Mother's Day Tribute

In May we celebrate having a mother and being a mother. I could fill post after post about the wonders, pains, celebrations of being a mother, of having a mother. But I don't have time. Today, I want to just celebrate some amazing women in my life.

Considering I have just a little time before I need to get ready for church, I will make this as simple as possible. Today, I want to praise and thank God for the following women:

1. My mom. We call her Mamaw Judy and JuJu. She's witty and funny. She loves hard. She taught me to read. She taught me to love beauty.
2. My stepmom. I call her Brenda. But mostly I call her friend. She's fiercely loyal. Has deep common sense. She's adventurous. She's strong and brave--and fights a daily battle against a disease that would take most to the ground. And she's the other half of my dad.
3. My mother-in-law. She's anything BUT plain Jane. She is an inspiration--to live life to the fullest. To not allow fear to rob you of what and who you love most. She is an amazingly strong, courageous woman. She's an incredible mother and the perfect kind of grandmother.
4. My first spiritual mother. Peggy Mastin. She taught me about faith and the power of it. She taught me to pray and the depth of it. She is with Jesus now, and I know she is in the great cloud of witnesses cheering us to the finish.
5. My second mother. Dianna Jean. How this woman has mothered me. When I have felt lost and frightened, like a child, she has been a rock. She calls me "Tamera Ruth" and I call her Mama.
6. My other mother. Betty Vaughan. Betty mothered me through my early mothering years. Loved me like her own. Still does. And I am grateful.
7. Anna Vaughan. My first daughter. To watch her mother this giraffe and a lion of a boy of hers--I love their conversations and their sweet bond. Her understanding of her son is something to behold.
8. Katherine Rector. My second daughter. She often juggles a circus, a three ring one at that. But to listen to her reason with such patience with her 3 1/2 year old son is simply astounding.
9. Hannah Harris. My third stepdaughter. Hannah is mothering a child who is 5 going on 18. And on the outside it seems she does it effortlessly.
10. I am thankful for all eight of our daughters. Eight of them. All different. All unique. Elizabeth, Stephanie, Anna, Katherine, Hannah, Olivia, Gabrielle, and Abby.
11. My four daughters. Need I say more? Well, yes. I am a mother because of these four women. Each one contributed to my growth not only as a mother, but as a woman, as a Believer. These women have helped me become more than I ever thought I would or could be. They will NEVER know the depth of respect, admiration, and love I have for each of them. I have been blessed in abundance.

My mother. Juju.

My incredible Stepmother--Brenda

Strong, tenacious, and wonderful mother-in-law--Jane Rehnborg

One of my spiritual mothers--Peggy Mastin (on left)

My Second Mother: Dianna Jean



The mother when I needed her: Betty Vaughan

Kat, Elijah, Anna, Judah

 

My third stepdaughter--Hannah and her son Tatem

All eight. Our daughters.

Why mothering is a privilege.

50 Years, 5 Decades, and a Half a Century

Today is April Fool’s Day. A day of pranks, jokes, and tricks. And I’ve always taken them all in stride, grinning big when someone said, “Today is your birthday? April Fool’s is your birthday? Well, what does that make you?” 

It didn’t take this day to make me a fool. I came by that moniker honest and true. Early on I lived up to the tag of my birthdate—I was a fool. Sure enough. I made sloppy mistakes, nearsighted choices, and sinful plans. A fool, I wouldn’t listen to anyone; I closed my ears and sidestepped a teachable spirit. I thought I knew all about life, everything there was to know, and I was oh, so much smarter than my mama.

But fifty years has run out beneath me, seeped out in an increasing crescent. Fifty birthdays rolled right under the proverbial bridge. Five decades are behind me now, mile markers in the past—lined up like fence posts. This half century of mine barely makes a mark, a dot, on the eternal stretch of time.

I’m glad that some of the typical 50th birthday gifts aren’t what greeted me today. I’m thankful I didn’t wake up to black balloons, over-the-hill-gift packages, and trifocal glasses—given as commentary on the number of years I have lived. Someone did say to me yesterday that I wasn’t allowed to cheat and put the number candles on my cake. I had to use fifty candles. All fifty. This “friend” suggested that the cake might catch fire. What an illuminating fiasco that would be!
So here I sit on my porch. The wind is rustling and sweeping and pulling all the loose ends of everything.  The neighbor’s wind chimes sound like a well-practiced bell choir. The bees are buzzing, but they are not content enough to light and allow me to pet their fuzzy backs (maybe in June when the weather is warmer). Henry is scuffling on the porch watching everything with a cautious eye. And Judah is napping, curled up right on the couch.

And I am crying.

Streams of hot, unsummoned tears running down my face. I’ll have to redo my makeup before tonight (and hope that everyone is tactful enough not to mention the swollen and puffy eyes).

Fifty years.

I don’t feel a day older than twenty-five. Inside my head, I’m still this young woman trying to embrace every moment of life. But what I didn’t understand at twenty-five was that I need to savor the ordinary, everyday moments--tucked away to be pondered later. Brought out like treasures from antique cedar chests.

But then I look down at my hands typing on these keys. And my hands are getting older, once smooth and slender they are now road-veined. I look in the mirror, and my face isn’t exactly the right image looking back at me. Sometimes, I look at my daughters’ faces and see some of the young Tamera there. These are not sad thoughts, just observations. Matter of fact things that you just notice and move along.

What have I learned in fifty years? What truths do I know that I know that I know?  Not many. Certainly not as many as I did when I was twenty-five. But for whatever it’s worth I think I’ll share that which I know.

10 Things I Know.

1.    I’m still a fool. Yes, I am. I’m a ridiculous fool for the love of Christ. I understand my faith seems foolish to many in our culture today. But I’m not enough of a fool to believe that I could make it one day or one hour in this world without the love and grace of God.

2.    The older I get, the less I know, and the more I want to know. The Spirit has tendered my spirit teachable. And I want it to remain this way until I take my last breath.

3.    Prayer is the anchor. In many ways, we have returned to the world of Genesis 1:2—formless, empty, and dark. In prayer, I am made aware that the Spirit of God is still hovering over the face of these turbulent waters.  Light will come; it is on its way.

4.    The deal-breakers are far and few between. Ideologies and philosophies and man-made doctrines are moot points. When the leper needed healing, Jesus didn’t cry unclean.

5.    God’s Word is utterly relevant even when we don’t want it to be. If prayer is the anchor, then God’s word is the boat. (All analogies fall at some point, just note my point.)

6.    Love is the warp and grace is the weft of these tapestry-stories we are weaving. God’s love and grace assuredly, but ours extended to others. Over and over. Seventy times seven. (Mind you this isn’t Hollywood love. Nor the romantic love of the formula-driven books we read. And this grace? Not weak tolerance or leniency or indulgence. But instead, the wild and fierce and untamable love and grace of God. )

7.    Kindness is more than a nice virtue; it must be rooted and established in us knowing the value of someone—of considering others better than ourselves. And that knowledge must have extension.  The Proverbs 31 Woman extended her hands…

8.    Community is necessary. Whether we are introverted or extroverted, we need an extended family to lift us, encourage us, bolster us, prod us, challenge us, and care for us. It’s not optional.

9.    Invest in the character and eternalness of people. Especially those closest to you, those nearest you: your children and grandchildren. Don’t invest in material stacks and piles. Don’t spend your energy on the inanimate objects that often clutter our lives. Invest and pour blessing into people—pressed down, shaken together, and running over. And remember what you sow, you will reap.

10.    God is good. He is a good good Father. We may not see it. We may not understand it, but anything we have given, surrendered, offered, extended, spent, and wasted for Him will be swallowed up in his glorious redemption—to be poured back into his kingdom, to bring him glory and us purpose.

That’s it. That’s all I know that I know that I know. Fifty years of learning, trial and error, to get me to this point. But I know these things.

And one more thing…I don’t want to squander anything I have left. I want the last part of my life to produce more fruit than even the first two-thirds.

White Noise

Recently, my high school writing class and I met at a local coffee shop. I gave them a writing prompt. I mean it is almost cliché to sit and write in a local coffee shop, right? And you are in some famous company if you do: Rowling, Rankin, Fitzgerald, McCall Smith, and many others have strung words together while sipping coffee or some other form of liquid fortifier.

What was the prompt? The jump start words to prime the proverbial well?

Two words.

White noise.

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:White.noise.png

In the dim light of the coffee house conference room, light streamed in through the seven-foot windows, and the muffled noises from the street and downstairs wafted up to us, I asked my students to identify the white noise of their lives. A few of them looked at me puzzled. Some looked past me with a blank stare as if I had just spoken Russian on a Japanese subway. Some met my gaze, and the light bulb glimmered like a compact fluorescent—slow and low, and then bright. A couple lit immediately. 

I watched as they scratched their words on the paper, hesitating, erasing, and pausing. Some of their answers surprised me. As I quietly meandered around their chairs, I considered the white noise in my life. And I asked myself the question I asked my students.

What is the white noise in my life right now?

What is the static that crackles just under the surface? What is the hum of the underlying current? What is the consistent tone or pattern I hear layered just under everything else?

A friend of mine asked me to consider 2015: the highs and the lows and the shallows and the depths.

The summit places have been broad and open and full of light, places of indescribable joy.  In March, my grandson arrived. I held Atlas in my arms, the five percent miracle of him, and joy swelled in me in proportions uncontainable. 

August marked the release of my first book, Growing Room. The publisher sent the first copy off the press to me. My husband and I stood in the break room at work and opened the box. The joyful rush and exhilaration of holding my book in my hand were surreal. I pressed my head into his chest and wept.   In September, I experienced my first book signing, and another type of joy pushed into me, pressed in leaving embossed indentations on my spirit.

These wonderful events produced definitive heights—experiences much like the ridges on the roads in the hills when I visit my dad. And for much of 2015 I rode on these high places. Drove them. Maneuvered them. Navigated them. I’m grateful I didn’t see the ninety-degree bend in the road that was coming. I’m thankful I didn’t see the drop-off and the crumble of the pavement. I’m blessed that God does not reveal the future to us; he did not show me the wreckage in the distance.

In October, Steve and I took a sabbatical weekend and drove to Gatlinburg, TN. In the early hours of the third day of our trip, my phone rang waking me from a deep sleep. I know the phone rang two different times because later I would check my records, but it was the second call that broke through my sleep.

The story of that few minutes of eternity is for another time, but my brother was dead, killed in an accident on an interstate.

The descent from the heights of the joy ridge began, and the white noise commenced.

As I viewed the residual fall out of my brother’s death, white noise infiltrated my thought processes, inserted itself into the routine of my life, and became the underlying discordant hum I couldn’t quite decipher.

Last week I stayed home from church. The inner chaos and white noise were taking their toll on me. I keyed up a worship playlist on my computer and cleaned house with a focused vengeance. At last worn out, I sat down on the couch and the white noise increased to deafening levels.

Anyone who knows me or has read my blog or book understands I am a crier. I cry, and I cry some more. But since my brother’s death, I have lived the last three and half months dry-eyed. The white noise clogged my tear ducts, dam tight. 

I sat in my living room curled up on the couch, and the white noise pushed against my ears and eyelids. Strangled cries and choking sobs broke through my throat. I tried to stop them, futile efforts. Finally, I wept for my brother and for the wreckage his death left behind—for the situations and people I can’t fix or help. 

I finally wept for me. And I called things what they are.

Grief.

Grief and depression.

I heard the static of each of them humming under the surface; I identified my white noise.

And now begins the work of turning down the volume of this white noise named Grief.

Friends, I know many of you are struggling with white noise in your life. Some of you (of us) are living with a deafening roar in your ear, a ringing that just won’t stop. The hum is so familiar that you selectively don’t acknowledge it anymore, but it is taking its toll. Perhaps your white noise is grief, fear, anxiety, infertility, loneliness, anger, isolation, cancer, brokenness, resentment, addiction, depression, abuse, busyness, rejection, lethargy, or emptiness. Maybe, you can’t seem to identify it at all; you just know that you are going to go deaf.

Friends, don’t go deaf. Ask the Spirit to identify your white noise, to name it, and to show you how to decrease its volume. Identification and recognition are the first steps.  

Take the first steps.

One Month

It’s been a month since I got the 3:38 am the phone call. A phone call that shifted the terrain of our family. In the first seven days I functioned automatically, shifted into a place of doing what needed to be done, the shepherding mode. Take care of the sheep. Take care of the sheep. My goal was to take care of everyone—my mother, my step-father, my daughters, my niece and nephew, step-sisters and step-brother, and my brother’s two best friends.

My grief was and is real, but I relegated it to a compartment I wasn’t ready to open. I folded my grief and laid it in a box, thinking I would take it out and examine it later. I grieved during those first seven days, but through a fog, a numb stupor. Other people’s pain registered more strongly than my own.

But grief is a strong entity. Physical and tangible. Persistent and invasive. And it ambushes you. This thought did not originate with me, but someone said this during my brother’s funeral week. What a keen insight, what verb-age to apply to grief.

Ambushed.

I would think after being ambushed several times one would begin to get a sense of the patterns and triggers. But no, I was caught off guard more than once.

A video (posted at the end)  was playing during visitation and right before the funeral. In the footage Courtney encouraged his baby son to walk.

“Come on. Come on.” 

I stood with my back to my brother’s casket, placing an armload of stuffed animals on the floor to get them out of the way. I knew where I was. I knew what was going on. In less than ten minutes, my brother’s funeral would begin. I was straightening. Preparing. Cleaning. I was trying to keep busy. Trying to focus on activity, remaining in motion. Somehow I knew that if the motion ceased, I would collapse inwardly.

And then I heard my brother’s voice.

“Come on. Come on.”

And I turned to find him, whipped around to look behind me to see where he was. My mind understood where I was and what was about to happen, what had happened, but Courtney’s voice pierced through the numbness, and I looked to find him. The hearing and looking were the triggers. Before I knew it, a sob pushed up and through and out of my throat. I remember putting my hand over my mouth to catch the sound, but it escaped through the spaces between my fingers. My face was already wet with tears. I turned and stumbled away, not even knowing what direction I headed.

I watched grief ambush the people Courtney loved. Over and over. And I was helpless and powerless to warn them. To stop it.

A month has passed. Everyone is still hurting and grieving in such different ways. Each of us broken or cracked at a different angle and severity, our own unique fractured webs.

Slowly, I am reentering the mainstream of living. There is still a numbness that I don't quite comprehend—just this small vacuum of space that I don't know how to navigate. This past week I realized with this foggy vagueness that something in me was anticipating my weekly text and pictures from Courtney. And I am still in the midst of trying to know and discern how to help my family navigate this nightmare.

My daily life has not been avalanched or earthquaked like my brother’s two best friends (Christian and Steven) or my mom and stepfather. I experience the aftershocks, the wakes of their grief combine with my own. I am trying to reenter the mainstream, but it is like merging back into high-speed interstate traffic. I keep feeling the whoosh of air fly by me as the cars just speed along in life.
All my dear friends encourage me to take the time to grieve, to allow myself space, and to give myself permission to grieve.

One of my brother’s best friends said something this week that I have been holding.

“He’s [Courtney] in the back of my mind constant. But that’s not new for me, what’s new for me is I’m not in the back of his mind. We’ve always thought of each other in a lot of things, things only we shared. But most people are already tired of hearing about him.”

Most people are already tired of hearing about him. Perhaps this is true. I catch myself holding thoughts in, holding emotions close, belting reactions, and closing my mouth before words escape. Only late at night when the house is dark or in the early light of the morning do the tears come, running hot and quick down my face. They waylay me and take me unaware. The tears and sorrow are held in a deep reservoir waiting for a crack to open. 

And I am thankful for the cracks, for the fissures. For the seepage of the weeping. The tears coat the jagged edges of pain. The release of them keeps me from cracking internally.

I think of Jesus.

He is the exact representation of the Father. He is the image of the invisible God.

Jesus stood at the tomb of Lazarus, his friend, and his heart brother. And he wept. He didn’t just cry ceremonial, obligatory tears. No, he cried. Jesus wept because death wasn’t a part of the original plan. It wasn’t an element in the original storyline. It wasn’t’ the Father’s intention. And Jesus stood at the brink and edge of sorrow and loss and pain. He didn’t shirk. He didn’t stoically hold it all in because God would make all things work together for the good. No, he wept for Lazarus, for Martha and Mary, and he wept for us. He stood at the cavern of death and wept for all of us.

And then he said to Lazarus, “Come out.” 

Come on, Lazarus.

I believe he said this to Courtney.

Come on. Come on.

Someday Jesus will say it to me.

And someday he will say it to you.

And when he does death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.

Courtney and Aiden

Mr. Mohr, Chocolate, Sarge, and Ms. Inga

Ingeborg Hoffmann (Her mama made sure Inga always put the second “n” on her last name; she assured her that it made a difference) was born in Faurndau (Swabia) in 1938. Ingeborg, red-headed and strong-tempered, persistently and constantly asked a litany of questions much to her mother’s annoyance. The 1940’s version of time-out was to be sent to your room; Ms. Inga spent a lot of time in her room.

Even now when Ms. Inga talks to me, I hear her voice, riveted in places with remnants of her native German. I see this sepia photograph in my mind of this auburn-haired little girl stamping her feet before her brothers (she followed them everywhere), her hands on her hips, brown eyes flashing. Ms. Inga assures me that this redheaded trait got her into trouble more often than not. But this precocious child surely made an impression on an American soldier.

Thirteen year old Ms. Inga on left with her younger sister on right.
The little girl in the middle was an American child the sisters babysat.

Sarge

By Ingeborg LaBella


Early one morning my brother Hans woke me up. He wanted me to listen to the noise outside our house. What is it? I asked him.

He said, “Come and look out my window, and you will see.” As I looked out the window, on the street were the biggest trucks we had ever seen. The fumes they expelled were awful. Once they shut their motors off, the noise and fumes subsided.

Many of the soldiers sat on the sidewalk, but some of them laid on the sidewalk. My brother explained to me that they drove all night long to reach their destination.

“What is the destination?” I asked him.

“A town or city, just a place,” He answered.

I didn’t know why the soldiers were in our little town. I hurried back upstairs and got dressed. I tried to comb my curly hair the best way I could.

Some of my friends were there, and made fun of the black soldiers, but the men just ignored them. Out of the first truck came the biggest black man I had ever seen. Most of the children ran away to hide; we had never seen a black man before. All I could do was stare at him. He spoke, and I was very surprised. He spoke almost perfect German.

I had a picture book that I got from my Aunt Martha (my mother’s younger sister). I couldn’t read yet, but I looked at the pages of pictures of Africa. The title of the book was Der Schowarze Mohr (The Black Mohr). I thought Sarge looked like the men in the pictures.

“Habekeine angst,” He told us don’t be afraid. He assured us that he and the soldiers would not harm us.

My brother Hans stepped forward and asked, “Are you the Americans? How come you speak German?”

Of course, I was in the front, and the Sarge asked me in German what my name was. I told him my name was Ingeborg. He picked me up and smiled at me. I noticed his big white teeth and his big lips.

“That is a beautiful name, but much too long for a such a little girl like you. I will call you Inga, that’s the right name for you. Do you like it? ”

I told him, “I don’t know, I will have to ask my mother.”

My mother came out of the house with a basket of clothes she just washed. She saw us, and, of course, she was curious about what was going on. He told her my new name was Inga. She wasn’t mad or anything, and she even shook Sarge’s hand.

My mother told us to go and play in the yard, and she and the soldier talked for a very long time. Later I learned she asked Sarge where he learned to speak German. He told my mother he had to learn German because he was a scout. He and the rest of his platoon were always the first soldiers to occupy the towns or cities. The soldiers were given instructions to talk to the children in the villages first. They considered this the best way to find out the local news. Children don’t lie; they are brutally honest. My mother was not sure if she could believe him or not. But she told us that we didn’t have to be afraid him. 

Later on the street Sarge pulled something out of his jacket pocket, and he explained that it was schokolade (chocolate).  He offered it to us. None of us had ever tasted it before, and we were hesitant and wary.

He looked at me and said, “You look like a brave girl, here put this little piece in your mouth and let it melt slowly.” Several of the kids shouted that it was poison, and they didn’t want anyone to die. But Sarge laughed and assured me that we would not die. He broke a piece off and let it melt in his mouth and told us how good it tasted. I stepped toward him and took the piece he offered me. It was just the best thing I ever ate. I whispered to him that this schokolade was good. He told us that he would still be here tomorrow. 

I said, “Gute Nacht, Herr Mohr.”

“The same to you, Redhead,” He replied.

I was awake most of the night. When I got up the next day, I had to eat oatmeal and half of an apple before I could go downstairs. Outside at last Sarge offered us another surprise: a few pieces of chewing gum. The others were still a little afraid to take it, but I went first. He told me I could chew on it as long as I wanted, then spit it out.

He said, “Don’t swallow it, Inga, it will get stuck in your throat.”

Sarge asked me if he could swing on my swing. I told him he was much too big for my swing.

“I will be careful, and if I break your swing, you will get a new one, but I will keep all the apples that fall from the tree.”

Well, the apples fell from the tree, and Sarge was lying on the ground holding a part of my swing in his big hand. I cried, and he laughed. I told him that he couldn’t call me Inga anymore. He teased me, “Can I call you Redhead?”

“Nein. What about my swing?” I asked.

“It will be there, don’t you worry. Just wait and see.”

He explained that he and the other soldiers had to move along and that he would see me tomorrow and say goodbye.

I cried myself to sleep that night. In the early morning hours, I heard the motors of the big trucks start. I hurried downstairs and outside; I wanted to say aufwiedersehn (goodbye).

I sat on the sidewalk for a long time until someone woke up in the truck. Several soldiers slept in the back. Sarge came out and told me they were getting ready to leave soon. I told him about my book and that I had decided his name was Mr. Mohr. He laughed and told me to call him Sarge. I asked Sarge if I would ever see him again.

“Maybe,” He said.

He pulled his wallet out and showed me a picture of his wife and two little girls. He told me that they lived far away in America, not in Africa. I was confused. He asked me if I would like to blow the horn on the truck, but he had to help me because my hands were too small and not strong enough.

Then he asked me if I wanted to take a look at the apple tree. I was so surprised! There on my apple tree was a new swing. The other soldiers helped Sarge make it.

Sarge told me it was now time for him to leave, and asked if he could give me a hug. I told him it was ok, but that I hoped I wouldn’t get black like him. He laughed. “I will miss you, Inga.” He hugged me and then got into his truck.

“Aufwiedersehn,” he yelled and waved at me from the window. I shouted for him to come back again.

I don’t know if he could hear me anymore because of the noise of the trucks.  I waved goodbye.

Ms. Inga never saw Sarge again. But I have a few questions to ponder. When Sarge returned to America and to his family, I wonder if he sat his two little girls on his knee and told them about the brave little German girl. Was there a time he considered returning to the village to see the bold red-headed girl? Did he talk to his wife about the little girl’s innocence and forthrightness? About her candor and honesty? When Sarge unwrapped a chocolate bar or bit into an apple did he think about the little girl he nicknamed Inga?

One thing we know for sure, his nickname for her remains; we still call her Inga.

Helga, Sarge, and Ms. Inga (Guest Blogger)



 

In July, WestBow Press published my first book. Many people, including the publisher, likened this event to a birth. At first, I thought this comparison far too epic, but as each step in the process came to fruition, I embraced this metaphor. I fretted over every sentence, worried about mistakes and typos (and there are still many of them in the book). Growing Room survived the first publisher’s edit mostly intact. Honestly, I couldn’t catch my breath, couldn’t quite focus. My disconnected thoughts bordered on elation and panic. This book I wrote might well be a failure—but WestBow published Growing Room: For Life in Tight Places.

Since Growing Room went live in July 2015, there’s been a video release, Facebook contests, text messages, and newspaper articles. I’ve heard from readers through Facebook messages, phone calls, and face to face conversations. My Church Body prayed over the book and me, and in September I experienced my first book signing. My own.

But God’s orchestration and plans are far above and beyond ours. In Growing Room, in the opening chapter I declare that God is ahead of us always. He. Is. Always. Ahead. Even now this unfolding causes me to catch my breath. 

In early August The Winchester Sun, our newspaper, ran a local interest article about Growing Room and me. The story made the front page and had the hometown-girl-makes-big feeling. I read it and tucked it away, not because it wasn’t important, but because I didn’t want it to be. Growing Room is not a best seller or great American classic writing, but all the words and the lessons recorded in it have shaped me. Through the experiences written in it God revealed to me his sweet, beautiful, and powerful grace. Quite often I stand in the throne room, with a little moxie and chutzpah, praying for this book to bear fruit that will last for his glory.

And when you ask the Father for bread on your plate he doesn’t give you stones.

One day after the newspaper article printed I was at work. It was a Thursday night, rainy and storming. I heard a patron ask my daughter an odd question: Did we have any resources available to help her convert her manuscript to a typed document? My daughter referred her to our reference department. A few minutes later one of our reference librarians came and asked me if I could come and talk to the patron at her desk. Jennifer explained that this patron would like to meet me because she read the newspaper article. Jennifer introduced me to Ms. Inga LaBella. And my life hasn’t been the same since.

Ms. Inga started at the beginning. A friend of Inga’s called and asked her if she had seen the newspaper from a few days ago.

“No, Will, I haven’t,” said Ms. Inga.

“Well, Inga, you need to find you one right now. Monday’s paper,” he encouraged.

Ms. Inga went to a neighbor’s house and found the Monday edition of the paper. Three days later she and I sat at the reference desk sharing stories. Mostly I listened to her, enthralled. She has a story to tell, many stories. When she read of my journey to share mine, she embraced the courage to find a means to tell hers.

Ms. Inga needs to write a book, and we are working to make that happen, but in the meantime I invited her to share some of her story here on The Chambered Nautilus as a guest blogger.


Ms. Inga’s stories are memories from Germany during WWII. In the early 1940’s Inga was a little girl with red curls and dark brown eyes and a strong will.

Ms. Inga today.

Ms. Inga in 1941-42



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She lived in a small German village and remembers events and people that most of us only read about in books. Inga watched American soldiers drive tanks down streets far too small—the sidewalks widening the road. Inga watched her father nail a picture of Hitler on the wall of their small home. She witnessed the SS (Schutzstaffel) when they pushed through front doors and into their home, waiting for the Hoffmann family to salute the Fuhrer’s image. Inga heard the staccato barks of the soldiers commanding her mother to salute. The stern soldiers shouted, and their dogs intimidated Inga too, but her little four-year-old-self refused. The SS left her home, the German shepherd trailing slightly behind, licking Ms. Inga’s hand as it passed through the front door. 

These stories drew me. Ms. Inga, her accent, and her still red hair delighted me. I thanked God for her and this incredible opportunity. I meet with Ms. Inga almost every week now. On Thursdays, I drive to her house and sit at her kitchen table or on her deck and listen as she recounts experiences and people and events. Sometimes I take notes, abbreviated words and scrawled writing, so I don’t miss or leave out a detail. I laugh because Ms. Inga has a snap-sharp wit, impeccable timing, and the punch and point of her story come naturally.  I look forward to Thursdays. I think you would too.  

Ms. Inga has written her stories down in a cloth bound journal, printed in clear, distinct, and purposed handwriting. She gave me permission to post them here. This connection with Ms. Inga is fruit, the very fruit of my prayers. I praise and thank the Good Father; there are no stones on my plate.

 

Ms. Inga's handwritten journal.

 

This is Ms. Inga's story of Helga. 

 

Helga

My Best and First Friend

By Ingeborg LaBella

We both were the same age, born in the same month (July). We always pretended we were sisters. She had blonde hair and the bluest eyes—the color of the flower (forget-me-not). They grew wild in the fields, and as we got older, we picked them for our mothers.

We would sit on my swing for hours, made up stories and even a few songs, and then we would dance like butterflies. On rainy days we played—one day in my house, one day in her house—usually we played school. We took turns on who was the Teacher. We knew the alphabet real well, and we could count to one hundred. Our ragdolls and one Teddy Bear were our students, bur after a while we got tired. We looked outside my window and tried to count the raindrops, after a while we laid on my bed and took a long-long nap. For Sundays, we picked daisies and made a wreath to put on our heads.

We were not allowed to talk in church. I was fascinated by the Virgin Mary, and so was Helga. At the end of church when the minister and all the people left the church we hurried to the Virgin Mary and laid our wreaths at her feet. One Sunday the minister said, “Mary said, ‘thank you’ to the two little girls who put the wreaths by her feet.

Helga whispered maybe we can’t ever go to Church again, but he smiled at us and said, “The angels are smiling at the two of you.” We both hugged, and I told Helga that we will be sisters forever.

The cherries were almost ready to be picked off the trees. Helga and I thought that maybe we can reach one or two if we can pull on the branch. We finally got one. I told Helga this one was hers. Suddenly I heard her scream. I saw some blood run down her chin, and she spit her bottom tooth out. Suddenly she stopped crying and reminded me that I did not eat my cherry yet. I ate it very careful and did not lose a tooth.

“That’s not fair,” she said and went home. Every evening I laid on my bed twisting on one of my bottom teeth. It took almost two weeks before the tooth finally fell out.

My mother said, “How come you are so happy because you lost your tooth.” I told her that Helga lost hers, and I felt bad for her, and now she will be happy again.

My mother asked, “If she breaks her arm or leg, will you break yours too?”

I said, “Of course not, but I will take care of her until she is better again.” My mother gave me a big hug and said, “You would be a good nurse just like your Aunt Martha.”

I never knew Helga’s last name, and I wonder if she she knew mine. We didn’t care, and we didn’t know our last names meant life or death for all of us. One day a young boy carried a black bucket and broom between two German soldiers, and he had to paint a cross on some doors. They painted one on Helga’s door, and we didn’t know why. We thought maybe we could wash it off when they left our street. We tried, but it didn’t work. Helga wondered why they didn’t paint a cross on our door. I decided to ask my mother what the black marks meant, but she didn’t know either. She told us not to worry, but I could tell she was upset. She told me it wasn’t the time to ask her questions (I asked lots of questions). My mother told me I wasn’t allowed to go outside and play for a while, and that I must listen. My feelings were hurt, and I sat on my bed and cried and cried. Finally, my brother Hans came home, and I told him the whole story.

He said something bad was going to happen; he didn’t know when, but it would be soon. I wasn’t for sure, but I think he mentioned the Jews. I wished I knew about the Jews; I didn’t know who they were. Were they dangerous?

During our Thursday mornings together Ms. Inga and I talked about Helga. These two girls were inseparable. One morning after the event mentioned above Helga came to Inga’s house early, and they snuck outside to play. Inga and Helga heard that the SS had gathered people in the town square. Sometimes little girls do not do what their mothers tell them, and Helga and Inga slipped away from the yard. Their curiosity drew them to the town square where they saw many of their neighbors and friends lined against the wall of the building, and the SS shouting. The little girls hid lifting their eyes enough to see what was happening. Shots were fired, and the little girls ran back to Inga’s house.

The next day Helga did not come to play, and Inga’s mother did not allow her to go outside. Helga did not come the next day. Or the next. Or the next. Heartbroken, Inga kept asking why. She never saw her friend again. Later Inga learned Helga’s family was Jewish. Inga could only assume that Helga and her family did not escape the war.

Next post tells the story of Ms. Inga's friend Sarge, a black American soldier who visited her village.

Dancing Lessons

Our Wedding Day Dance

Years ago for Christmas my daughters gave my husband and me dancing lessons. Four lessons at a professional dance studio. Four appointments with a private dance instructor to learn to the rumba, the waltz, and the cha-cha. We were a little stunned, but we decided to give it a whirl. What could we lose? Maybe it would be fun; certainly, the participation in the classes held a romantic aura. 

Each week we donned fancy clothes and went on our dancing date. Newly engaged we were in the midst of the I’m-learning-even-more-about-you-stage. Steve walked over to my house and out to his car, opened the car door for me (he still does, always). I scooted into the car with weak knees and butterflies. What was the root of these flutterings? Nervousness about dancing? Or because of the striking handsomeness of the man of mine? These dance dates proved to be awkward and challenging. Our self-consciousness raised to new levels. Certainly there was something incredibly romantic about those nights in that studio. Being held in his arms and looking up into his face seemed to be movie material—but we discovered (or admitted) that we both had two left feet.

When envisioning the lessons, I saw us gliding gracefully across the floor. Every movement choreographed together, synched. As close as we were and are I thought we would anticipate each other’s movements. I thought I would be able to follow his lead. What a picture we would make, I dreamed. 

This dream was far from the reality of the situation. We were awkward and disconnected. Stiff and tight. The rhythm of the dances didn’t come naturally to us. We were too busy counting and trying to remember the next set of steps. I’m not sure who was more uncomfortable? Steve or me? Our instructors were patient, tolerant. But their eyes spoke volumes: This couple is hopeless.  We knew it too, but at the end of our gift package, we decided to sign up for four more lessons, not because we thought we could dance. Not because we were determined to be great dancers. No. We signed up because we were learning something hard together—a built-in weekly date that forced us beyond our comfort zones and into trusting each other.

The waltz came the easiest, though far from elegant. We didn’t know how to guide our feet on the floor or how to keep our eyes pivoted away from our feet. We had no innate rhythm. The instructors kept encouraging us to raise our chins and look at each other. And for a few moments when we followed these instructions we danced. Briefly.

I’m sure the instructors felt a bit awkward themselves. Steve and I couldn’t dance, but we were in love. Written all over us was this “I’m crazy about him stare, and this I can’t look at her enough gleam.” And we did not bother to hide it.  If anything we reveled in it, and the instructors had front row seats. Thankfully, they often turned their heads and allowed us our private moments.

At the end of the second set of sessions, we discussed the option of investing in more lessons. We laughed and decided to invest our money elsewhere. We opted out of the sales pitch, and the somewhat insincere “but you are doing so well”. We knew better.

This week I thought about the value of those lessons. Those eight lessons solidified something in us that had nothing to do with dancing.

These lessons taught us to ask questions and evaluate. How would we interact and respond and react to the difficult and uncomfortable places in life?  What choices would we make when we just couldn’t get it right? How would we handle the reality that there would be situations when we both would have two left feet? What would we do when we couldn’t find the why or the how? What would we do when we stepped on each other’s toes or missed steps or moved in the wrong direction? These lessons helped set a precedent for what would we do, as a couple, with the challenges in life.

We still dance. At the weddings and chaperoning school dances and in our kitchen. We still have two left feet. We don’t remember any of the steps of choreography. But what we learned and still know is how to keep looking at each other. To lift our eyes away from our feet and look at each other, through love rather than perfection and expectation. In those dance classes, we learned that even with two left feet we danced well with each other. We met and meet challenges together. My hand in his, his hand on the small of my back, leading me even when I am moving backward. 

After we had married, long after the lessons were over, we were in Wal-mart. In the middle of the household department, Steve caught me up in his arms and pulled me close. We danced—swaying and laughing and gazing at each other. We didn’t care about steps or choreography or who was watching. We danced in and because of joy. Silly wonderful delight.

More often than not we dance through life with two left feet—a weakness and limitation that makes the tricky combinations quite difficult. But our Father knows our frames. He knows about our two left feet, our lack of rhythm, and our awkward lilt. But when we dance in spite of being uncomfortable and self-conscious, he is delighted. Laughs right with us.

Friends, dance. Lay down the self-conscious censoring. Put aside the unreasonable expectations. Give over the hobbling limitations. Seriously. Just put your hand in the Father’s, look into his face and dance. 

 

Ripples

Mark 1:9

In the streets or the synagogue of Nazareth, the news of John’s message of repentance reached the ears of Jesus. The emergence of this voice in the wilderness was Jesus’ trumpet call—the shofar of the Lord—to enter the last season of his ministry and time among us. Yes, the last of his ministry.

Surely the gospel years were not Jesus’ only ministry. He ministered before. The three years recorded in the gospels were the fruition of the previous thirty years. Scripture tells us Jesus grew in wisdom and stature. In those years all the wonderful things we see in Jesus developed. The patience. The wisdom. The understanding. The discernment. The compassion. The insight. When he stepped into public ministry, by the avenue of association and baptism, then came the power and authority. Jesus allowed his Father to do his work in him.

But when Jesus got wind of John's voice he packed up his belongings (what little he had) and kissed his mama goodbye. We don’t know if Jesus traveled alone, or how far he traveled, or if he sent a message to his cousin that he was on his way. Regardless he left Nazareth. He left Galilee. Jesus leaves home, the place he grew into a man.

He left his places of routine, comfort, and familiarity.

Jesus came to John. He walked into the river water. John looked up and recognized Mary’s son. John knew the stories: this cousin caused him to leap in his mama’s womb. Once again John's spirit leaped. He knew this man, and he argued with him.

“Baptized me, John,” Jesus spoke with John’s gaze riveted to his.

“No, Jesus. It is you who should baptize me.” John confessed and dropped his head.

“John.” John looks up into the face of Jesus.

“Baptize me so that all righteousness is fulfilled,” Jesus explained.

John laid his cousin back, buried him in the dark waters of the river. Eddies swirled around and over them both. Jesus came up from that watery grave, his hair streaming, his beard pouring, his tunic plastered to his chest, and his eyes on fire.

John staggered backward in the wake, and just as he regained his balance he saw the anointing rest on Jesus, remaining. He felt Jesus’ squeeze on his shoulder and watched him as he walked back up the bank of the river. And the wind blew, whipped Jesus’ hair and billowed the sleeves of his tunic. John saw the water trail behind Jesus, dripping ripples in the water and John watched until the widening circles touched him. 

And these ripples, of Jesus fulfilling righteousness, have touched us.

If you are reading this post the ripple has reached you, the very ripple caused by Jesus.

Hebrews 1:3 and Colossians 1:15 declares to us that Jesus is the exact representation of God. He came to show us who God is. Jesus came that we would have a better understanding, a clearer vision of the Father.

God called us to the same ministry as his Son—a ministry of representation and reconciliation. We are called to help fulfill all righteousness. In Mark 1:8 John tells us John baptizes with water, but Jesus baptizes with the Spirit.

The Spirit descends on us, lights on us, and indwells us just as He did Jesus. We can argue like John, protest and hesitate, or we can be baptized (immersed in the Spirit) and enter the rippling ministry of the Good News.

But.

We must be ready to leave home; we must be willing to leave our places of routine, comfort, and familiarity. We must decide to go down into the river. It is there we will be immersed and anointed by the Spirit. Only then we will be prepared and equipped to carry the good news up the bank, into the wilderness, and beyond.

We All Need I.P.A.

Mark 1: 9-11

9 At that time Jesus came from Nazareth in Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. 10 Just as Jesus was coming up out of the water, he saw heaven being torn open and the Spirit descending on him like a dove. 11 And a voice came from heaven: “You are my Son, whom I love; with you I am well pleased.”

Jesus came to be baptized by John. In approximately sixty words (NIV) something utterly new unfolds. As Jesus lifted up out of the water, Heaven tore open (Jesus' presence tears many things) and fresh revelation descended.

What did the voice of the Father say to his Son at that moment? 

1.    You are my Son. Identity. God the Father declared Jesus as the Son. His Son. Here’s who you are, Jesus.

2.    Whom I love. Position. God the Father proclaimed his love for his Son. This love gave Jesus a position that no one could take from him. It marked him with favor, with the relationship, and with a place. 

3.    With you I am well pleased. Affirmation. God the Father affirmed his satisfaction with Jesus. With pleasure, he affirmed Jesus.

Why are these three points important to us?

How are they relevant to us? We are not Jesus. No, we are not, but the same things offered to Jesus are available to us. If we accept these points, if we receive them, and if we embrace them, our lives will be radically different.

In the past two weeks, our grandsons have all had birthdays. We bought presents, had parties, and celebrated them. This third birthday is the first time Elijah and Judah were quite aware that it was their birthday.




Elijah sporting the blue icing on his fish birthday cake!

Tatem's 5th birthday. His geode cake!



Judah and his Aunt Wivvy monkey cake. Photo credit to Ashley Wellman.

When I pray for these little boys, I pray several Scriptures over them. This passage of Mark is one I added recently. I want these little boys to know three things as they grow and develop and become. And for them, or any of us, to know we must have the same three things God the Father gave to Jesus.

Identity.

The boys are learning the connections of family relationships: who is aunt, cousin, uncle, grandfather, and grandmother. Quite often I tell these little boys they are my grandsons. To know this connection helps them to understand their identity. I am their grandmother (I am not the only one who tells them; their grandfathers and parents tell them too). As they learn their familial connections they develop their identity.

We are God’s children. Scripture tells us this repeatedly. We are the adopted children of God. Grafted into his family. We assumed his name. He is our Father. These truths should afford us our identity, not success, wealth, abilities, skills, appearances, or connections.

Position.

I tell the boys ALL the time I love them. I whisper in their ears I love you. I love you. I love you. All  of them. (Atlas just grins.) Right in their ears, as close as I can get. I do this every time we are together. I do this at random times. Their behavior, their performance, or their abilities do not determine the frequency or the intensity of this practice of mine. I declare my love for them because they are mine. My prayer is that my love coupled with their parents, other grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins will give them a sure position. When people know they are truly loved, not tolerated or indulged, but unconditionally loved their position in this life seems to be more stable and solid. The foundation is laid deep.

We are loved by God. Before the foundations of the world were in place, and even while we were far from him, he loved us. Because of this love he sent his Son to whisper this news in our ears over and over and over.  Scripture assures us that this is our position and  NOTHING can separate us from this love.

Affirmation.

The other phrase my grandsons (and my daughters) often hear from me is that I am proud of them. Incredibly proud. In their accomplishments, developments, successes, and endeavors. But even more I am proud of who they are. I am well pleased with the growth of their character, with the sweetness of their spirits.

During this birthday time, all attention centered on these three little boys. That much attention is hard for even a grown-up to handle. But these boys swelled my Noni-heart. At Elijah’s birthday, he did not pass his birthday cards by uninterested. At three years old he opened them and looked at them and listened to his mama or daddy read them. He expressed the same gratitude for the cards as for the gifts. A close friend of the family commented on Elijah’s thoughtfulness. I beamed. His mama cried.

At Judah’s party, Elijah wanted to blow out the candle too (what child doesn’t want to blow out the candle?). Judah shared his candle and his seat with Elijah, and they took turns blowing out the candle. Judah had several helpers when he opened his gifts; there were no declarations of this is mine, nothing of the these are mine attitude.

I am well pleased with my grandsons, but what if they looked at me each time I said this, and they gave me excuses for why I shouldn’t be proud? What if each time I expressed my pleasure in them they attempted to negate this truth with negative things about themselves? I know the negative, I am not a blind grandmother. I have seen my grandsons not share. I have seen them angry because they did not get their way. I have seen them fight over a toy. But these times do not negate my pleasure in them.

God is pleased with us. And this point is the hardest to accept. This truth is hard to swallow down past the buts and exceptions. We do not believe God can be pleased with us. We know our secret sins, the condition of our hearts, and the state of our spirits. How can God be pleased with us? We don’t pray enough. Study enough. Read the Word enough. We are angry and resentful. We are jealous and envious. We are lustful and vengeful. We are ______________________. How can God be pleased with us?  THIS IS HOW:  God is pleased with us because of his Son. Grace affords us this place. Grace. When we shun God's affirmation of us, we deny grace.

Father, I thank you for your word—the relevancy of it for us today. It is not a worn-out, archaic book that no longer applies to the modern age. No, Father, your truth is timeless. You know people. You know us. You know what we need. And Father, we need to know who we are. We need to know we are loved. And we need to know that someone is proud of us, that someone is pleased with us. Father, these are essential needs. Your word tells us that you know what we need before we even ask. Father, I pray you would pour out these gifts, supply these needs for these sweet people today. Father, tell them who they are. Remind them they are loved. Assure them you are proud of them. And wherever there is a lack or unbelief, I pray for you to help. In the name of Jesus. Amen

Growing Room Book Signing Event!

 

In July WestBow Press released my first book Growing Room: For Life in Tight Places. There have been several milestones since that day. This is one I am looking forward to with great eagerness. Why? Because I get to meet you!

 

Would love to have you join me! Food, fellowship, and fun! There will be giveaways, books for sale, and other surprises.

Just Like John

Mark 1:1-8

So this John came, this unexpected, radical, and fiery man appeared in the wild—burst into the middle of the scene. His voice boomed before the stage lights even flickered. A raw and forthright man who didn’t curry favor or kowtow to anyone. John declared the kingdom of God was on its way. Make preparations. Be ready.

Long ago when a royal entourage approached a city or village, a group traveled ahead to remove the obstacles and barriers. Their job? To open and smooth the road for the king’s arrival. 

Remember our central theme as we move through Mark? Watch Jesus?

Through the walls of their mothers' wombs, John watched Jesus. John was the messenger even in utero; he leaped in excitement and announced the coming arrival of God’s final revelation. God sent John as a forerunner, a harbinger, and a new voice in a culture and to a people who hadn’t heard a “word from the Lord” in over four hundred years. God sent John to prepare the way, to make straight the paths for the Word (Logos) to come. John did the good work God prepared in advance for him to do.

Friends, John understood who he was and who he was not.

He elevated Jesus and proclaimed him above all. John states that he wasn't worthy to untie Jesus' sandals—a slave’s job. John didn’t employ a self-demeaning or self-deprecating or falsely humble attitude. He stated the truth. John told them and us: What I do is temporary and partial, but this One who comes after me will do something eternal and complete in you. I will start something, this preparatory repentance, but he will finish it; the Holy Spirit does the lasting work.

John understood his role, his purpose in the strategy of the kingdom, and he proclaimed the message given to him and it wasn't a pleading or begging message. Repent. Turn. Forgiveness is on its way.

Like John, we need to understand our role, our purpose in the kingdom.

What is our message today? 

Ask the hard questions. Have we made this message about us or him? Are we preparing the way for him or ourselves? Are we removing obstacles so people can find him or are we rolling hurdles onto the highway? Are we telling people with certainty who we are not and who he most certainly is? Are we proclaiming the year of the Lord’s favor? Are we telling people about the deep rest of God? About the sweet grace that covers shame? About the blood of Christ that absorbs sin?

If we have been called by God, then each of us should proclaim the imminence of the kingdom and the eminence of Jesus. 

Just like John.