faith – FROM THE SHOE

“Trust God” – A Testament to My Mother’s Quiet Faith

“Trust God” was all that was written on a little note my mother sent me in June 2006.

It had been a stressful three weeks. I was in the middle of a divorce and money was scarce. Proceeds from the sale of our little house in San Pablo would alleviate some of this stress. Finally an offer was made and escrow was set to close mid-June. I had to borrow money from my parents and even the realtor to get to COE. (Mind you, I was paying for two houses at the time.)

Over the Memorial Day weekend, me and the kids just hung around the house we had rented near our old house. Maybe some jaunts to the pool in Rodeo were on our schedule, I don’t remember. But, of course, late Friday on a holiday weekend, an abscess on one of my molars began to pain…that and the stress of divorce, caring for ten kids (who were great, by the way, during this sad time), anxious for the sale of the house, and having very little money….the toothache was a bale of straw on the proverbial camel’s back.

I managed by sheer grit to get a hold of a dentist and persuaded her to prescribe some antibiotics without having to go into the office…remember it was late Friday on a holiday weekend. You all remember the stuff that happens with kids on holiday weekends. Relief was 24 hours away. Hallelujah! But the camel’s back was getting to the breaking point.

Fast forward two weeks, tooth was better, school was out…we were waiting for the sale to close. The day before, no lie, the buyer backed out. I was devastated. I had no financial recourse…no way to pay bills or feed these kids. My soon-to-be ex husband barely provided anything. I had to ask my parents for more help. The camel’s back was breaking.

My mother was not a prolific writer like my father. When I was in Belgium many years before, I received a little card from her with about three sentences and a plain salutation, “Mom”. At this difficult time, she likewise sent me a little card…no greetings, no salutation, just two words in her beautiful cursive handwriting. Two words she lived by, two words that helped her through her tough times, two words which elevated my depth of despair to a fledgling faith where I ascended into a cleft of peaceful resignation and confidence.

Two weeks later, in a rare moment of taking the bulls by the horn, I approached my realtor, told him to reduce the price and if the house doesn’t sell by September, I’d move back there. There was an offer the next day…and escrow closed successfully in August. Reprieve. The camel’s back didn’t break.

It was my great privilege to accompany my mother to Rome ten years earlier. There I saw her faith fully animated in the ancient cathedral of St. Peter’s, on the cobblestone roads of the Appian Way, in the dark and dusty catacombs of St. Callistus and in the hurried visit to the Sistine Chapel. She was able to see her beloved sculpture, “The Pieta” as well as glimpses of Pope John Paul II. This simple faith, the Christian Faith, has been expressed, by not only my mother, but by billions of believers, over the centuries in magnificent works of art, architecture and adulation to the glory of God, the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. And I enjoyed watching her delight those ten days in Rome.

So, today is her birthday and in her honor, I write this testament to her simple, yet powerful faith, a faith (along with her prayers, no doubt) that bore me up on eagle’s wings when I had been dashed to the ground. And I commend to my children and my grandchildren, that they too, follow my mom’s example and “Trust God” not only at desperate times, but at all times.

“Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.”

Proverbs 3:5,6

Happy Birthday, Mom…tell Dad hello. We miss you both very much.

“Listen to A Picture”

I love photography. I love it when I get an image just right. A great photo or a painting or even a film can evoke beauty, inspiration or life changing actions. Even sculptures can tell a story. My favorite sculpture (which I’ve written about here) is Michelangelo’s Moses. In Bible College, the professor explained that the strength of the figure and the intensity of Moses’ gaze were because he was looking into the Promised Land into which he was not allowed to go. Now that’s a powerful image.

I can think of two images in particular that had great power; one, a horrifying photo of a mother weeping over the bodies of five of her children after they perished in a Turkish earthquake back in the ’80’s. I can’t even post it because it is so heartbreaking, even more so now that I’ve had children. This photo moved me tremendously and to understand that grief is universal, that everyday there is loss, death and calamity

The second image is the complete opposite.

It was 2017 after the Super Bowl. Of course, Tom Brady not only was in it, but the Patriots went on to win it. For Tom’s mom, it was the first game of the season she attended because she had been battling cancer all season. I looked all over the internet for the image, but it has been removed. It was in the throes of champion joy that Tom looks at his mom with his million dollar smile with great love and her face is full of so much pride, joy and love. It’s a beautiful photo and powerful image of love, resilience and joy.

Images impact emotions faster and can be more powerful than words. Henri Nouwen, when he visited a friend in France in 1983, first saw Rembrandt’s Prodigal Son. His friend asked him, “Do you like it?”

I kept staring at the poster and finally stuttered, “It’s beautiful, more than beautiful…it makes me want to cry and laugh at the same time…I can’t tell you what I feel as I look at it, but it touches me deeply.”

Henri Nouwen was so moved by the painting that he eventually went to St. Petersburg to see the original himself.

Rembrandt’s embrace remained imprinted on my soul far more profoundly than any temporary expression of emotional support. It had brought me into touch with something within me that lies far beyond the ups and downs of a busy life , something that represents the ongoing yearning of the human spirit, the yearning for a final return, an unambiguous sense of safety, a lasting home.

Nouwen went on the write his famous, The Return of the Prodigal Son, because of his encounter with a powerful image. Speaking of the Prodigal Son, the title of this blog is taken from one of my favorite sermons of Thru the Bible’s J. Vernon McGee. It too is titled Listen to A Picture. You can listen to it here.

This blog is about a recent “image” I saw. It wasn’t a photo, painting or sculpture, but it was a live illustration in a sermon. The sermon series at my church is covering the Sermon on the Mount. Last Sunday’s sermon was about the Lord’s Prayer, the “Our Father” as we called it growing up in the Catholic Church.

As the pastor gave his sermon, he did something so simple, so sublime, so unassuming…yet very, very powerful. As he was talking about “Our Father Who is in heaven”, he called his young daughter to the stage and she happily jumped into his arms. He paused and let that image sink into our minds and said, “This is what our relationship with the Father looks like.” He held her firmly with his arm and she beamed as she looked into his face. And he beamed right back into hers. The illustration lasted a few minutes, she beamed the whole time. She was in her daddy’s arms, safe, secure and loved. WOW!

Now, I know that God is my Father, intellectually, and I know I’ve been adopted into the family of God by receiving Christ into my life through faith…but as many as received Him, to them He gave the right to become children of God, to those who believe in His name. I know that…but to see this powerful image of a loving father and happy child…sometimes that is not a reality in my walk with the Lord. I am fearful. I doubt. I do not trust the strong Arm that holds me. And I am certainly not always smiling. I’ve got some serious adjustments to make.

What does this image, this sermon illustration want us to hear? It wants us to hear, to know that we are beloved children of the Father, we are all kinda His favorites. That we have been legitimately adopted into His family through Christ, (that’s how great the Gospel is). And that there is nothing that can separate us from the love of God…

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Even the prodigal son was still a son in the pigpen.

I think an obstacle to returning to the strong arms of our Heavenly Father is our misunderstanding or misconception of what a father is. Some of us have had difficult relationships with our own dads, and there are residual wounds. Some of us have never been held like the pastor’s daughter was, securely and lovingly. It is foreign, even uncomfortable.

But…this is not without remedy. God really can heal those wounds and replace bitter experiences with new hope. I think as we, like the prodigal son, make our way back to the Father from whatever pigpen we’ve been in – fearfulness, anxiety, unbelief as well as a host of other sins – we will begin to bask in more of that Father’s love that was illustrated by the pastor and his daughter, and we will “rejoice in the Lord always: and again I say, rejoice” as Paul wrote from a Philippian prison.

The Best Christmas Gift Ever

I’ve gotten wonderful gifts over the course of my life. The births of my ten children – my ten best days, my ten best gifts – Gifts from God. Then the grandkids…more best gifts, one coming a day before my birthday. A Christmas child in ’95 and a Christmas grandchild in ’23. (Second and third best Christmas gifts.) A bike one Christmas long ago when I was in third grade, my father and mother remembered. A vacuum…the first Christmas of my marriage (that’s what I wanted, it was awesome). A sculpture of a mama hare and her ten little bunnies…a wonderful gift from a true friend. All these and many more I am grateful for. However, the best Christmas Gift I received, the best Gift I received in my entire life was the One I received forty-five years ago less than ten days before Christmas 1979.

I was raised Catholic. I thought I was a pretty good Catholic, I loved the traditions and rituals of the Catholic Church. I learned basic theology in my CCD class at St. Eugene’s in Santa Rosa. Do unto to others as you would have them do unto you, don’t steal, don’t lie, be kind to animals…all from our little CCD study book which I still have. A good roadmap.

But there was something missing, I was still searching. Being raised Catholic did give me a good foundation for faith. I never not believed there was a God. I had no problem sitting at the cliffs near our Daly City house and imploring the Creator of the winds, the waves and the wonder of the ocean to reveal Himself to me perhaps like Bernadette or the children in Fatima or even Mary. But, alas, no. He revealed Himself in this way.

In 1978, I worked at a real estate office in Half Moon Bay during the Fall. It was wonderful, but lonely. Interest rates in ’78 were climbing toward 20%, subsequently, there were very few sales. The phone rang maybe twice a day. But my boss, Dick Stahl, an old friend of my dad’s, wanted me there and paid me to man the phones. So during the long hours between calls I read the Lord of the Rings and other books, but I mainly read the Bible, especially the Book of Revelation. I didn’t understand it at all. But I read it, I knew it was an important book. And those hours of reading whetted my appetite for more.

Fast forward through 1979, partying was getting wearisome, I had no real direction in my life and I was not making good decisions. I knew I needed to get it together, but how? Late that year, my best friend started going to this little church that met at the YMCA in Stonestown. She asked me to come along. Another true friend. I’m so glad I did.

I went to the service and enjoyed it. At the end, an invitation to faith was given. I remember clearly, Eric Sorenson had preached and was giving the invitation. He said, “If you wanted Christ in your life, raise your hand and we’ll pray for you.” I’m sure he quoted Revelation 3:20, “Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat, and he with me.” I struggled for what seemed like a long time…I had faith, I believed, I always believed. But had I invited Christ into my heart? No, I never had. Do I need to do this? Yes, I do need to do this, I want to do this. So I raised my hand up high, and asked kinda loudly, “Pray for me.” Startled Eric looked at me, but then nodded. I wasn’t supposed to say “Pray for me”. Oh well, here I am, forty-five years later, still raising my hand in different ways, “Pray for me.” The only consistent thing in my life. My best decision.

What brought me to that decision? It wasn’t the love of God, it wasn’t the superior teaching or even the rich history of the Church (albeit marred a bit)…it was that Jesus is the Truth. I was seeking for truth, the Truth. And He said in John 14:6, “I am the Way, the Truth and the Life, no one comes to the Father except through Me.” That is why I came to Christ. And His love was a Blessed By-Product which took a long time for me to understand and accept. I am still learning to this day what it means to be loved unconditionally.

My conversion took place during the tail end of the Jesus Revolution. The main verse at that time wasn’t so much John 3:16, but John 3:3, “Jesus responded and said to him (to Nicodemus), ‘Truly, truly, I say to you, unless someone is born again he cannot see the kingdom of God.’” I was born again on December 16, 1979, my spiritual birthday, and for the past forty-five years, I have strove to follow Him. I have not always done so. But He continues to forgive me, stand me up, dust me off and straighten me out. He has been a faithful Friend, a patient Savior and a compassionate Father. He is the Gift that keeps giving. And on top of all of the benefits following Christ renders in this life, true joy, true peace, true love, there is also eternal life with Him. Amen.

So, dear reader, maybe you believe, but haven’t made that jump, opened that door or decided to give your life to Christ. Maybe you thought He was there all along, but aren’t sure, like me. Paul writes in 2 Corinthians 6:1, “Behold, now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation.”, if you want Christ in your life…raise your hand and receive the Best Christmas Gift Ever and “…be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to obtain an inheritance which is imperishable, undefiled, and will not fade away, reserved in heaven for you…” (1 Peter 1:3, 4).

Merry, Merry Christmas!

“But as many as received Him, to them He gave the right to become children of God, to those who believe in His name: who were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God.” John 1:12,13

Unmoored

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About a year and a half ago, my dad, Bob Moore, passed away. I didn’t realize that his death would leave me feeling untethered, unmoored, if you will (no pun intended). I thought I had grown to a point to not need him; evidently, even with his deteriorating condition, his presence, his life was still “a strong pier to which I latched my little barque.”

After taking a new job and moving to a new city, I thought I’d eventually get my bearings. Then COVID hit. My dad’s passing, changing jobs and moving to a place where I knew few folks contributed to a sense of disorientation; however, the quarantine has made it much worse.

I had started this blog after he died and titled it “Untethered” because that’s how I felt. But I had to go on, even though I felt like a little boat out in a sometimes tempestuous sea without anchor, harbor or mooring. Now, with this global pandemic upon us, I feel even more “unmoored”. Overnight, things we were accustomed to, perhaps took for granted: work, school, church, recreation stopped. Quite quickly. Thankfully, I have a position that is secure, but not so for many of my kids. Not so for many, many other folks. Unnerving, scary, almost un-“bear”able.

To add to this disorientation is a political landscape and suspect media that do NOT cultivate calm, competency or control. To that mess, I must trust Jesus’ words, “Be ye not troubled.” That aspect of this situation is just too overwhelming.

But here in the corner of my little world, how do I find some sense of perspective, peace and protection? My environment helps. My new town is surrounded on the south side by luscious green hills, so it’s easy to look up, and remember from where my help comes.

Oddly, as I grapple with this disorientation, I’ve yearned to go to someplace familiar, like the Russian River, grasping to feel some connection with my childhood that seemed to have some security, some foundation, some familiarity. In my new town, there is not one river, but two; two rivers where small boats skirt by freighter ships. A providential plus.

However, we’re not the only generation to suffer through global crises. Certainly my parents and their parents remember the Great Depression. Then that was followed by a global conflict, a conflict that resulted in the death of millions. A pandemic of Evil. A World Unmoored.

Also, two thousand years ago, on the small stage of Judea, in Rome’s Palestine, a Man had been born, had lived and was killed by the various powers that be. And yet for the handful of men and women who counted Him as Lord and Savior, the Anointed One, the very Messiah of Israel, they were left bewildered, lost, and unmoored after His gruesome death. For three days, they hid, and they feared for their own lives.

Until that glorious first Easter day…He rose from the dead! The resurrection of Jesus Christ exploded all religious models. Here was the Way, the Truth and the Life. Here was the Creator God extending His reconciling Hand to mankind. Who was, still lives. And the fact of the Resurrection drove the first generation of believers to boldly proclaim the gospel of Jesus Christ, even in the face of great persecution. Their hope was strong and steadfast.

When the disciples struggled with their boat on the troubled Sea of Galilee, and our Lord slept below…they not only feared their deaths, but they also thought Jesus was unconcerned. When they finally awakened the Lord, He gently, quietly rebuked the storm, and the disciples, “‘Peace! Be still!’ Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. He said to them, ‘Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?'”

So in the midst of unknown new surroundings and the temporary scary new normals, I look to the One who calmed the seas. I look to the One to Whom I can latch my little barque. I look to the One Who asks me – asks us – “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?”

“Why are you in despair, O my soul? And why have you become disturbed within me? Hope in God, for I shall again praise Him for the help of His presence.”

— Psalm 42:5

“This hope we have as an anchor of the soul, a hope both sure and steadfast…”

— Hebrews 6:19

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She Walks In Beauty – My Mother

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December 9, 2024…four years since you left us. We miss you, especially this time of year. Thank you for the decades of Christmas celebrations you hosted. Footsteps I am unable to fill.

Originally written in 2019…

I looked over my blogs and noticed I hadn’t written a lot about my mom. My dad, yes; but my mom, not so much. As much as my dad was formidable, boisterous and gregarious, my mom was the opposite. She is quiet, hardworking and constant. And funny. But her humor is subtle and understated.

One of the funniest stories I remember I wrote in another blog: My sister and I were at my parents’ house one day. Standing at the kitchen counter, we were engaged in a serious and riveting conversation about what we all discuss in the kitchen: hemorrhoids. Who knows who was the afflicted, but our conversation covered causes, symptoms, side effects and various and sundry methods of treatment. My mother entered the kitchen while we discussed the burning, itching and pain. She listened for a bit. And, in a humph, she pronounced her expert therapeutic remedy: “Just put a little Vaseline on it; and, for Pete’s sake, stop licking it!” No, Mom, we’re not talking about cold sores. Although she didn’t intend that to be funny, it certainly was.

Living with my dad was no picnic. I remember the tumultuous times which she endured with dignity and strength…but there were times when he pushed her across the line. That’s when the plates and pots began to fly. I’m sure that quieted him down. I suspect she regretted those times, but she was human…she is human.

My dad liked to be the center of attention, and I think my mom was content to be in the shadow. As I remember all my dad gave me, all that I attributed to him to the creation of my personality, I realize the things that are the dearest and the most important to me are the qualities and characteristics I received from my mom.

Three biggies I got from my mom – faith, family and literature – continue to dominate my world. Her faith in her church is such a stronghold that it even kept me grounded, well as grounded as I could be (as a restless and reckless hare) until I found my own faith. Only God knows how much I owe to her prayers. My mom is so Catholic…not the devout zealot who prays and penances painfully, but the one who echoes and reflects the beauty and joy of the old denomination though aware of its shortcomings. A sensible saint.

My mom taught us “Ohana”. Family…like what little Lilo said, “Ohana means family. Family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten.” My mom taught me Ohana generosity. When a neighbor girl would come over hungry, I thought my mom may shoo her away, but she didn’t, she invited her in and fed her. That one act of kindness taught me to always keep my door open. Even when there were times when I didn’t have enough, I tried to exhibit her Ohana generosity.

Growing up there was one book – one book – that I remember reading, my Mom’s literature book from her Honolulu Catholic high school. In this book, I discovered Shelley and others whose poetry became seeds, seeds which would bear fruit in my own writing and can be seen in my little library that I am creating. One of my favorite poems from that book, She Walks In Beauty, defines my mother:

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o’er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

–

-Lord Byron

My beautiful mother’s raven tresses were cut after she got married. But her cheek and brow remain “so soft, so calm, yet eloquent” and her smiles still win and her tints still glow as she embarks into her ’90’s. Now she has some peace, and her love continues in innocence.

Thank you, Mom, for these priceless gifts. Gifts I hope to pass down to my children. Happy Mother’s Day.

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Waiting For Hope

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Probably my favorite passage from Mrs. Charles Cowman’s Streams in the Desert – July 26

For we through the Spirit by faith wait for the hope of righteousness – Galatians 5:5

There are times when things look very dark to me–so dark that I have to wait even for hope. It is bad enough to wait in hope. A long-deferred fulfillment carries its own pain, but to wait for hope, to see no glimmer of a prospect and yet refuse to despair; to have nothing but night before the casement and yet to keep the casement open for possible stars; to have a vacant place in my heart and yet to allow that place to be filled by no inferior presence–that is the grandest patience in the universe. It is Job in the tempest; it is Abraham on the road to Moriah; it is Moses in the desert of Midian; it is the Son of man in the Garden of Gethsemane. There is no patience so hard as that which endures, “as seeing him who is invisible”; it is the waiting for hope.

Thou hast made waiting beautiful; Thou has made patience divine. Thou hast taught us that the Father’s will may be received just because it is His will. Thou hast revealed to us that a soul may see nothing but sorrow in the cup and yet may refuse to let it go, convinced that the eye of the Father sees further than its own.

Give me this Divine power of Thine, the power of Gethsemane. Give me the power to wait for hope itself, to look out from the casement where there are no stars. Give me the power, when the very joy that was set before me is gone, to stand unconquered amid the night, and say, “To the eye of my Father it is perhaps shining still.” I shall reach the climax of strength when I have learned to wait for hope. –George Matheson

Strive to be one of those–so few–who walk the earth with ever-present consciousness–all mornings, middays, star-times–that the unknown which men call Heaven is “close behind the visible scene of things.”