Celebrating A Woman of God

By Linda Grupp Boutin

Aunt Mary entered this world 40 years earlier than me. She became a constant in my life when I first remember her stopping by our house to visit in Indiana when I was about 5. Visits from any and all aunts, uncles, grandparents, family of all kinds caused extreme excitement among us kids. A family with a dozen children can be intimidating for anyone to visit and we cherished those who came bringing fresh ideas and things to do and talk about.

My Aunt Mary ranked high among those bringing unfamiliar concepts and ideas. She taught me about social justice before I ever reached my  teens. She brought along the most interesting people, like George from Germany, Tony who always drove a VW Bug his whole life, oh and by the way, she herself drove one of those VW Van Conversions made for camping with a stove built in and everything.

She often loaded the van to the gills, overflowing with medications for a run to the Tijuana health clinic she helped build. Another time she would load the seats with clothes for the poor in tent city, filling the area behind the seats with 50 pound bags of rice and beans and cases of eggs she picked up on her way south at the egg farm. Aunt Mary didn't just talk about social justice, she demonstrated it nearly every time I saw her.

When I was 20, Mary came to attend my mom's funeral. We drove through the streets near the San Fernando Mission Cemetery heading over to my brother, Pete's, house. As we pulled up she asked me if I thought she should retire early to have more time to work with the poor in Tijuana. I asked her if she could afford to do it. She thought about it for a moment and said she thought it wouldn't be a problem. So I answered that I thought it would be a good idea.

Around that same time she explained to me that she was a charismatic Catholic. At that time I didn't understand what she meant by that, but by watching I learned that it meant a much more personal relationship with God than I understood from my Catholic schoolgirl days. It meant that following Jesus' example was the cornerstone of Mary's life. But I am getting ahead of myself.

A mere one year later, Gary and I moved to East San Diego County after we married. This was Aunt Mary's favorite place and although she lived nearly an hour to the south, she stopped in to visit us regularly. She loved our little farmette with chickens, goats, dogs and cats o'plenty. She roared up our dirt driveway in her VW van and we just never knew what wonders she would bring out from inside. When we were experimenting with raised-bed gardening, she brought up a couple dozen strawberry plants started in an odd assortment of coffee cans. We never hungered for the luscious, red berries after planting them. The plants went wild and I could hardly keep up with picking all of them.

She brought coffee cans another time too, but this time filled with snails she had plucked out of her own garden. Before I could faint at the sight of all those snails, she exclaimed that the chickens would just love them. She headed straight over to the chicken coop, invited me to join her in the door, and scattered the snails all over the fresh hay covering the ground. I never saw those chickens so excited before that, they consumed the snails with such a voracious hunger that you might think they had never been fed in their lives. Those hens and roosters just must have listened for that van coming up the drive, such wondrous treats came hidden inside.

As illness overtook my life the second summer we were married. Aunt Mary made time to take me to the doctor and tests and whatever else she could. It was around that time that her parting advice to me was always, "Linda, don't overdo!" I knew it pained her to see me wasting away and then tethered to machines for all my nutrition. She believed in healthy eating and how could everything needed for life come from intravenous chemicals. She shared with me her many techniques for eating better, but still I could not eat.

Occasionally she invited me to accompany her on her forays to Tijuana. I had never seen such poverty in my whole life. It shocked me until we arrived at tent city and I witnessed how important Mary was to that small community. The children came running to her van and she passed out eggs which they swallowed raw to my amazement. She took me to the clinic and Mother Catherine's convent too. She always made sure to get me home on time to take care of my medical needs too.

Celebrating A New Way to See

By Linda Grupp Boutin

I opened my eyes one morning wondering,"March 1, 2015? How can this be?"

Looking at my posts I realize I last published in mid-November...how can this be?

I had made up my mind this holiday season--we would enjoy every holiday from Thanksgiving through New Year's Day. So many days I had lost to hospital stays, feeling sick, going to doctor's appointments. Yep, this year we would have a wonderful Christmas and a Happy New Year in 2015.

The fatal flaw in this plan? Thinking I could do it all in just my own strength. A certain arrogance about believing I could make this happen without even praying for a bit of help from the Lord. For a lifetime I have endured smack down after smack down trying to learn this hard-won lesson.

I opened my eyes this morning wondering, "March 31, 2015? Are you kidding me?" A full month has passed and I am still working on the same post? And for that matter, what has happened to the first three months of 2015. How did my plan go so far astray...again...

Rereading my post from November 2014 after breakfast, I began to understand a bit of what has happened in the first three months of this year. It is titled "Celebrating a Miracle Every Day." And although this new year has been tough, the miracles I have witnessed just keep multiplying and multiplying. As in November, there are the daily kind, like the sparrow so proud in the plum tree holding a puff of pink fluff, just the type to form a perfect base for his nest. The moon, nearing full, lighting the night before me. My dog still dancing at the end of his leash on every walk, enjoying life while enduring an illness...

Painted by Pamela Howett

There are the big miracles too of 2015, like my mother-in-law surviving a hemorrhage, difficult illness and going on and off of hospice within 6 weeks, recovery unexpected but prayed for manifest before our very eyes! Challenges persist, like waiting for my husband's knee replacement surgery, a date we are still waiting for and praying that the surgeon's hands be guided by the Great Healer.

All through these difficult weeks, our pastor kept leading us weekly through the book of Jonah, insisting that it was much more than a story about a big fish! Really? A prophet running away from the Lord who provides and denying His prompting to go to Nineveh. A man in rebellion from God insisting on pursuing his own course. A human being making mistake after mistake until finally reluctantly relenting and preaching for one whole day in Nineveh. Watching the populace of the city from above and sticking to his very own very limited perspective of the scene unfolding below the shady vine provided by God to shade his brow. Wondering why God should grant the Ninivites grace so undeserved...ignoring God's Big Picture of Grace while sticking to his own limited view...

More than the story of a man enduring a storm, being thrown overboard, a big fish swallowing the man, keeping him in its stomach for 3 days, vomiting him up just a day's walk away from where God had prompted him to go? How exactly does someone look after 3 days in the digestive acid of the stomach of a big fish anyway? Not too good, I think...

Now wait just one second, if it's not the story of a big fish and a limited perspective of a man, than what is the story about? And then Pastor Brian unfolds all these weeks of study to reveal the Bigger Perspective. One that Jonah could never fathom and I usually miss as well. I glimpsed it once though...

On a cold winter day my brother had convinced us to join him and his family on the ski slopes for an introduction to one of his favorite pastimes.The bunny slope presented this klutzy girl with problems enough, namely getting back up on those darned skis whenever I fell down. Greg laughed as he helped me regain my skis while my coordinated husband took right to these over-sized boots and long sticks we stood on. After a morning's struggle, Greg announced it was time for us to tackle the more adult slope. Really? 

We hopped on board side by side and the tiny seat sped along the lift at a most alarming  rate. The ground dropped away so swiftly I clung to my husband just wanting to shut my eyes and pretend I was back home safely tucked in our warm home. Funny, I think Jonah may have felt just this way curled in the bottom of the ship trying to ignore the storm smashing around him. Gary kept telling me to look while I hid my face in his arm; boots, skis, and legs dangling in the wind rushing past.

He kept nudging me and I relented and peeked out. And then I saw the Bigger Picture, the mountains looming large around us, the tiny pines below, it took my breath away to see such a beautiful landscape spread out before my view. And for once, I understood why skiing appealed to so many. It wasn't just the boots and skis, the speed as the skier worked their way down the slope, quickly and nimbly like Greg, or slowly and timidly like me. To begin to grasp a larger, more heavenly perspective, we humans must step outside our normal boundaries and take the larger view.

I must admit that I spent most of January in a panicked state, praying for my mother-in-law and dog to overcome their illnesses. Too much  of February I spent coughing and battling my own maladies. And March, I spent trying to breathe again and looking for a larger view about my personal challenges of 2015. Reflecting back on March I realize I have again had to expand my perspective and turn closer than ever to  the Lord who sustains me. Pastor Brian could not have had any better timing in explaining that the story of Jonah is about more than a big fish, it is about learning a new way of seeing, it is about trying to look more with God's perspective versus staying stuck in my own small world view.

Celebrating a Miracle Every Day

By Linda Grupp Boutin

     Have you ever witnessed a miracle? This might depend upon how you define one. Over a lifetime I have learned that if you keep open to the wonders around you, you might very well witness many miracles every single day. Merriam-Webster defines “miracle” as: an extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs; an extremely outstanding or unusual event, thing or accomplishment. This definition classifies miracles into two broad categories; the first credits divine intervention or God and the second focuses on outstanding or unusual. My premise is to look beyond the usual into the amazing things we ignore because of everyday familiarity. When you adopt this perspective, you open your eyes to the divine.

     For instance, did you notice the full moon we enjoyed last week? Shining overhead, dispelling the darkness and opening our view to a new outlook. Think about the everyday wonder of our little planet having a moon at all. It exerts tremendous influence over the health of our Earth. For our ancestors, who didn’t enjoy the convenience of electricity, this heavenly body provided extra light to finish up harvesting, directions for navigators, and precise timing to set our calendars to a month by month system. It controls tides, affects behavior of animals and humans, keeps Earth from wobbling in its orbit too badly.

    Gary and I have been moon watchers since our second or third date. We went for a swim in the condo complex’s pool on a cold winter night. After getting in a good workout, we moved over to the Jacuzzi, turned on the jets and warmed up under the stars. There was a full moon out that night and Gary pointed it out to me. We admired it together and christened it our “streetlamp” when we made the run back to the condo in the cold. Later we began calling it God’s Streetlamp remembering the One who placed it there.

     As time passed and our relationship deepened, we often chose to rename things in our own ways. After leaving my mother’s funeral about 6 months later, Gary showed me the magnificent purple blooming trees lining the street leading out of the cemetery. He asked me what it was named and I didn’t have the slightest idea what they were called. Flippantly, I told them that they were California Purple-Flowering Trees. Later we learned the correct name was jacaranda, but we still sometimes call them our pet name. Another 6 months later we found ourselves facing breast cancer again, this time with his mom. As challenges enter our lives, it becomes our choice and responsibility to embrace them and work our way through them, or throw our hands in the air and run for the nearest way out. Somehow those difficulties weigh a little less when you take time to notice the wonderful and amazing stuff around us. Happily his mom survived her illness and has been a part of our lives for another 38 years.

Jacaranda tree in May

     One daily pick-me-up are the sunsets that I love and point out when I see one spreading across the sky. Gary explained to me early on that God had gotten out his paint box and colored the sky just for us. We pray over seeds when we plant them and notice the wonders around us and share them. We have ridden ski lifts to the top of the mountain, literally made breathless by the mountain view displayed before us. It is a matter of taking the time to notice the crows cawing overhead, the hummingbird zipping among the blossoms and the butterfly flitting through the flowers. It keeps our childlike wonder alive even though we were not blessed with children by God.

     Most recently Gary came running in the front door with a brown praying mantis that he had rescued from the street. Our very first year together he came in carrying a baby chick just newly hatched from our chicken coop. Another time it was our first baby goat, damp and newborn, but calling loudly for its mama to rescue it from this big man. Any stray spider wandering in our home is gently captured and carried to the plants outdoors on the front porch. It is a choice we make to value life and all its wonders. And for us, this means acknowledging our Creator, God, in all the magnificence He surrounds us with from the moment we open our eyes.

     So how about you? You can start right this instant. Take a moment to examine your hand and fingers. Have you ever thought about how intricately they are made? Notice the swirls of your fingerprints and handprint and remember that these were specially formed for just you. Will you choose to employ it in our Provider’s work, honoring Him with how you use them? From the hair on your head to the blood coursing through your veins, you are wonderfully made. Now take this perspective and apply it to all around you and I guarantee you will have a better day for it, no matter what the challenges are that you face.

Finding the Light in the Dark

By Linda Grupp Boutin

There are pivotal moments in lives that inform all events that come afterwards. In today's post I share one of those moments very early in my life that preceded all the trials that followed. It ignited a belief in my heart for God that I have never lost and my hope is that it shines a light into any darkness you may be experiencing. So return to me right now to Fort Wayne, Indiana in 1974...

Genesis 1: 3-4--And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light.  God saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness.

 

The sky stood black, tiny pricks of light barely shining through the dark night.  I walked into the double doors beginning my first ever graveyard shift. I wore a bright white uniform with brand new white shoes. The ad had read, “Opportunity Knocks.” I’d tried so many other want ads, but found no opportunities. This little hospital was willing to give one to me and I started the very next day.

            Antiseptic smells assaulted me as soon as I stepped inside. Other unidentifiable, not-so-good odors crept in as well. I gave up my youth at the door, never to be the same again. Dim lights lit the corridor as I strode up to the nurse’s station, 19 years old, ready to take on anything. A collection of young women leaned on the desk watching the clock approaching 11 p.m.

            “Oh, you’re here.  Let’s get going on bed check.  Come with us,” the oldest one told me. I followed meekly down the side hall wondering what exactly bed check was.  It didn’t take long to find out.  The nurses aides flicked the lights on in the first room, walked to the two beds and verified the patients were fine and needed nothing.  After the first few rooms, my shock faded since the elderly people barely stirred when the three of us entered.  One room was different, however.  A pale light glowed in Mrs. Johnson’s room; there was no need to snap on the lamps.

            A strange sound, reminiscent of a percolator, filled the small space.  I had never heard chain stokes before and couldn’t identify the sound.  I entered last and the attitude of the experienced nurses aides changed.  They whispered and walked more slowly.  As I stood at the end of the bed, I realized why they had a more reverent manner—Mrs. Johnson was dying.  Her face told the story; each breath was a huge labor.  “I forgot to clock in,” I squeaked barely able to speak. 

I ran out of the room oblivious of the girls behind me chuckling as I fled.  My pace slowed as I realized I’d been set up.  I rounded the corner of the long hall and saw the girls who were supposed to train me, sitting chatting in the dining room sipping coffee or colas and waiting for the clock to begin the change of shifts.  I found the time clock with my time card and clocked in.  They called to me to come and join them.  The charge nurse, Hankey, introduced me to the team of aides I’d be working with that night.  An older woman, Karen, would show me the ropes on the easy hallway.  I realized with relief that Mrs. Johnson was down a different hall.

At eleven o’clock precisely we stood up and went back where I’d just come from.  Karen pushed a cart laden with tall stacks of linens and we followed the evening shift aides from room to room verifying they’d left their patients in good order for us.  By midnight, we’d finished our rounds, second shift had departed, and we sat in the lounge getting up to answer patient’s lights when called.  The registered nurses came out of their room after receiving report.  Hankey picked up a flashlight and proceeded down all four hallways one by one.  On the final hallway, I watched as she ran back out to the nurse’s station and grabbed a stethoscope.

She walked back down where I’d started that night, a resigned look on her face.  Minutes later she reemerged, looked directly at me and said, “You’re trouble.  Your first night and someone dies.  You might as well learn about it, so Karen, you and Linda go get Mrs. Johnson ready for the mortuary.  I must go and call her daughter.”  Only later did I learn that Mrs. Johnson’s daughter was Hankey’s best friend.

Karen looked surprised.  Normally aides didn’t have to do anything down the hallways where they weren’t assigned.  She stood reluctantly and led the way back to Mrs. Johnson’s room.  I followed behind not understanding, but doing as I was told.  My step was slow and uncertain as we neared the room with the glowing light.  I noticed it was very quiet as we entered the door.

I stood amazed at the foot of the bed.  God had been gentle in taking Mrs. Johnson home to Him.  It was obvious she had passed on, but the mask of pain I’d witnessed earlier had been replaced.  Now she looked at peace, no more gasping for breath or struggling with life.  It was like an electric switch had been turned off and all her suffering had ended.  Carefully, Karen showed me the steps required to prepare her remains for the mortuary.  As we worked, I realized that death had not been a horror, but a relief for Mrs. Johnson.  I lost my fear and concentrated on doing the best job I could to follow Karen’s patient instructions.

When we’d finished, we returned to our seats in the lounge and tended to our own patients.  During the lulls when we weren’t doing anything, I thought about all I’d seen and heard so far that night.  I learned many things.  Most importantly I learned that utmost peace could descend on a person at death and that God’s light is there with us every dark step of the way.  Mrs. Johnson could now see His everlasting light and I knew this in my heart.  Familiar words sang silently through my mind:

Psalm 23:4—Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

Oil painting published with permission of Pamela Howett

At 19, an invaluable lesson in my life, I had faced the darkness of death for the first time and discovered the light at the end of life would come from God alone, the source of all things both light and dark.