Good Lists Versus Bad Lists--Steering Toward Peace

I have a penchant for making lists, particularly the to-do and grocery kind. Both help me organize what needs to be done and the grocery one gets me in and out of the store with items I need that without a piece of paper to guide me could easily make me forgetful. Lately I found out that I keep another kind of list, one I have, unfortunately, used many times before. It's one that I store in my mind, one that is a tally of what I’ve done wrong or messed up doing. This type of list leads to regret, remorse, and for an unhappy Saturday (or any day of the week).

Sure, we all have times we make mistakes. Usually we make amends, deal with the consequences, forgive if we need to, and move on. The damage is when we aren’t able to follow these steps and instead of moving on, we take the list in our head---a mental list---with us. The mental list can be degrading and when gone over too many times can cause us to miss out on living life to the fullest. The mental list of negatives is a violent thunderstorm happening in our heads.

Recently I had a mental list going. It started with one disappointment, and another, then it grew larger when I added mistakes I'd made that week, all along telling myself I should have known better. This mental list didn’t grow on its own, I fed and watered it. It became worrisome and caused anxiety. Of course I prayed, asking God to help me. I knew the verses in the book of Philippians that tells us not to be anxious, but nothing seemed to help. I was in a funky state of mind.

After a day of self-induced angst, my eldest daughter Rachel invited me to the beach. She knew nothing of my bad list because I'd shared it with no one. She wanted to spend a day with me and texted that she'd drive. A day at the beach! My heart did a little happy dance. A day at one of my favorite places would be therapeutic. Rachel and I planned, and four days later, we were at Carolina Beach enjoying the sun, the ocean view, salad lunches, seagulls who ventured close, laughter, and being together away from our other lives. We splashed some in the waves, but the wind and current were fierce, so we mostly stuck to the safety of the shore.

When I got home, sunburned and sandy, I was able to think more clearly about mental lists of agony humans bring on themselves. I think we carry these types of lists too long because we don't trust that God does care for us as he tells us that he does in scripture. Instead of carrying petitions before God and allowing ourselves to continue on, trusting him enough to know that he does care deeply for us, we let the mental thunderstorms continue. The beach day was an unexpected blessing from God, a God who saw my needs and mental health when I was at a low point. A God who cared for me and will always care for me.

Sometimes taking a piece of paper and writing my struggles on it and then crumpling it and tossing it into the garbage bin works to show that I will not carry negativity around with me. If only I can remind myself each time I'm tempted to recall those items on the piece of paper I've thrown out that I need to refrain. I have given my problems over to God. No backsies.

I want to free my mind from worry and know that I cannot do it on my own. I will still keep lists to help organize my life, but the lists of tallying up my wrongs are not welcomed. Instead a list of gratitude will be just the thing to steer my mind toward a positive and peaceful direction. I'll end this with one of my all-time favorite scripture verses about God's care and our need to invite the peace he gives--and only he can give--into our minds.

Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me—put it into practice. And the God of peace will be with you. ~ Philippians 4:6-9, NIV

Reflecting in the Silence

Recently I read two news articles. One was about being busy and the other was about a few moments of silence used to reflect. The busy article spoke on how we equate busy with important. People say they are busy and that makes them feel that their lives are filled and valued. I decided not to call myself busy years ago. I am not important and so I omitted describing myself as busy even at Christmas when our wood-working laser business fulfills hundreds of orders for last minute shoppers.

The other news piece I read had to do with the need for silence. Governor Ron DeSantis asked that in his state of Florida school children be given a few moments of silence at the start of the school day. He feels that kids need some time to reflect in quiet. There are no guidelines for what those moments are to be used for, no mandates of prayer or meditation. (If there had been a time of silence at the beginning of the school day when I was a child, I would have probably used the time to pray for math class to be canceled. Forever.)

Like the Governor I have felt my need for quiet. Away from laptops, cell phones, the TV, and even conversations. Just the solitude for the sake of seeing what it will unveil for me.

These days the cemetery is where I go to experience that much-needed break from the world. I load up the Jeep with pens and notebooks. Sometimes I stop at the gas station along the way and pick up a cup of coffee.

The cemetery, snuggled between Durham and Orange Counties, isn't far from my house. Once I was instantly greeted by a gaggle of Canadian Geese. They walked aimlessly in circles, some cackled by the grave markers, some drifted away from the group. I followed the wayward noisey ones, and took a photo. When I turned my back to head to my Jeep for my notebook and pen, I heard a loud cry. Those discombobulated geese had taken off into the air in a formed V-line. One second they had appeared helpless and confused and then in the next, they lifted wings and soared. They had a purpose. I watched them sail into the autumn sky---making their geese sounds as they flew---until they were out of sight.

After they left, the cemetery was still again. I sat by my son Daniel's grave and stretched my legs. In the silence I thought of how over the years I'd been wandering, uneasy, perhaps making sounds like cackling after Daniel died. But through moments of silence and a desire propelled by his memory, I came to find what I wanted, and what I needed, and that was purpose.

In the early days of monumental grief, I reverted to what I had done as a child----I wrote. I penned poems and articles and how-to grow through grief and loss pieces. I came up with my own psalms of woe. On scraps of paper I wrote book ideas. Some of my work was published. Most of it was too emotional and flawed and didn't need to see the light of day. In the moments of reflection (some silent, many with tears), my spirit called out to God. My wrestling propelled me toward healing.

And none of it could have been done without participating in those bouts of silent contemplation. What is most important to me, especially as I get older, is not filling my days with activities and events, but in making the time for the simplicity of quiet. I need my treks to the cemetery. From these silent experiences, my spirit gains strength and I can hear life calling me to joy.

The Simple Quiet: Finding Sanctuary in a Broken World

“God doesn’t want something from us, He simply wants us.” - C.S. Lewis


In a noisy world it’s easy to become overwhelmed.

The clamor of the opinions of others consumed me. I read a variety of thoughts and views on current political, racial, and Covid-19 events and I couldn’t seem to stop. Determined to learn and understand, I opened newspapers and listened to YouTube videos. I felt like a soda bottle about to split at the seams. Something in my spirit, perhaps it was the Holy Spirit, let me know that I needed help. God’s voice was what I craved, but other opinions were louder.

Yesterday I got in my Jeep and drove. I didn’t stop for coffee at the little convenience store along the way. I was eager to get to Markham Memorial Gardens, a cemetery on the corner of Durham and Orange counties. I knew that physically going to this location would bring peace to my soul.

However, when my four-year-old son Daniel first died, the cemetery held no peace. It was my valley of anguish. I hated standing at his small gravestone because that stone meant Daniel was gone from life with us. Having Daniel's name, birth, and death dates etched on the marker gave me a reason to have to be there. And I didn't want a reason to have to stand with tears sliding off my chin and a hole in my heart.

Somewhere in the early months of grief, I wrote a poem at the cemetery. It would win no awards, but it was about how I knew that Daniel was alive in Heaven with Jesus. That truth rejuvenated me. It made me smile.

As my family and I continued to come to the cemetery, which we named Daniel’s Place, a strange thing happened. I felt at home among the epitaphs and plastic bouquets. We went to the cemetery and celebrated Daniel’s birthdays by lifting helium balloons with love notes into the August sky. We ate watermelon slices because watermelon had been his favorite. We brought decorative pinwheels to place at his marker. We spread blankets and towels and devoured sandwiches. We shared Daniel stories. My children have grown up with me as we have made our pilgrimages to the cemetery to honor the memory of a boy who loved Toy Story, Cocoa Puffs, and stickers from nurses at the hospital.

If the cemetery had a growth chart you could see how I’ve grown from a newly-bereaved mom of thirty-six to a seasoned veteran of fifty-nine. The cemetery has played a large role in both my grief and my faith walk. While there, I pray, I sing, I read the psalms. I listen to the chatter of birds and watch the clouds. Sometimes I sit on Daniel's Thomas the Tank Engine towel under the massive oak by his grave, sip coffee, and write my own psalms. Some days my words are filled with woe, and other days, they are sentiments of happy praise.

As I walk the grounds and say hello to graves belonging to people I have never met, Daniel's Place reminds me of the brevity of life on earth. Our days are numbered and only God knows when our last breath will be. The cemetery makes me think about what is important and how I want to live the rest of my days.

When I turned into Markham Memorial Gardens yesterday, immediate emotion swept over me. The tears that blinded my vision were unexpected. I’m no stranger to tears; I’ve cried at the sloping grassy knolls surrounded by oaks plenty of times. I’ve even been known to wail. But I had never felt tears like these. I analyzed them. (Yes, I do label my tears!) The tears that morning stemmed from a pilgrimage that began twenty-three years ago when I wanted nothing to do with this burial spot — to the past decade — when I choose to come because I'd discovered a sanctuary of holy calm. The cemetery encourages me to recite the first verse of Psalm 61: “O God, you are my God, earnestly I seek you; my soul thirsts for you, my body longs for you, in a dry and weary land where there is no water. I have seen you in the sanctuary and beheld your power and your glory. Because your love is better than life, my lips will glorify you.”

Your place of simple quiet might not be a cemetery. Perhaps it's at a park bench or a chair in your back yard. Maybe you are one of those who has a beautiful garden. Wherever you find that space where you go for the purpose of seeking God, go there. Sit down. Stretch your legs. Close your eyes. Breathe in. Take care of you. Take care of the precious life you have been given. Sometimes it's necessary to physically travel to a spot — like a park bench or river bank — where you can connect with God. When you arrive there, you know that pulling yourself out of your usual day-to-day surroundings is life-giving.

In a world vying for our attention, we need to make time to pause. Remember who God is and who we are. Our minds are confused, but God is peace. Our hearts are heavy, but he promises to ease the burden. In the sanctuary of the cemetery I walk among the graves barefoot because like Moses, I feel God’s holiness. I come with brokenness and pain, a fragile creature. He feeds me with forgiveness, hope, and healing, as only he can do.

When I left Daniel’s Place yesterday, I was aware of the need I have in a noisy world to cling to the righteous hand of God. "So do not fear,” God says, “for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand." (Isaiah 41:10)