French Friend, Parisian Purse

Everyone needs a friend like Isabelle

She and I met online as a result of Hurricane Katrina. Back in October I received 153 Katrina Kits from Europe, many of which she had made herself and the rest of which she had sent after mobilizing seamstresses in several countries to sew for Katrina folks.

If you've read any of my previous posts, you know that Isabelle is a very generous and talented Christian 24-year-old Parisian seamstress, who gives and gives from her heart. I love to read her comments and emails, as she is one of the most eloquent peeople I know--and English is her second language!

Along with the Kits, she sent this purse. She embroidered it on her ooh-la-la machine. My mom said, "Zo,I don't think I've ever seen your name look so pretty as it does right here." She also made a delicately stitched bookmark on an Aida cross, but I can't remember which book it's in. Oh, dear!

I don't have a good digital camera, so this photo doesn't do the purse justice. I photographed it on my good 35 mm when I first received it.

Not only have I received these two "gifties" as she affectionately calls them, she has emailed saying that she has sent two more! I love surprises, especially when I know they're coming! Such joy in anticipating something special.

As I think of Isabelle, I think of several Scriptures:

1) Encourage one another while it is called Today....(Heb. 3:13)
2) As cool water on a hot day, so is good news from a far country. (Prov. 25:25)
3) "In her hand she holds the distaff
and grasps the spindle with her fingers.
She opens her arms to the poor
and extends her hands to the needy. (Prov. 31:19-20)
4) A friend loveth at all times. (Proverbs 17:17)

I could go on and on. Isabelle is a precious sister in Christ, and my life has been made sweeter by knowing her. If the Lord wills, she and I will meet in person on this earth. If not, I am sure we'll recognize each other in heaven. She'll probably have another little giftie for me!

Be like a cool drink of water on a hot day. Pick up the phone and call someone who's out of state--or overseas. Call and tell them how much you miss them and love them or how Christ has used them to ameliorate your suffering, prompt you to laughter, spur you on in good works, intercede on your behalf, or make something for you with her (or his) own hands. Encourage that special friend "while it is called Today."

Sarah's Tribute to her Dad

If she weren't my daughter, Sarah would still be top on my list of favorite girls. This beauty has written a loving tribute to her dad, and I just wanted to direct your attention to it.

It'll be a keepsake in the Zubrowski scrapbook 2006.

Take a peek at www.77thpsalm.blogspot.com. Her blog title is Homeward Bound.

Lesson from the Nursery

Yesterday I had the joy of caring for babies in the church nursery. I just love this monthly turn I take watching a bunch of little, mostly preverbal toddlers for about an hour. I get to share the privilege with Jennie, Jake, Amy, Lawrence, and sometimes Bri.


Only a few of the workers can name all 13 zillion children (give or take a few)in the room. I am not one of them. I need to check the name tag on their back or ask other people when the tag is missing. Or, as in the case yesterday, I need to just look into their faces. That's what Jake was doing.

Little Macie toddled up to him, but Jake couldn't think of her name right away. "You must be Russ's kid," he said. "You look like your daddy."

Baby Sarah smiled at him. "You're a Zylka all the way," he noted aloud. "No doubt about that."

I took out a box of Cheerios. From all the way across the room, Isaiah heard the cereal shift. He came "running." Isaiah and I are pretty tight, since he's been to my house and played with Joel's toys. He's got his mother Crystal's eyes and cheekbones.

There was one newcomer. We only knew her by her nametag, since her mom wasn't familiar to most of us. By looking at her I couldn't make any connections to her parentage.

The lesson that my day in nursery reminded me of was the scripture, "You will know they are Christians by their love." I wondered if strangers would be able to say of our marriage, our family, our church, "I don't know their names, but I know who their Father is. See how they love each other!"

I wonder if they see compassion--or indifference--in me? Mercy or judgment? Peace or anxiety? Joy or gloom?

I hope that when I "toddle" (or waddle!) near enough for people to look in my face or see my actions, they will say, "She must be God's kid."

Laughing Babies

This made my day.

Nothing says "I love you" like...

Having just read a blog that I occasionally visit to put umption in my housework gumption, I am curious to know how you would finish this sentence: "Nothing says 'I love you' like...."

After pondering your answer, check out http://flylady.com/pages/nothing_says.asp.

Now, I shall take a bunch of mated socks and deliver them with glee (or something akin thereto) to my husband's hungry drawer.

Ebenezer Dinner

During my pregnancy with Joel, I was intensely frightened at times. Weeks 11 and 16 were the worst, those being the weeks at which I lost babies before. When I became pregnant with Joel, several people told me they felt burdened by the Lord to pray for me every single day. Those people were Gary and Kim Bull, Craig and Barb Rogers, Jacob and Kathy Wilson, and my friend Barb Loutzenhiser.

When I delivered this bouncing baby brick--I mean this beautiful, bubbly boy of 9 pounds 3 ounces, I had no idea that the first five weeks of his life would be the hardest of mine. During delivery, I ruptured all my pelvic ligaments, which broke off bits of bone at the SI joints (where the spine meets the hips). A very rare occurrence, it was identified by an orthodpedist as Postpartum Pubic Diastasis. The result was the inability to walk normally or care for this baby except to nurse him and cuddle him. Occasionally I had the strength to change his diaper. I won't go into the details of recovery in this post, but that time of intense suffering and drawing close to the Lord my Healer became one to celebrate.

I decided to invite the people who had been so faithful to pray for me and also my parents who took such good care of me. Referring to the stone of remembrance in the Old Testament, an ebenezer (meaning "thus far hath the Lord helped us"), Paul and I and the kids put together an Ebenezer Brunch. It was many months after Joel's birth, but it was special. After our al fresco brunch of sausage casserole, blueberry waffles, and fresh fruit compote, we gathered in the living room . I read aloud the thanks I had written to God, mentioning each of these strong prayer warriors by name and how they specifically ministered to me in my fear, my pain, my joy.

Our care group is going to do a similar thing. At 4 pm on the first Saturday in April, we are meeting at Mitzy's. She will teach us a gourmet dish of spinach, chicken and proscuitto wrapped in a puff pastry. Stephanie will show us a gourmet salad. Therese will do fresh buttered asparagus, and I will try to remember how I made a chocolate-pecan torte so that I can "teach" it to the gals.

The single men and our husbands are invited to join us for this fancy feast at 7 pm. During our meal, or soon after, Lauren will open the log-- the care group's prayer log, in which Lauren has been faithful to record all our requests at each care group meeting. We will hear a long list of answers to prayers. We will laugh and cry. We will rejoice in God's goodness. We will lift our Ebenezer to him.

I can hardly wait!

Falling on the Stone

This morning as I was reading through Luke 20, I stopped on verse 18 and meditated. Here's the preceding verse with it:

Lk 20:17-18 "Then He looked at them [mostly chief priests, scribes and elders] and said, "What then is this that is written: The stone which the builders rejected Has become the chief cornerstone'? 18 Whoever falls on that stone will be broken, but on whomever it falls, it will grind him to powder."

These thoughts came to me:
1)Thank You, Jesus, that because of Calvary, and because You have made me righteous before God, I will not be one on whom the Stone's judgment falls. I will never be ground to powder because You, dear Jesus were whipped to a pulp in my place. How can I thank You enough?

2) When was the last time you fell on That Stone and were broken? Truly broken.

I think a few months ago I was desperate for a restored relationship with someone close to me. My oldest son, to be exact. Up until this year, Ben and I had had a relationship characterized by anger and unforgiveness, rooted in pride. I could say we're too much alike, but the fact is, we were both too UNLIKE Christ. That's shameful for a mom to admit, that she is not modeling Christ day in and day out. I didn't want to serve him; that was a red flag to me. You can serve anybody, but unless you love them, you don't do it cheerfully. That was me.

The guilt of my sinful words and attitudes kept me from good sleep, caused many headaches, and most of all from knowing true peace. I always thought, "If things are going to change, I'm going to have to be the first one. I have to take the lead on this."

Yet, that's not what happened. On February 15th, just before I went to bed, I found a card in an envelope on my bathroom vanity. It was a Valentine from Ben. He had made it on the computer, very simple and to the point, and wrote a message in his own hand. For the sake of privacy, I won't quote him exactly, but he said that he understood if I could't accept this gesture as genuine, but that he does love me, and hopes this message is the first step in reconciling us to each other. "Love, Ben."

I gulped. My eyes welled up. My heart swelled and then it broke.

As I stood there in the bathroom, reading and rereading this precious note, I wept with joy and gratitude. Joy at a new beginning. Gratitude that God had heard my prayer.

And a twinge of guilt that I hadn't been the one to take the first step. Ben took the lead. Suddenly I thought: "My son is a godly leader. He has humbled himself in front of the very person hardest to do that in front of: his mom. " God alone prompted him to do that.

I took the note and skipped to his room.

"Ben, "I said, smiling and fighting back tears. "Thanks. This means...a lot...to me."

"ARe you gonna cry?" he asked, putting an arm around my shoulder."

"I might," I said. "You know me." We laughed.

And then he bent down--way down-- , hugged me, and gave me a sweet kiss on the cheek.

"I love you," I said, enjoying an embrace I hadn't had in years.

My firstborn had never looked taller, stronger, more handsome, and more angelic than at that moment.

"I love you, too, Mom."

That was last time I was broken. I was broken by the love of the Stone, the One who took my heart of stone and made it a heart of flesh. The one who did the same for my children.

I have to admit that, at first, my joy and gratitude was followed by fleeting doubts. "This won't last," the Enemy taunted. "He's just feeling guilted into it because Valentine's Day was lousy for you this year."

I told God I didn't want to believe that, I wanted to believe the best, that real and lasting fruit would come of this.

Glory to God, real and lasting fruit has resulted. Ben and I have not had a single argument since that day. We are really listening to each other. I am not telling him what to do, but letting him make more grown-up decisions. I am serving him much more cheerfully--putting gas in his car, keeping the pantry stocked with protein-rich tuna (his favorite body-building treat), being genuinely supportive of his school and lacrosse interests, making chiropractic appointments as needed without complaining. These sound simple enough, but when your heart's not into it, each some seems a burden. Now that the burden has been lifted, I feel free and at peace.

Tomorrow at 5 pm sharp, Ben turns 18. I can still remember the first time I laid eyes on him. For the first time in my life, I understood the verse that we are made in the image of God. Ben was perfect. Perfect for me, that is. Not a perfect person (although every mom is predisposed to think so when she's just delivered her baby). I said to Paul, "He's got the face of God."

I knew then that Benjamin was going to live up to his name of "son of my right hand"--
strength, leadership, diligence.

Happy 18th birthday, Ben. Thank you for modeling Christ to me. I love you very, very much.

Mom

A is for Allumpidekoggledowickey

That's how I feel right now. I made up the word (in case you were one click away from dictionary.com.)

In our family of six, one or more have been sick since Valentine's Day.
I was doing well for a while. The first flu bug, like the first snow, affects me about the same: I love it. Now, don't get me wrong. I don't love being sick or seeing others "under the weather. I simply mean that I love serving the person with the flu bug. I love to be the maker of hot soup, the refiller of cold Gatorade or hot tea with lemon; I like to cover up the shivering child's shoulders down past their toes, or kiss the platinum-headed husband's hot cheek. I like to watch that hubby's dimples sink deep as he forces back that telltale grin when I tell him he's always hot to me. I enjoy picking out cherry or citrus cough drops according to the victim's preferences. And--don't hit me--but I actually like washing limp sheets so that they are as fresh as the morning air. It's something my mom has always seemed to enjoy--freshing up a patient's bed. That joy of sheet-washing rubbed off on me.

But unlike our 13- inch snow last month, this flu has not melted away from my house. The novelty of making hot soup has worn off. The Gatorade has taken on a medicinal look in our fridge. I'm not getting any warm fuzzies from refolding bedraggled blankets on the sofa, or blowing a sore little nose.

I'm sick this time. It caught me by surprise. (And, for the record, I love surprises if I am prepared for them.) Don't know why God has graced me with the immune system of a battleship, but He has. Until now. Now I am the NyQuil lady that you see on TV--that one who's blotchy-faced, shaggy-haired, and shuffling-in-slippers, crawling into bed.... The major difference here is that the commercial has not ended in thirty seconds.

Flu is winter's infomercial--once you understand what it does and how many installments of easy payments you can make by calling the number at the bottom of your screen, the announcer repeats everything. Just in case you didn't get it the last seventeen times.

My little flu bug party has become the Guest Who Doesn't See That the Hostess Has Fallen Asleep in the Soup.

I am not even healthy enough to toss scripture in here. That's sad. Please, dear blogging friends, pray for me or rebuke me for complaining, or both. Just don't cough in my face.

Silence in Heaven

I've been pondering Revelation 8:1 for a couple of weeks.

"And when He (the Lamb) opened the seventh seal, there came a silence in heaven for about a half hour."

It stopped me in my proverbial tracks. For a while I just meditated on what that kind of silence would "sound" like and how it would feel.

The morning I read that, I was propped comfortably on my living room sofa. My three older kids had left for school, and my "baby" was still in bed. I wanted to listen intently to the sound of silence. We live in a quiet neighborhood, and most people have left for work or school by 8:00 in the morning, when I sit with Jesus. The next door neighbors, Mitch and Cindy, are the exception; they leave around 8:25 together to the job where they both work. So what did I hear during my attempt at listening to silence?

I heard the arbitrary click of a simmering coffee pot.
The furnace kicked on and wannabe hot air exhaled through the vents.
Molly, our golden retriever, snorted as she stretched out on the floor.
A few chipper sparrows sang a couple measures of the song God gave them.
Mitch and Cindy's Ford F150 revved up and out of their driveway.
I heard the sound of my own breathing.

Silence evaded me.

In heaven there will be silence for 30 minutes. No singing. No shouting praises. No whispering, "What's going on?" No crying. No laughing. Just silence. Silence for 30 minutes. What would a half hour in the realm of eternity feel like, when the Lamb is about to open the seventh seal?

Revelation 8:1-5:

And when He opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven for about half an hour. And I saw the seven angels who stood before God, and seven trumpets were given to them. And another angel with a golden censer came and stood by the altar, and much incense was given to him so that he might offer it for the prayers of the saints on the golden altar in front of the throne. And smoke from the incense went up from the hand of the angel before God for the prayers of the saints. Then the angel took the incense holder and filled it with fire from the altar and threw it to the earth. And there occurred thunderous voices(1) and flashes of lightning and an earthquake.



Sit here and imagine it.
Read Revelation 8:1 and following. Are you filled with awe and dread? Or something else?

Toothless Grin: When it's not Cute

Last night I delivered over 550 items that our homeschooling group had collected for the homeless. I met with Michelle, the head of a relief center in a neighboring county.

While we were talking, she asked me to pray for a little 4 year old boy who will probably be having all 20 of this teeth pulled this week. The teeth are rotten. If you've heard of mothers letting their babies and toddlers fall asleep with milk or juice bottles (over and over), you know that the result is cavities forming in those tooth buds and baby teeth.

He is the third child in his family to need some radical tooth extraction. I don't know the boy's name, and by law Michelle wouldn't be able to tell me anyway. But please pray for him. When his mom asked Michelle if she had some pudding or Jell-o to give him, Michelle was then keyed into a major education problem: this mom didn't know how to feed her child nutritiously. She just needed soft foods for him. Michelle suggested more nutritious options. I was fighting tears as I drove home thinking about this little boy. He is the same age as my Joel.

Toothless grins are cute. For the first few months of a baby's life. You can pray for me, too. I am getting closer to the homeless and, like working in the crisis pregnancy center a decade ago, I am finding myself holding onto their plights and feeling helpless to make a difference. But my borders are enlarging. My heart is too, but then so is my knowledge of the desperate situations people are in.

My Personal Dung Gate

Our church has been going through Nehemiah in the Sunday messages, and discussing it in mid-week care groups.

Last night we were asked about what we each believed God was calling us to strengthen in our lives. Our leader gave us a nifty map of the wall around Jerusalem, showing the various gates (Beautiful Gate, Sheep Gate, Fish Gate, Dung Gate, etc). According to Nehemiah,each family in Jerusalem worked to rebuild a part of the gate close to their own house.

One man in the group said he wants to be a stronger family leader. One couple said that they want to evangelize in their apartment community. One woman is being stretched to hospitality toward young moms. Still another man pointed out that he has probably just four more years to closely disciple a teenager who has, in the past month, become a Chistian.

I said that I've been mulling over wanting to touch the lives of the homeless. But more than than reaching out, I want to reach IN to where they are spiritually. It's way too easy for me to make stuff, send stuff, deliver stuff, or even help out at a shelter once in a while. That strikes at my heart, but thus far hasn't changed it. Not enough. To my shame, I am not ready. I'd love to say with full abandon, "Let's go into the highways and biways, shelters and alleys and bring them in. No matter how they look or smell, no matter their personal histories, no matter what."

My parents modeled this level of compassion. I remember going to a church in Bel Air for many years when I was in middle and high school. People were well-coiffed, well-manicured, and some were well-heeled. They sang in choir.They knew the Scriptures. They taught Sunday School. They met regularly for prayer meeting on Wednesday nights. But I don't remember anyone but my parents bringing poor, stinky people to church.

When we had a station wagon, we girls would pile into the very back and let the S family sit in the back seat. (Usually it was just Mr. and Mrs. S and their preteen daughter.) When the station wagon died, we could only afford one small car. My dad picked up the S family, took them to church, and then came back for the rest of the family. We lived 15 miles out in the country, so it was a real sacrifice for my dad, but never once did he complain. I complained about having to ride in a stinky car after the S family had been in it. Daddy said, "Well, I could take our family first and then go get them, but you'd have to get up an hour earlier." I complained about that, too.

I remember feeling guilty that I hated riding with them because their B.O. would cancel out our freshly bathed aromas. I felt guilty that we had more than they did. Mrs S wanted to be around Mama and Daddy as much as possible. Mrs. S liked to wear her hair really short (you'd call it butch) and so my mom would cut it for her every other week, it seemed. Mrs. S would compare the length of her hair to my dad's (which is always close-cropped) and say with a hearty laugh, "Mine's shorter than yours, ain't it, Lyle?" I never thought that was particularly funny, but we were taught to be polite and agree with the truth.

Mrs. S had a noticeable speech impediment. She liked to tell us how much she and Mr S loved each other, even though he was "sitsteen year owlder" than her.

My mom led GA's (Girls in Action--a Baptist girls' mission club) and the highlight for her was always going to the migrant workers' "homes" in Delaware every summer. Mama would personally go through the clothing donations at the church. It was appalling what some people would "give"--used underwear, dirty socks, dingy bras.
As if poor people don't have dignity! I remember my mom informing the pastor that she was trashing the trashable clothes (a decision, thankfully, he supported). Then Mama would wash and fold the decent clothes with every bit of the same care she did our family's laundry (which is a whole 'nother story, as they say).

Mostly I remember the delight on the faces of the migrants after they realized we were "safe" people. They spoke no English, but I heard many,many "gracias" around the barrack-like compound.Little girls put clean pink shorts on over their dirty brown ones. Boys would strip off their sweaty T's and don fresh, clean-smelling right on the spot. Mama smiled knowingly. She had been poor once, too.

Daddy was a pastor with a side job as a chaplain in a mental hospital. He had such compassion for the mentally ill and handicapped. Still does. In my depression he never told me to "knock it off" or "get over it" or "put on a happy face." He and Mama said they understood and were praying for me. Occasionally I got a card in the mail from them,even though they live 10 minutes away.

We were taught never to make fun of anyone's odd behavior, and Daddy hated alcohol because of the abuse and ruin it led to. He never quoted scripture about abstaining from alcohol, but drinking was complete anathema to him, and he told us it would break his heart if we ever became drunk or married a drunk. Yet alcoholics received kindness and gentleness from my dad, not judgment or ridicule.

So I'm sure that watching my parents reach out--and reach in--to the lives of people no one else seemed to care about, has made me want to do likewise.

But so far I have kept an arm's length. God, forgive me. Forgive me for not caring enough. I just want things and people to be "nice" and "comfortable" and "acceptable." Change my heart, O God, and shorten the distance between my mouth and my hands, I pray.


You've shown me my Dung Gate, Dear Father. Now give me faith, courage, and abundant love to strengthen it.

"What If"
lyrics by Jadon Lavik

What if I climbed the mountain, what if I swam to that shore
What if every battle was victorious then would you love me more
Would you love me more
What if I were everyone’s first choice, what if I went farther than before
What if I stood high above the rest then would you love me more
Would you love me more

You say I belong to you apart from the things I do
You say I belong to you I'm in awe of why you do
Why you do, why you do, I'm in awe of you, ooh
What if I ignored the hand that fed me, what if I forgot to confess
What if I stumbled down that mountain then would you love me less
Lord would you love me less

What if I were everyone's last choice what if I mixed in with the rest
What if I failed what I passed before then would you love me less
Lord would you, would you love me less, oh no oh no oh no

You say I belong to you apart from the things I do
You say I belong to you I'm in awe of why you do
You do you do you do

What have I done to deserve your son sent to die for me
What can I give I want to live give me eyes to see
In a world that keeps changing
there’s one thing that I know is true
Your love is staying there’s nothing else I'll hold onto

You say I belong to you apart from the things I do
You say I belong to you I'm in awe of why you do
Why you do You say I belong to you apart from the things I do
You say I belong to you I'm in awe of why you do
I'm in awe of you I'm in awe of you

The way you love me, the way you do
The way you do, the way you love me, you love me, you love me
The way you do the way you do the way you love me



© 2004 Thirsty Moon River Publishing