The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases. His mercies never come to an end. They are new every morning. Great is Your faithfulness. ~ Lamentations 3:22-23
Do you remember a couple of days ago when I described how so many of our great hymns are born out of trials, tribulations and tragedies? That in the midst of their darkest moments, the authors found cause to sing praises to God?
This isn't one of those stories.
There was no significant event that caused Tomas Obadiah Chisholm to write a poem about the faithfulness of God. No traged, no hardship. There was only the quiet morning light each day as Mr. Chisholm woke early to spend time with His Lord.
Mr. Chisholm did not lead an exciting life, by his own account. He lived a quiet life, but that quiet life gave birth to one of the most cherished hymns of all time. While meditating on Lamentations 3, Mr. Chisholm (who at the time was in his 50s) wrote a poem and sent it to Mr. William Runyan of the Hope Publishing Company.
Hmmm - I wonder what other gems were in that packet of poems Mr. Chisholm sent. Oh well. Let's turn in our hymnals to hymn #43.
Great is Thy faithfulness, O God my Father; There is no shadow of turning with Thee; Thou changest not, Thy compassions, they fail not; As Thou hast been, Thou forever will be.
Refrain
Great is Thy faithfulness! Great is Thy faithfulness! Morning by morning new mercies I see. All I have needed Thy hand hath provided; Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me!
Summer and winter and springtime and harvest, Sun, moon and stars in their courses above Join with all nature in manifold witness To Thy great faithfulness, mercy and love.
Refrain
Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide; Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow, Blessings all mine, with ten thousand beside!
Give thanks to the LORD, call on his name;
make known among the nations what he has done.
Sing to him, sing praise to him;
tell of all his wonderful acts.
~ 1 Chronicles 16:8 & 9
Today's history lesson won't be an accurate history lesson, for I have not been able to find the true history of this song. I can't even tell you what year it was published. Can't you just look in your hymnal for the publish date, silly girl?
Well, you see, it's not on a page in my hymnal. This song was pasted in the back cover of my hymnal growing up. We sang it every single Sunday. At the womens' retreat one year, I requested it during a hymn sing. None of the newbies knew it, but all of the old timers directed it just as dear old Roy had done each Sunday.
It wasn't until we went to a hymn sing at the Berean Church that I saw it in an actual hymnal and figured out it was actually a hymn.
All I have been able to discover is that the song was written by Virginia Marshall and published in 1964. See - I did find the publish date! I wish I knew the history of Ms. Marshall's song because it is one that I sing all the time.
I apologize that my second day of history lessons has me throwing a bit of a curve ball, but I can't explain all of my favorite hymns without including this one!
God is so wonderful! I can't explain But I can say 'Glory Hallelujah!' Praise His holy name!
It's wonderful that Jesus saved me. So wonderful that He forgave me. It's wonderful, wonderful, so very wonderful Wonderful that He is mine.
I cast on Him my every burden Lay at His feet my every care. It's wonderful, wonderful, so very wonderful Wonderful that He is mine.
If you know me for more than 30 minutes, you will find that I love music in the very depth of my being. I am daily caught dancing or singing at my desk and my nieces and nephews often imitate my quirky dance moves. When I hear music – jam or sad – I must move my body because it moves my soul.
And if you know me for longer than a few hours, you will discover that the music that moves me the most are hymns. My neighbors definitely know this fact about me as they are often the audience for my impromptu hymn sings. One of my greatest struggles with today’s Christian Church is that hymns are disappearing from Sunday mornings and are being replaced with music that – forgive my sweeping generalization – do not teach doctrinal truths.
My sister has come to hope that I never do have a wedding because I am adamant that I will have a hymn sing as part of the ceremony. Why should that be bizarre? It’s the bride’s day, isn’t it? If she wants to sing hymns, she should get to sing hymns. After all, Will & Kate sang hymns at their wedding! It will probably become a popular trend now.
I must content myself with a few hymns at church (the only one I have found that still features at least 1 hymn each Sunday), 3 hymns at BSF, and the monthly hymn sing where my sister and I join all of the old cronies in singing the greatest songs ever penned.
The words of my favorite hymns are amazing and still so applicable today – but they are even more magnificent when you know the story behind them. Often, the writer didn’t just sit down and think “I’m going to write a song today”. The words came out of a significant event in their life – songs like Amazing Grace that is an autobiographical story of John Newton’s transformation from being a slave trader and finding grace and forgiveness in the Lord. Newton went on to be a mentor for my personal hero, William Wilberforce.
It Is Well becomes so much more meaningful and puts my trials in perspective when I think of the circumstances under which the words were penned. But you will have to wait a few days to learn those circumstances, for this is the first day of my Hymnal History Lesson. It is Easter Season and I hope that your church still pulls out a few hymns on Easter Morning. This Easter, you will know the background of these greatest songs.
Let’s begin by opening our Hymnals to hymn number 4 – my favorite (although that is a hard thing to say, because I love them all so, so much!)
In 1885, 26-year-old preacher Carl G. Boberg wrote to published a poem entitled "O Store Gud" (the dude was Swedish). Several years later, Boberg was surprised to hear his poem being sung at a religious meeting to the tune of an old Swedish melody.
In the early 1920s, English missionaries to Poland, Stuart K. Hine and his wife, learned the Russian version of Boberg's poem along with the Swedish melody. Later, Hine wrote his own original English words and made his own arrangement of the Swedish melody, which later became popularized as How Great Thou Art.
The first three verses were inspired, line upon line, amidst unforgettable experiences in the Carpathian Mountains. Mr. Hine climbed to a village high in the mountains to preach in the street. Among the sympathetic listeners was a local schoolmaster. A storm was gathering and it became evident that Mr. Hine could not travel any farther that night. The schoolmaster welcome Mr. Hine into his home, where the awe-inspiring thunder echoing through the mountains brought to fruition the first verse.
Pushing on through the mountains, Hine crossed the mountain frontier into Romania and into Bukovina. Together with some young people, through the woods and forest glades he wandered and heard the birds sing sweetly in the trees (sound familiar? perhaps like the second verse?). Verse three was inspired by the conversion of many Carpathian mountain-dwellers. The fourth verse was penned when Hine returned to Britain at the breakout of WWII.
I had a hard Monday morning. I had called a kid out on a pretty big area of sin and we had quarrelled about it. I lost my temper and screamed "I'm not letting you off the hook for this!" As they always do, the kid shut down when I raised my voice and the quarrel was over. Instead we sulked for 30 minutes in passive aggressive quietness.
Someone on the street stole my sunglasses right off my head and I had a war of words in the middle of the street - who would have ever thought that Bryn could hold her own in a Kreyol argument! I got my sunglasses back, but I was in a horrible mood as I walked down the hill toward Maranatha to meet one of the kids that I wasn't actually looking forward to meeting. All the kid wanted was money and I knew it. So when a young boy - maybe 7-years-old - passed by me and said "Blan!" I was in no mood to smile or be polite. I ignored him. He started screaming it loudly over and over so that all of the non-blans were now looking at the blan. I whirled and yelled that I don't call him brun so he can be polite and say hello or not say anything at all. I meant every word of it, but I saw the hurt on his face. The blan had embarrassed him in front of his school chums.
I could almost hear an audible tsk from above. Hadn't I just finished my BSF lesson? Hadn't I just read in Acts about God's grace in the face of human perverseness? I was sick the day they handed out the grace badges in Sunday School.
The tsk had actually come from Kattia, who was walking home from school. Sa w' gen, tiBwen?
What's wrong? I'm a wretched person. That's what's wrong! That poor kid. I constantly beg for something I'm so unwilling to give. Um... God... could I have some grace for this poor attitude of mine?
Marvelous grace of our loving Lord, Grace that exceeds our sin and our guilt! Yonder on Calvary’s mount outpoured, There where the blood of the Lamb was spilled.
Grace, grace, God’s grace, Grace that will pardon and cleanse within; Grace, grace, God’s grace, Grace that is greater than all our sin.
Sin and despair, like the sea waves cold, Threaten the soul with infinite loss; Grace that is greater, yes, grace untold, Points to the refuge, the mighty cross.
Dark is the stain that we cannot hide. What can avail to wash it away? Look! There is flowing a crimson tide, Brighter than snow you may be today.
Marvelous, infinite, matchless grace, Freely bestowed on all who believe! You that are longing to see His face, Will you this moment His grace receive?
I don't know if it's normal to miss my mom as much as I do. I don't know if crying your way through your 30th birthday because your mom isn't there to make you a spectacular cake is what most people would consider mature. I don't know if sporadic crying spells are allowed after a decade of being without someone. I long to have the strength and grace of others who have it worse than I do, but those are two qualities I lack on more than several occassions. .
But that's me. I've moved forward, but I haven't moved on. .
Nor do I want to. Because I never, for a second, want her to think I've forgotten. .
Jill was here.
.
I'm an emotional being. Always have been. I have no in-between modes. I am always at various extremes, though not quite bi-polar extremes. I am angry. I am happy. I am lifeless. I am ecstatic. I am sad. .
A recent family function brought my extended biological family into the same physical location. A recent family function tore apart any remaining emotional bonds between some of us. .
My grandparents had a 90th birthday party. Where there is a convening of the Fowler Clan, there is drama. The weeks before the party were sprinkled with drama, but the true drama came the day of the party as my sisters and I set out on the 2 hour drive to the homestead. .
The morning of the party, I sat on my bathroom counter while Linus attentively watched me apply my makeup. And one of those sporadic crying fits hit. This was the first big family gathering we had had since 2000 when we had a party like this before - only then Jill was there. Jill was planning it. Jill was... .
I was gloomy as we packed children into cars. But my gloom turned red hot when my sister showed me the party announcement that had run in the newspaper. The announcement of a party for my grandparents gave an overview of their lives, then summed it up with "they have two children" and went on to give the names of my mom's brother and sister. .
REWIND and let's break this down because I don't understand. .
My poor niece asked to switch cars at Ritzville because she was tired of hearing me rant. The niece that took her place promptly fell asleep so she wouldn't have to listen to me. As my little blue jetta skimmed along the fields of the Columbia Basin, the red-hot in my heart turned to cold mush. My mom smiled through pain so often and that's what I did. For her. For my grandmother. But my heart was broken. I wouldn't have fought even if I could. I had no fight in me. .
10 years after I die, will my nieces and nephews have forgotten about me? Will they be so enmeshed in the now that they forget about back then? I won't have children to save my diaries and my pictures, to keep small trinkets of mine. Will my mist of a life be so easily forgotten? . Jill was here. Jill lived life when others would have given up. She loved. She was fiercely loyal because she knew what it was to be deserted by friends. She insisted on holding me to her chest and singing me lullabies long past when I actually fit on her chest. .
Jill was here. She was loony. She was endearing. She was crafty. She was a woman of her word. She was resourceful. She was independent. She was determined. .
Jill was here. She was beautiful. She was - in her younger years - fabulously fashionable. She had a laugh that you could hear across a crowded room. She remembered what it was like to be a teenager. .
Jill was here. She took pieces of several hearts with her when she left this world. She still leaves some breathless when they have those "she's-not-here" moments. . Jill was here.
My sister and I spent the last two days at Women of Faith. I didn't want to go and sing Kumbaya with people I didn't know - I don't even like singing Kumbaya with people I do know.
But Mama Vicki said we needed to go. She said we didn't have a mom to ensure we were going, so she would ensure we would go. When Vicki says to, most people do. Ok, I'll go. But I won't enjoy it!
On the way to the Arena, I forced my sister to stop at McDonalds. I was having a bit of an emotional break and was very concerned about getting 2 cheeseburgers in me as quickly as possible. As we pulled up to the drivethru, I leaned over and ordered twoooo cheezAbuggers. An inside joke that only 5 people in the world understand. Scratch that. 4 people. Mom's not of this world anymore, I suppose. An inside Boorman joke that no one else would find funny, but my sister and I pealed in laughter as we pulled up to the window. I was handed my greasy wonders and as we pulled away I screamed out "SHANKS MR. EASTER BUNNY! BAWK! BAWK!"
Again, another inside joke that only my sisters understand. As I rolled in laughter and peered into my burger bag, I was struck with the realization that this was one of those moments you live for. A moment where - for that moment - all is perfect. A moment where there are no concerns. There is nothing that is needed from us except to enjoy it. To melt into it. My sister felt it to. I know because the next words out of her mouth were "I wish sister was here." That moment could have only been made better by the laughter of our other sister.
As we walked toward the Arena, we kept laughing at inside jokes from our youth. They just kept finding us.
An hour later I found myself crying from laughter at Andy Andrews' hijinks. When the laughter settled and he turned serious, he told how he had grown up and quit paying attention to how splendid the world was. He didn't have so many perfect moments.
Isn't that what growing up does to us? We miss out on the childlike wonder. We have moments that are perfect... but we are often too busy with the "truly important things" to realize them. You keep looking to the next big thing. As I told two kids earlier this week who were fighting about who was more excited to get out of high school - one day you look back and you think why did I take those carefree days for granted? If only I could go back and slap myself into appreciation.
If only I could go back to that night when we popped popcorn and turned on October Sky. If only I could lean down into that 19-year-old's ear and say "This is the last time you will pop popcorn with her. This is the last movie you will watch with her. This is the last perfect moment you will have with her." And yet, the very fact that I remember that night - several weeks before she went to the hospital - tells me that on some level, I realized it was a perfect moment.
Lexy-pie climbed into my arms when I got to my sister's house last night. He will soon be too big for me, but I held on while I could - because that was a perfect moment.
All doesn't have to be perfect to be a perfect moment. Usually the perfect moments are when things are anything but perfect. All is chaos... All is normal... but some pearl shines out of it and all is splendid.
Today is a day to remember what happened in our country 10 years ago. But there were others, many others, that died that day. I've included a piece I wrote 5 years ago to that effect.
We should never forget those that lost their lives in the 9/11 attacks. But I can't help asking if their deaths are any more significant than the refugee that died in a camp due to malnutrition, diarrhea, or poor living conditions?
*************************************** I've never watched much of the coverage of the attacks. It's sad and my heart hurts for the people that lost loved ones, but it was just a matter of time. Why do our hearts not hurt for the Israeli and Palestinian children who lose loved ones that were riding a bus to work one morning when a bomb went off? Why did we honestly think we were immune? It wasn't the first attack on the WTC - why did we think the garage bombing was the end of Bin Laden?
3,000 people died as a direct result of the 9/11 attacks. It's heart wrenching and senseless and stupid. But on September 11, 2001:
24,000 people (estimated) worldwide died of hunger
6,000 children died of diarrhea - I didn't know you could die of diarrhea.
2,700 children died of measles
1,400 women died in childbirth
3,000 children - on that day alone - lost their homes due to war.
Where is the memorial fund for those people? Where are the movies and documentaries about children who die of something that I try to induce when I want the numbers on the scale to be lower? Why are people not screaming at our government for not fixing a hunger problem instead of screaming at them for a war? ************************************************************
After reading an account of the latest suicide bombing in the Middle East this week, I started to think about the families that have that sort of thing as their daily lives. Each time a husband or a child walks out the front door, what sort of fear grips the heart of the mother/wife left behind. A bomb on a bus; a bomb in a mosque; missiles launched into the city; rebel fire with innocent people caught in the middle. Why these people don't die from stress-induced ulcers, I have no idea. They are the amazing ones - the people with the courage to get up and face the day.
Or what of the mother in a Somalian refugee camp that wakes each morning and looks over at her child to check that they are still breathing? The pregnant Sudanese woman forced to flee her village and leave her son behind. Without adequate food or water and the strain of a hundred mile walk in the hot African sun, she miscarries, but wonders if it is the best for the baby that it was never born. The father that would rather see his family dead than turned over to the military or the rebels, depending on what country you are in. The person who lives in poverty, exhausted just by existing, that lays down each night knowing it will be the same tomorrow. Do they pray that tomorrow will be better? Or do they pray that they will die in their sleep?
The stories are true. I will not forget the injustice of what happened to those innocent people on board those planes 10 years ago - the sickening reality that they just woke up that morning, got ready as usual, and boarded a plane, never thinking anything of it. Never knowing their names would forever be linked to one of the pivotal events in their country's history.
But I will also try to never forget the stories of the nameless as well. Thousands of people will die today - September 11, 2011 - from lack of necessities. This month over 200,000 will pass on, their names not on a memorial, but their deaths just as senseless as the death brought by terrorism.
