by Victoria -

My Sister

I originally wrote this May 14, 2015. My sister died just over 7 months later on December 30th. I was able to see her before she died and tell her I loved her.

The value of her life seems minimal. How many would really miss her when she’s gone? The prognosis isn’t at all good. Dismal, really.

Such a contrast between us. My sister and me.

I’ve always felt her jealousy. And I’ve always felt my mom’s affection against me and toward her. I’m not ‘special’ like my sister. I’m not needy like my sister.

And now she lays, very sick, in a hospital bed. And I haven’t gone to see her. I know it’s over a thousand miles, but still. If it were my children or grandchildren I would be there. Or my parents. But my sister, well, we have this history. And our history, evolving as it has, has erased most of any sibling love we may have had at one time in our lives.

So here I sit, contemplating her life and its value. She didn’t ask to have her brain not work properly. She didn’t ask to be schizophrenic. She didn’t plan her life to live in a group home, never learning to drive, working a little here and there, with no goals, no responsibilities, no others to lavish her love and attention on. She didn’t ask for what she ended up with.

But by the same token, I didn’t ask to be smart and beautiful either. I didn’t ask to have children I love and grandchildren I adore. I didn’t ask for these things. But that’s what God chose to give me.

I have so much, and she has so little.

Whose life has more value? Are we the same?

If we truly believe that God is the one who forms us and determines our destinies, and loves us equally, then I think we have to agree that, yes, we are the same. Our value is the same.

I would like to say that if I were still living in Michigan, close to where she is, that I’d be at the hospital on a regular basis to show her I love her. But I don’t know if that’s true. Our history infringes on my personal space, reminding me of our past. I’d like to tell myself that I’d be there for her, maybe to make me feel better. But she’s the one who isn’t feeling well. She’s the one who may be dying.

What is our life? A vapor. What is eternity? Forever.

Our value, then, must come from our forevers, not our heres.

My sister’s value comes from her humanness, and shouldn’t be affected by our history.

Did I mention her birthday is tomorrow?

Happy birthday, sister.

by Victoria -

Billy-Bob

This was originally published in the Lynn Haven Ledger/Gulf Coast Gazette under Faith and Inspiration

The day had grown warm and sunny on that end-of-Spring-beginning-of-Summer day in Michigan, and I was getting a bit of fresh air outside in the yard. I had perennials beginning to bloom, and lilacs sharing their heady scent. Over by our recently painted barn, I was stepping across a water puddle left over from the previous day’s rain, when I noticed a small, dead, naked baby bird lying, discarded, in the cold water.

“Poor little thing!” I thought. I sighed deeply, and looked upwards instinctively to see if I could determine from where he had fallen, but the tree was too leafed out and the branches too high for me to see where his nest was. My youngest daughter, about eight years old at the time, loved all things nature, and because I was homeschooling my children, I decided this tiny bird with the translucent skin would be a great science lesson. You could see all of the little guy’s organs through his delicate, perfectly formed, and featherless body.

I carefully carried his little ice cold body (because I had already decided this little bird was male) into the house cupped in my hand to show Bethany.

Her beautiful big eyes grew even bigger when she recognized what I had in my hand. She brushed her silky hair from her face. “See, sweetie, how you can see all of his little organs. Isn’t it amazing how God puts us together?”

“Is he dead, momma?” her little child voice asked me, with a quaver, getting right to what she saw as the real point. She started to reach out her finger to touch him, then pulled back.

“I’m afraid so. He must have fallen out of his nest. I found him in the water puddle outside near the barn.”

She looked so sad, and his body was so cold, I began to stroke him to warm him up. All of a sudden he convulsed, crapped out a load, and opened his eyes.

I’m sure both our jaws hit the floor in complete and utter surprise. Then we laughed uproariously.

Our family already had a pet parrot we had raised from a baby, so I still had some of the powdered bird food left over in the pantry. I found it and an eye dropper, mixed some of the powder with water, then, with Bethany’s assistance, used the eye dropper to get some food into our new little never-say-die family member.

We decided to call him Billy-Bob.

Bethany and I located a small abandoned aquarium that had previously housed a hamster, cleaned it up, put some soft rags inside, and gently placed little Billy-Bob in once we had him fed.

After a couple of weeks, he was strong enough and feathered out enough to stand on a perch in a previously unused bird cage. For some reason, he always looked like he was frowning.

By then he had graduated from an eye dropper to eating his food mixture out of a spoon. After a few more weeks, I took him outside – he would sit on my finger – and let him fly off. He flew to one of our trees, perched himself on a high branch, and proceeded to call to me in his own language. I kept telling him I couldn’t reach him up there, but he continued to chirp.

I went inside, mixed some of his food, brought it back outside, and tapped the spoon on the side of the small plastic cup his food was in. The tapping sound was something he recognized, and he flew down out of the tree and perched on my finger like always.

We played this little game for another week or so, until he didn’t come back. In the meantime, in anticipation of this event, I had put up a bird feeder in the back yard, and I would watch him come to it with my binoculars for the rest of that summer.

You’re wondering how I recognized him? One of his tail feathers was crooked, so I could always tell my Billy-Bob apart from the other birds.

I’ll bet you’re also wondering what kind of bird Billy-Bob was. He was just a common sparrow. Nothing special. Except to us.

We lavished our love and attention on this most common and insignificant of all birds.

I’ve always believed life is a series of lessons preparing us for eternity. And each lesson, no matter how insignificant it may seem, teaches us important truths we need to master. And each encounter, no matter how small, causes ripples through the fabric of time that, someday, we’ll know where and how far they went.

So, until we know the end of the story, let’s make sure God is able to use us to bring life back from the dead and healing and health to those who seem to be without hope. If you stay alert, I guarantee you’ll find common sparrows in the cold puddles of life needing the warmth of your touch.

Be the one God uses to bring another Billy-Bob back from the dead.

by Victoria -

Lazarus

The sickness had come on so suddenly. He was fine just a couple of weeks ago. His eyes had been clear and his face full of life and health. Now his situation rapidly declined as he fell deeper into a coma, slowly slipping further and further away from them.

What would they do? They needed and loved him so much! He can’t leave them like this. Not like this.

They weren’t wealthy, but they had enough. But not enough to fix this. Not nearly enough to fix this. But they knew someone who could. So they sent for him. Would he come in time? Please come in time!

He will. He will come in time. After all, he loves us.

Mary wouldn’t leave her brother’s side. Holding his still, feverish hand, gazing at his face, willing her health and strength into him, she maintained her vigil. If love alone could heal the sick, Lazarus would be jumping around the room right now.

Martha couldn’t sit still for long. She cooked. She cleaned. She greeted visitors. Took coats, expressed her thanks. Offered more coffee. Her well-oiled actions were jerky now, and she couldn’t stop the trembling in her hands and the wobble in her heart. He couldn’t die. He just couldn’t. What could she do to fix this?

He would come! He would!

The two sisters waited. And then watched in disbelief as their beloved brother breathed his last. Martha gently closed his eyes and turned away as the tears ran hot down her face. Mary collapsed to the ground in a wail that shook the walls, bringing their friends running.

He didn’t come.

And now it was over. Their brother was gone forever and entombed.

Mary cried day and night, the tears rolling down her cheeks as she paced around the house talking – no, lamenting to some unseen person, sometimes with her small fists in the air, her voice raised, wrestling with Someone in her grief. Martha tried to keep busy, but the heaviness in her heart kept pulling her down to the floor in a sobbing heap too many times to count. The house was a mess and she couldn’t summon the strength or the desire to do anything.

He is here, someone said. Jesus finally showed up. But too late – way too late. Four days too late.

Martha flew out of the house, toward the tomb where they said Jesus was waiting. As she saw him through her tears, she threw herself at his feet, upbraiding him for not coming in time.

“If you had been here, my brother would not have died!” was ripped from her body and flung at Jesus like a knife. He flinched a little, taking on the full onslaught of her pain and anguish.

Mary was close behind, running toward him. The hope in her heart had faded to a faint, but still warm, coal. Would he? Could he? No, it was too late. It had been four days already. Her hope, finally extinguished, caused her to stumble at the last as she found herself gasping for breath, her fingers clutching the hem of his robe, the dust slowly settling around her.

“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died!” Her words, blurred by her tears, came out as a groan wrenched from the very depths of her being.

Two sisters, prostrate in their sorrow. Not able to keep it together anymore. It just hurt too much. Jesus had let them down. How could he allow this to happen?

Jesus, absorbing the heaviness of grief permeating the air; the tears, the agony, and the hopelessness, broke down and cried along with these two sisters. Two sisters who had depended on their good brother to provide for them. Who would take care of them now?

What would they do now?

Then Jesus spoke a few words. “I am the resurrection and the life.” Martha and Mary didn’t understand what he was saying. They couldn’t hear his meaning over the scream of their grief.

Then he spoke a few more words, this time loudly and in a voice full of authority. Words that changed everything for them.

“Lazarus, come out!” The words echoed around and around, bouncing off the stone walls, the power of them making every knee tremble. Martha and Mary, together, deeply draw in a ragged breath, their eyes growing wide with astonishment and then joy as their brother came out of his tomb – alive!

Some verses back in this story, the author, John, writes that Jesus intentionally stayed where he was for two more days after he received Martha’s and Mary’s summons. He waited on purpose, knowing exactly what was going to happen.

We know now why he waited. We have the gift of hindsight. We know how the story ends. But the disciples didn’t. And neither did Martha and Mary. Or Lazarus for that matter. Two sisters and a brother John says Jesus dearly loved.

If he really loved them why would he let them hurt so? Jesus knew how deep their pain was. He also knew how much Lazarus suffered before he died. Didn’t he care?

Yes, Jesus cared. He cared so very much. He also had the bigger picture in mind that was more important than their temporary pain. Let me say it again – the bigger picture was more important than their temporary pain.

What I love about this story isn’t just the happy ending, although I really love happy endings.

This story clues us in on something deeply important about how God interacts with his children.

What other God cries along with his beloved? What other God shares in our hurt because he knows what it feels like? What other God takes the time to encourage, over and over, our fainting and faithless hearts, gently lifting us up and placing us on our feet again and again?

And what other God takes the most impossible of circumstances and breathes life back into the dead?
Even when it’s beyond all hope of recovery.

Giving us back that one thing, that one so very precious thing, that means the world to us.

He counts our tears and weeps with us, then binds up our wounds and rejoices with us.

There was great sorrow when the sun rose that morning. Afterwards there was great rejoicing for many days to come.

I can hear Jesus’ laughter ringing out as he sees the joy on those once downcast faces. And I can see the sparkle in his eyes as he gazes on the face and embraces one who had been dead, but was now alive again. His friend’s eyes clear and his strength restored.

And Lazarus. He keeps looking at his hands and flexing his fingers, standing up, sitting down, walking around in circles. Everything worked. He felt fine. He felt alive. And his sisters were happy.