A Page of History

The pages are stretched out here on my carpet. Twelve sheets to be exact, taped together and covered with scribblings.

The scribblings probably wouldn't mean much to anyone else. But to me, they ARE me. These are the names of the people that made me, with the life-giving ability of procreation that God set up in the Garden of Eden.

The Gilbert clan that stretches back to the 1520 when William Gilbert was born in England. The Robertsons from Scotland. The Cables from the mountains of Tennessee. The Hegeman, Hendricks and Margits clans from the Netherlands. The Konradt and Worther families of Germany.

I don't know why I am so fascinated with these people. Maybe it is the frustrating mystery, that they will always be a part of me, and they will live on through my children and my children's children, even thought their body has long since returned to dust. Yet I will never know who they were. I know that there was a Eliza Jane Morehouse that lived from 1842-1898. She was married to Benjamin Doughty. Her parents were Lemuel and Jane, and her son's name was Lewis Edward Doughty, my great-great grandfather. He was only twenty when she died. Why did she die at 56? What was her life like? Did she love Jesus? Did she have hopes and dreams or was her life only full of misery and trial? What I wouldn't give for a time machine to take me to her so that I could understand who she was! Hannah Grannis only lived for 27 years. Did she die in childbirth when she left this life in 1692? Did her death break her little nine year old daughter Sarah's heart? Then there is Jan and Geerten Bloedtgoet from the Netherlands. He lived 100 years and she lived 92. They died the same year in 1690. What imprinted in their absent spirits as they walked the earth for so many years of medieval history? And how did they manage to live so long without modern medicine and safety precautions?

I wish I knew why the line of my family ends so suddenly, across the entire span in the early to mid 1500's. Have I just not uncovered yet the secrets that lay further beneath the surface? Did the darkness of the years before the great immigration to America prevent them from keeping records?

I must rely on my imagination. I can only guess at who my ancestors were. Based on the fact that almost all of them are from the Netherlands, Germany or England, my people were most likely warring in Germania or on Viking ships when Jesus was sacrificing himself on that cross in Jerusalem. Who first came with the good news? How did they respond?

I don't know if anyone else ever has thoughts such as these. I'm glad God understands my need to know. He put the genealogy of Jesus all the way from Adam to Joseph in the Book He wrote. I'm glad He did, too. Geneaologies tie things together. They make life tangent. They make you trust the Creator just a bit more.

I'm glad for these names, though they can never tell me who these people really were. I'm glad that they were people created and loved by God. And I'm glad that somewhere in those bloodlines, or perhaps before they ever started, someone believed in Christ.

What an amazing God, that can take hundreds of people and make one. And that one can produce another hundred.

That's cool.

*The picture at the top is my great-grandfather William Parsons. He's a hero. When he was 39 years old, he saw some runaway horses in a circus parade headed directly toward his four young children, one of them my grandpa. He sacrificed his own life to save every last one of them.

Cry in the Dark

There is no doubt tonight that there is a Spirit within me that is not my own.

Someone nearby is hurting. Someone I know, though not well. Someone I never gave much thought to before his life turned upside down. Before everyone knew his name. And what he did.

Now I can't get him out of my mind.

Mundane and ordinary collides with tragic and desperate. My happy existence caring for my children and husband and enjoying each day of serving God suddenly seems tainted by the grief I can almost feel as I sit here at the computer and tap out the words of my heart.

What must he feel as he sits in his room and ponders the turn his life has taken? Is there anyone in his life that can help him see the truth? Will someone show him that Jesus loves him and can erase the deepest stain of sin from the life most destroyed? Or will all that hate him condemn him to hell with their bitter pursuit of justice, and all that love him try to ease his life-threatening condition with bandaids and kisses?

Will anyone show him Jesus?

I can tell Jesus is hurting for him. He's reaching for him. One little move on the sinner's part and he would make up the distance between them in a heartbeat. After all, Jesus already paid the punishment. The sin that this individual can't take back, no matter what he does, or for as long as he lives, was paid for long ago by a Man who loves him beyond reason.

How will he know?

Will he see you in my family, Jesus? Is that how you might use us? With loving words, truth spoken in the moment of opportunity, grace imparted by your willing vessels?

Or is our assignment to pray? We are. We will, for as long as we sense the heartache. For as long as we see them every day and have to read the hopelessness and confusion in their eyes. We will pray. With all the fervor of the Spirit within that can't take His eyes off a broken man.

I have a new perspective this evening. In the shadow of a victim, a victim's family that cries out for justice and retribution, there is sometimes a sinner who would turn back time to erase the crime he commited. There is usually a family that is also devastated. And their cries are often not heard. Not recognized by human justice.

Jesus hears. His Spirit hears. And straining to hear with His ears, I can hear a faint cry in the dark.

Facing the Giants

Ever have days when you can't figure anything out?

I'm having one of those years, it seems.

I hate not knowing the answers. I come to conclusions very quickly, and it's hard for me when I don't know what to do. Or what to think. Or even what to pray.

What do you do when you see a house on fire, a house full of people you love, and you can't convince anyone around you that there is even a waft of smoke? Even the people inside are waving happily from the windows as if life couldn't be more peaceful, meanwhile to all your understanding the entire structure is about to explode in deadly flames.

First of all, you start wondering if you're going crazy. In my case, a distinct possibility, as you will discover if you dig more deeply into my blog. Be warned. But what gives me pause is that there are a few others standing beside me, uneasily asking if anyone has called the fire department.

I guess I feel a little like David. The whole of the army of the Lord sitting around in their tents playing cards while Goliath shouts curses down on Almighty God.

"Isn't anyone going to stop him?"

So far I've got no takers. No one more spiritually equipped, no one in some place of leadership has offered to take on the giant who is defying God and all His people.

So here I'm left to make the decision. Do I stand up to him even though I'm not what you would call the most qualified? And if I do that, should I arm myself to the extreme, even if the armor is too big for me? Is it really possible to defeat an armed nine foot giant with a little leather strap and a few stones and absolutely no backup?

I'm not there yet. But part of me would really like to be.

I'm just wondering which side is going to win. First of all in me, and then on the battlefield.