismissal. I’m thankful for the unconditional love I’ve experienced in my family of origin. I’m equally blessed to have married into a family whose members are there for each other. They accepted me into their fold when Ray first introduced me to them over 30 years ago and have welcomed me ever since.

As I listened to the prayers that punctuated many of our gatherings while we were in South Dakota, I was reminded of the heritage of faith undergirding my daughters and grandchildren. There are generations of faithful believers on both sides of our family, many now part of the great cloud of witnesses. Because of the boundless love the Father has lavished upon us in sending his Son, we’re part of his forever family – chosen, unconditionally accepted, destined for another Home. No matter how the world chooses to judge us, when we’re in the presence of our Father, we remember who we really are.

Fixing our eyes

/ Patsy Kuipers / 2 Comments

A while back, a friend asked if I’d ever heard the adage, “Heaven may be my home, but I’m not homesick yet.” No, somehow I made it through over half a century of living without hearing that one, in spite of being a believer for the vast majority of those years. Since becoming acquainted with it, however, I’ve had a number of occasions which have brought it to mind, but with a twist: “Heaven is my Home and I’m so very Homesick” . . . like the news I received a few days ago.

I was feeling a bit sorry for myself, stuck inside on such a lovely day when I would rather have been outside playing in the dirt. But, not wanting to risk injury or infection to my recently-operated-on hand, I opened a bunch of windows and enjoyed the breeze. A phone call from one of my sisters-in-law broke the afternoon silence. Even before I answered, I knew it was unlikely she’d call me in the middle of a weekday just to say hello. Sure enough, the tidings weren’t good. My youngest brother-in-law had died the day before, felled by a heart attack at a much-too-early age as were his father and brother (my husband) before him.

I’m all too familiar with phone calls that bring such life-changing news. The report that another loved one has suddenly been called Home puts everything else into perspective. The disappointment I was feeling about not being able to go outside was quickly eclipsed by the more pressing reality I’d been made aware of. I’m convinced no matter how many such life-altering phone calls I receive, they’ll never get easier. My tears are quickly followed by numbness and denial – Not again, Lord! How can this be happening? – Yet death is one of life’s certainties. And those of us left behind grieve, but not as those who have no hope.

God has great compassion on us, remembering we’re dust. He reminds us through the Apostle Paul that our present troubles, which are described as light and momentary, are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. He encourages us to fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, while what is unseen is eternal. Similarly, Jesus tells us to store up our treasure in heaven, not on earth. Commenting on Jesus’ directive in light of loss, Elisabeth Elliot states,

“The loss of someone we love, whether by death or otherwise, brings us to the brink of the abyss of mystery. If we wrestle, as most of us are forced to do, with the question of God in the matter, we are bound to ask why He found it necessary to withdraw such a good gift. Cover "The Path of Loneliness"We will not get the whole answer, but certainly one answer is the necessity of being reminded that wherever our treasure is there will our hearts be also. If we have put all our eggs in the basket of earthly life and earthly affections we haven’t much left when the basket falls. Christians, being citizens of Another Country, subjects of a Heavenly King, are supposed to set their affections there rather than here – a lesson few learn without mortal anguish.”[i]

Later this week we’ll gather in a tiny South Dakota town to remember Phil, a quiet, gentle man. He never married but cherished his family and endeavored to attend most all of the weddings of his numerous nieces and nephews. As we stand in the windswept cemetery just outside of town, I’ll strive to fix my eyes on the unseen. For then I’ll see two brothers, eternally reunited and I’ll rejoice in the assurance that our treasured family circle will one day be completely restored in a Home where there will be no more tears or death or pain.

Phil Kuipers. a kind and gentle man 1-9-1961 to 8-26-2015

Phil Kuipers, 1-9-1961 to 8-26-2015

[i] Elisabeth Elliot, “The Path of Loneliness”, (Grand Rapids, Revell, 2001) pg. 59

Healing

/ Patsy Kuipers / 2 Comments

I was hungry when I finally arrived at home after our longer-than-usual church service. My first inclination was to go inside and fix lunch, but we’d gotten a much-needed shower overnight and I wanted to check the rain gauge. My front walk was still wet, though not terribly slippery. Nonetheless, I was careful as I made my way to the rain gauge and noted its contents. As I was returning it to its place, my neighbors pulled into their driveway so I waved to them as they got out of the car.

And then it happened. As I turned back, I caught the toe of my shoe on the edge of the walk. Before I knew it I was falling – not one of those slow motion kind of falls, but a rapid, slam-into-the-pavement plunge. In the second or two it took to unceremoniously reach the ground, all I could think was “Don’t hit your face!!!” (I’d recently re-read a friend’s account of hitting the floor face-first when he was younger, cracking both front teeth in the process, and was praying I wouldn’t meet a similar fate.) Bam! I came to an abrupt halt, but sprang up just as quickly. I didn’t wait to see if I’d hurt myself, wanting instead to avoid the embarrassment of being seen sprawled out on my front walk by the neighbors I’d cheerfully greeted just moments before.

Within seconds I realized my right hand had taken the brunt of the fall. The edge of the walk opened up a deep gash approximately an inch long in the flesh beneath my thumb. The shock of falling quickly combined with my low blood sugar, making me woozy as I saw the blood seeping out of my palm. I walked unsteadily to my neighbor’s house for assistance bandaging the wound then returned home and lay down. I don’t remember when I finally felt like eating.

The good news: no broken bones (or teeth!) In addition to the gash on my hand there were only some scratches across my nose and a small cut on my upper lip. I can’t imagine how I managed to plummet without sustaining any other injuries – nary a scratch or bruise anywhere else!

The next day I told Joshua about my fall. As I showed him my various injuries, I asked if he’d kiss them and make them better for me like I always do for him. He carefully considered my request then replied, “No Grammie, that’s too many boo-boos.” Later in the week I lifted the bandage on my hand and let him take a peek at the wound. After briefly contemplating the sight, he said, “Don’t worry, Grammie, God will give you new skin to cover up the hole.” And so He has. Slowly, steadily over the weeks since I nearly face-planted on my front walk, the gash has closed and new skin has appeared.  Truly we are fearfully and wonderfully made.

Several weeks after my fall, Joshua suffered an unpleasant injury of his own. He and June, the family dog, were both interested in a prized turkey feather. When Joshua reached for it June showed her displeasure by nipping him under his left eye. Wincing in pain, Joshua started wailing. When I got to him moments later, there was a trickle of blood on his face. I attempted to remain calm so I could comfort my little buddy, but my anxiety increased as his sobbing continued. Then my phone chimed. Justin, alerted by Mary as to the drama unfolding at home, requested to FaceTime with Joshua. Upon seeing his father’s face, Joshua quieted enough to hear what Justin had to say. In a calm, steady voice he reassured Joshua, reminding him of other times he’d been hurt, how things had subsequently gotten better and that this time would be no different. As Joshua’s tears subsided into intermittent sniffling, tears sprang to my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. In allowing me to witness this affectionate act of reassurance by an earthly father toward his distraught child, God reminded me of His love for me. Justin’s words echoed a message I needed to hear, “You’re hurting, but you’ve been hurt before. Remember, Patsy, it will get better. I’ve never left or forsaken you and I never will.”

Suffering comes in many forms. Some of the most painful injuries aren’t physical ones. Disappointments and losses can pierce our hearts and threaten to crush our spirits. But they don’t have the final say . . .

There’s now a scar at the base of my right thumb. It reminds me of the One whose wounds bring ultimate healing. Who is faithful to all His promises.  Who assures His children that a day will come when He’ll wipe away every tear.

In Remembrance

/ Patsy Kuipers / 1 Comment

“Death leaves a heartache no one can heal. Love leaves a memory no one can steal.” (Unknown)

Eighteen years ago today my beloved husband was laid to rest in a tiny cemetery in North Carolina. The part of my heart that belonged to Ray went into the grave with him that sunny, late-April afternoon. Several weeks later I placed a call to “Focus on the Family” to request materials on dealing with grief. In the midst of my conversation with the kind person who answered I said, “I feel like part of me is missing.” I’ll never forget her reply, both compassionate and oh-so-insightful: “During the time you were married you and your husband became one. Part of you is missing.”

Months passed and I was having yet another day where I was struggling with the pain of losing someone so dear. Sensing my sadness, the woman I was meeting with inquired about how I was coping. When I confessed how difficult some days were she introduced me to a concept I’ve held onto ever since. She suggested I envision a beautiful piece of furniture, a chest with many drawers, each containing memories and their associated emotions. She went on with the analogy saying, “When memories of your husband’s death arise at a time when you feel you aren’t able to deal with them, imagine tucking them into one of the drawers, closing it gently and re-opening it when you’re ready to do so.” I’ll admit there have been times when a drawer has sprung open and caught me off guard. Times when a memory has overwhelmed me and I’ve struggled to shut the drawer. But more often the mental image has served me well.

The week before and the week after the anniversary of Ray’s death I’m quite intentional about opening the drawer. I think about how we spent our last few days, oblivious to the fact our time together was winding down. I remember the day of his passing with such clarity it could have happened recently, not so long ago. And I recollect the days following, when I had to make decisions I never expected, much less wanted to make at such an early age. My reminiscences are deliberate and purposeful, a way to honor Ray as well as remind myself of lessons learned and affirmed by losing him, such as:

  • The importance of numbering our days aright and keeping current in our relationships with those we hold dear.
  • The need to keep things in perspective, saving emotional distress for things that can’t be “fixed,” no matter how much money or time you invest. (And its corollary: things can be replaced, people can’t be.)
  • The ability of prayer to strengthen and support when raised up by myriad family members and friends on one’s behalf.

I’ve kept a journal for ages. On the night I returned home from the hospital, dazed and in a mild state of shock, I penned these words: “This is the worst day of my life up to this point – Ray, my dear, dear husband and friend died tonight. Even as I write it I don’t believe it. It will probably take time for the numbness to wear off, but when it does, Lord, please enfold Mary, Jessie and me in your love. I don’t understand this and I can’t even begin to imagine what my life will be like without him.” I was right. I couldn’t imagine what life would be like and to this day I don’t understand. But God heard my cry that night and many nights since. He’s been so faithful to me and my family, loving and sustaining us all the years we’ve been without Ray.

Which brings me to another point regarding the imaginary chest: it contains numerous drawers. Although some hold remembrances that evoke sadness, there are many more containing memories associated with great joy. I open those on a regular basis, reliving and savoring the moments, praising God for His goodness and grace. And each year when April 19th comes around, I remind myself I’m another year closer to once again seeing the man I was blessed to call my husband. The reunion is guaranteed because of the broken body and spilled blood of the One who instructed His followers to remember Him, His sacrifice, His promises. And so we wait in hope and assurance.

From the lips of children

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One recent morning, I was feeling a bit down. When I logged onto Facebook, the first thing I saw was a post by my daughter, Mary. Upon waking, my grandson, Joshua, had launched into a chorus of “My God is so big, so strong and so mighty, there’s nothing my God cannot do!” It was the encouragement I needed, a reminder of truth. And it was sung by a 3-year old exhibiting the child-like faith Jesus not only commended but commanded.

If we are steadfast in bringing our children up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord (Ephesians 6:4) their faith will be a blessing not only to them, but also to us and to others, just like Joshua’s chorus was to me.

So, I say as the apostle John did of his spiritual offspring, “I have no greater joy than to hear that my children are walking in the truth” . . . grandchildren too! (3 John 1:4)

Family Resemblance

/ Patsy Kuipers / 3 Comments

How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God!  And that is what we are! 1 John 3:1

Before I got the opportunity to study horticulture, I would look at leaves when trying to identify trees.  Even then I was only familiar with the leaf shapes traditionally associated with plants such as oaks, maples and hollies. I now realize there are many different species in those genera, some with leaf shapes people typically associate with those trees and some fairly dissimilar.  I’ve also learned that even though botanists consider leaves and stems when classifying plants, they use fruit and flowers, the reproductive parts of plants, to group them into families. I don’t know if it’s my eye for detail or my love of family, (maybe some of both!) but I enjoy recognizing similarities in the flower structures of different plants and then checking to see if they’re in the same family.

Just like plants can be identified by their fruit, Jesus told his disciples people would be known by their fruit. Because of the amazing grace of God and Jesus’s sacrifice on our behalf, we’re part of God’s family and, as such, we’re called to resemble Jesus, “the firstborn among many brothers”. (Romans 8:29) Fortunately, we are enabled to become more and more like him through the power of the Spirit, whose fruit is “love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.” (Galatians 5:22-23)

Not only are we called on to “produce fruit in keeping with repentance” (Matthew 3:8), we’re instructed to impress God’s commands on our children. “Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up” (Deuteronomy 6:7). In other words, telling our children about God, his directives, his covenant and his character should be woven into the daily ebb and flow of life, not just reserved for Sunday school, and we must endeavor to teach by example, not just words.

As is probably true of most parents, when my daughters were young, I used to wish they’d always be as happy and carefree as they were during those pre-school years. At the very least, I yearned to protect them from adversity and pain. I have similar feelings now when I look at my precious grandchildren. Yet I know life can be difficult and no one makes it through without some measure of grief, disappointment, and hardship. But God, in his providence, often uses our most trying times to draw us closer to himself, teaching us experientially that we can trust him no matter what. And that, in turn, is what I most want my children and grandchildren to know. There is a Father who loves us. There is a Son who we are to resemble. There is a world in great need of the fruit we’re called to bear.