by Victoria -

Finding our way home

The November temperature was dropping below freezing, with the sun now below the horizon and full dark fast approaching. And my ten year old son Jeremy and I had lost the blood trail.

We’d been following the spoor for the last half hour or so, but now it was too dark to see any more blood drops on the forest floor.

It was my first and only year bow hunting on our land in Michigan, because the deer I had hit with my arrow hadn’t dropped as expected, but had bolted through the trees and we couldn’t find him anywhere. I used the venison every winter to feed my family, but bow hunting was clearly not working for me. My shotgun was much more effective. My purpose in hunting wasn’t to injure and maim, but to kill instantly with minimal, if any, suffering.

We had about 25 acres of woods at the back of our property, with the front 30 acres or so tillable land. This past year it had been alfalfa, and the year before the field was full of row upon row of corn.

I’m not all that good navigating in the woods even though I love being in it. I can get turned around too easily, so after the buck ran off through the trees with my arrow still in him, I made my way back to the house and asked Jeremy if he’d like to help me track the deer I’d shot.

“Sure, mom, I’ll help you.” He donned his heavy coat, hat, scarf, gloves, and waterproof boots, then followed me out the door, up the two-track lane, and into the woods as the sun sank even lower in the sky and the colors, almost like blood, streaked across the horizon.

It was a noisy walk, because there wasn’t any snow on the ground yet, just dead and very crackly leaves alerting every critter around of our presence even though we did our best to be quiet.

When it was finally too dark to see, and time to head home to try again tomorrow, I looked up to the sky to get my bearings. I did a complete circle searching for a familiar tree line, and then my old friend fear gripped me and my heart began beating too hard in my chest. Panic was right there, and as I willed myself to calm down, I said to my son with a quaver in my voice, “I’m a little turned around, do you know exactly where we are?”

“Of course I do, mom!” my confident 10 year old said with a smile in his little-boy voice. “Here, take my hand and follow me, I’ll lead us home.”

So I did, and soon we were out of the woods, standing in the field, looking at the welcoming lights of home just down the lane.

I’ve had to overcome a lot of things over the years that used to terrify me. I’ll bet you have, too. One of my biggies, though, if you permit me to admit it, is allowing myself to be vulnerable to the hurts of others. It’s easier for me to give money, give things, and pray for someone, than to drive to their house, or call them on the phone, sit down face to face, eye to eye, voice to voice, and gaze on their private wounds and trace their scars.

Because, if you’re like me, you feel inadequate and uncomfortable in situations like that. There’s just too much emotion going on. I don’t know what to say or how to fix them. People and their problems are a messy business and it drains me dry emotionally. I absorb too much and feel too much and it scares me because then I’m not in control anymore.

When I start thinking thoughts like that, though, I remember this saying: God doesn’t call the equipped, He equips the called. And also what God said to the Apostle Paul – ‘my strength is made perfect in weakness.’

Our meager emotional resources are more than enough for God to use. Just as he fed five thousand hungry people with only five loaves of bread and two small fish, he can use you and me, especially when we feel inadequate.

Jeremy had no idea how much his small 10 year old child voice and mittened hand calmed his momma’s fears. He didn’t know a lot of things – he was just a little boy. But he knew how to get us back home.

People who are hurting are just looking for someone to show them the way home. The way out of their pain and back to the comforting lights just down the lane.

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.