There’s a cute little newborn in the house that would keep me awake all night if it weren’t for the intervention of his father. Much to the new one’s dismay, he spends the hours of midnight – 3 am with his daddy. Don’t get me wrong, he loves his daddy, but we all know that right now I’m his favorite.

And God bless this daddy for taking on the first and sometimes second night-shift. Thanks to his sacrifice, I still have my sanity and get rest every night. Although, after finding a bottle in a random place this morning, I suspect that I might have slept-walked at some point in the early morning hours . .

I met Nick Ristow on a snowy day at Simpson University. The flurries had coaxed the students outside and the boys flirted by throwing snowballs while the girls pretended to be offended.  He threw a snowball at me, I squealed and ran away, that was about it. We had mutual friends and our paths crossed time and time again, but I was assured by a third party that I had no chance with him and so I never entertained the thought. We talked occasionally. Once, he made a big show of disapproving of a boyfriend I had.

On the last day of school, while everyone packed up their belongings for the summer, he packed up his room permantly. He was moving on to his next adventure.

With my very little sisters in tow, I loaded my last box into my car. My roomate was hitching a ride north with Nick Ristow and couldn’t find him. It was the last day of school so I had no qualms about going into the boy’s dorm. With a baby on my hip and a toddler at my side, I walked in and requested to see him.

I’ll never forget the shock on his face. I didn’t understand it then, but I do now. Turns out I did have a chance with him. The moment was awkward. We stared at each other for a few seconds. “She’s waiting for you outside,” I managed to say. I’m not sure if he said anything at all.

It was a strange goodbye, and then I left, fully expecting that it would be the last time I would ever see him.

I think about that moment a lot.

I’m married to him now. He eventually came back to Simpson and I saw him for the treasure he was.

It was around 10:30 last night that I thought about that moment again. Our daughters had finally stopped telling stories to one another in their beds and were sound asleep. Our newborn son was snoring in his bouncy seat. Nick Ristow was standing in my kitchen eating strawberries.

“If you could have seen a snap shot of this life way back then, would you have still married me?” I asked.

“If I had seen a snap shot of this life way back then, I would have thought it was a cruel joke, because I never would have thought I would be allowed to be this happy,” he answered.

I think I hugged his leg as he walked by. I’m not sure why I was sitting on the floor, but I suspect it had something to do with the newborn and diapers and sleepwalking. I love him so much. And I feel so lucky to have had Nick Ristow’s babies.

The first time it happened at camp. The power kept going out. A storm raged outside, lightning shut down the sound system. But sure enough, I felt Him pass by. You can call me crazy, I’ll never forget that feeling, like something bigger, greater than I could ever understand was in the room with me.

I was told by Jesus that all was well.

When my heart was broken, really broken for the first time. For months I couldn’t breathe without it hurting, so great was my pain. He turned my tears into prayers for my husband, a boy I had met but didn’t truly know. I didn’t know my prayers went to him, a young man so steeped in pain that the timing of my prayers had to be divine.

I was told by Jesus that all was well.

When I had my second child. The economy was frightening. My emotions were even scarier. I knelt face down on the floor of my church and praised God for this child I didn’t know how to care for. I praised Him for her health, for her wondrous eyes, for who she would be someday- a person I couldn’t seem to envision. In a room full of people, I heard His whisper.

I was told by Jesus all was well.

When my mom called and told me she had cancer. I was sitting in my in-laws driveway. It was winter and cold. My children were sleeping in their car seats and the back of the car was filled with Christmas presents.

When I heard the prognosis, standing in front of the Christmas tree. Green and white lights burning into my mind with words I would never forget.

When she breathed her last, her blessed eyes opening one last time to look at me.

I was told by Jesus all was well.

I suppose that is what hope is all about. Not hoping that Jesus will speak, for He already has. But inclining our ear to hear the message.

All is well.

How foolish that I once grasped at my own dreams, when they were so small, so one-dimensional compared to the delight my Father in heaven has given me. My children, once so overwhelmingly confusing to me, are my delight. My heartbeat. My mother is alive and well in the presence of my God.

Today, Jesus says to you, “All is well.”

Now, I’m off to kiss my husband.

Last week, many precious people were lost. In Redding and Medford both, people are grieving their loss.

And it all makes me think of my sweet mom.  She will never hold this baby boy that I carry inside of me. He will only know of her through my heart.

No, she walks where only the treasured ones are. In the presence of the Savior that we know in spirit and in truth, but not face to face as she does. Not face to face as these others that have gone before.

This morning, I read this in the Bible:

“So if someone tells you, ‘Look, the Messiah is out in the dessert,’ don’t bother to go and look. Or, ‘Look, He is hiding here,’ don’t believe it! For as lightning lights up the entire sky so it will be when the Son of Man comes.”- Matthew 24:26-27

I found this to be comforting, in a world where we cannot explain everything.  And so, naturally, we are left with many questions. Our God came as a baby once, showing a different kind of a power- not a power that oppresses and conquers, but a power that builds up the weak and lifts the broken up as if on wings of eagles, a God that knows our suffering! He walks among us now, this Holy Spirit, comforting us, helping us, guiding us on this journey. And He will come again, as lightning lights up the sky.

Until then, we cling to Him when we lose what is precious. We cling to Him always.

And we never lose hope; this hope we have in Him. The One that fashions new life inside of a womb.

starting new

  The foyer appeared empty. My heart sank a little. I was hoping for something familiar. I peeked around the corner and saw him. I’ve known him forever, this grouchy grandpa I haven’t seen him 3 years. It took him a minute to recognize me, but when he did, the tears welled up in his eyes and he embraced me. He invited me to sit and asked me questions about my life. He told me I remind him of a happy era and that my husband is a good man.

He left to collect the offering, and I slipped into a back room. I saw another familiar face. She stood with both arms in praise to Jesus, and when I touched one arm, she spun around with tears in her eyes and pulled me close.

“You’ve so been on my heart,” she whispered. “Are you okay?” Two years had passed since I saw her last at my mom’s bedside, and yet she still thought about me enough to pray for me after all that time.

The music ended and I went into the sanctuary. I found another friend I have not seen in over a year. One who has recently lost her father. She hugged me over and over again and said, “Isn’t is strange how the words take on a whole new meaning when you’ve lost a parent?”; singing about Jesus raising from the dead means so much more. This one was especially precious to my mom.

I snuck into the room where the highschoolers meet and it was empty, save for one person. A lovely young woman whom I’ve watched grow up. She has been through so much and still serves Jesus with her guitar. With an icecream cone in hand, she made a loud noise and hurried for me.

Outside, I found my youth pastor. As his children ran about celebrating the ice cream cones as well, another pastor came up. He is the pastor who, in his twenties, gave me a chance to lead in worship. I don’t know why he let this shy girl behind a microphone, but he did. Time and time again. Tonight, he encouraged me while his children tried to figure out how to salvage their desserts from the ground . . . It had been a year since I had seen either of them as well.

Then another friend of fifteen years appeared . . . The summer after my mom died, she took me to the movies. She picked me up in a mini-van shortly after giving her skunk-sprayed dog a ride as well. We sat in the theater trying to figure out who smelled worse, all the while crying because the actress on screen spoke of not having a mother . . . Tonight, she told me over and over again how seeing her had made her night, her week, her month. She said, “I don’t need to ask you how you are because I know . . . ” And she was right, even though we have not spoken in person in so very long.

I was so reluctant to get in my car. I wanted to stay for just a little while longer. This was my church for 26 years. I grew up here. So did my mom. She had attended from when it began as a tiny little meeting in a grange hall until it grew to thousands upon thousands of people. I can even close my eyes and remember what it was like when she would walk down these corridors, her heels clicking on cement. She would say, “Hey Tater bugs!”

And oh how I miss that voice. Oh how I miss the way things used to be when I would visit Redding. Oh how I long for the familiar here.

But tonight, I found it. At church.

I know people have all sorts of bad to say about the church, and I know they have great reasons for it. Heck, I can rant with the best of them. But the truth is, God chooses to comfort us through His people. Broken people. Tonight, I went to His people and I was comforted.

I suppose some things do stay the same.

]]> http://ristowswife.wordpress.com/2012/06/07/church/feed/ 1 ristowswife http://ristowswife.wordpress.com/2012/06/05/the-highway/ http://ristowswife.wordpress.com/2012/06/05/the-highway/#comments Tue, 05 Jun 2012 05:06:02 +0000 ristowswife http://ristowswife.wordpress.com/?p=850 Continue reading »

The highway out of Redding is as straight as an arrow. Until you reach Palo Cedro, a rural suburb to the east. Like sliding into an oasis, the hills part and the road slowly descends towards the little town. You can see Mt. Shasta to the North, Mt. Lassen straight ahead, and all the browns and greens and blues in every direction. The sky seems endless.

I grew up in Palo Cedro. Farmland, pastures, neighborhoods and sparse groupings of houses, street names that conjure up so many good memories, my insides literally feel fuzzy.

If you exit the highway here, you can turn right and head to my grandma’s house. My aunt lives there too. So does the family of my childhood best friend.  There’s the house with the camels and zebras, and the creek where I spent the summers swimming with my grandpa. If you head left, you’ll drive past my elementary school, the church I spent my early years in, my high school, and eventually the turn-off to my childhood home.

To grandmother’s house we go.

But if I’m not going to my aunt’s or grandma’s house, I’m not exiting the highway at all. Instead, the highway takes me over the town of my youth and on into the Millville plains. It’s an invisible line, this overpass, reminding me that change is inevitable. That some things can never be the same.

The Millville plains are exactly that. Miles upon miles of wheat-colored hills. The wind blows so strong that it shakes my car. Every time. 3 miles past the invisible line is Old 44 drive. This is the place my parents bought their dream home several years ago. They described it as their retirement. My mom planted her biggest garden ever, three years in a row. And even though they had rid themselves of the myriad of animals from my younger years, a few remained. A horse and a pony whose combined names equaled “Mojo,” two goats that had outlived themselves years over,  and the chickens that provided our family with eggs. There was a huge pool in the backyard where my sisters’ had school parties. They were still children, growing into lovely little women. Their bedrooms still outrageous, exciting colors.

It’s strange how quickly things can change. That same road no longer leads to that house. Instead, it’s the path I take to visit my mother’s grave. The last time I visited was last year. My sister and grandma and I embraced, while my grandma recited the Lord’s prayer.

Across the invisible line is also how I get to the new home my dad shares with his new wife. But they wont be in that house for much longer. They’ll move across the country in two weeks. More change.

After this week, if I drive across that invisible line, it will be for one purpose only. To sit on a green hill next to my mom’s picture and remember. So much change represented on that little hill.

So much change.

All filtered through the hands of God. I wont try to spout some intelligent-sounding theology here. Because, though I believe and trust this unseen Savior, I still don’t understand all this change. Not for one second does it make a lick of sense.

We are not without hope. My sisters will be okay. They are going to a great place, and if they remember who they are, and where to find their value, they’ll do just fine.

sisters.

But for me, this little valley makes it hard to breathe, and it will always be so. That invisible line no longer leads me to my mother’s house and into her waiting arms.

And so, on this eve of the lil’ sister’s 8^th grade graduation, I am grateful for something.

This unseen Savior. . . Who absolutely never changes. He is the same yesterday, today, and forever. He is who He says He is. His word never changes. He is faithful, relentlessly so. He is my home. My familiar. Those waiting arms . . .

This blink of change is just that. A blink, a vapor. Time is nothing, really. That’s not to say that it doesn’t hurt, but everything really will be made right. It will be.  He told me so. . . this unseen Savior . . .

. . . Who is incredible visible to me tonight.

Even now, I can hear her laugh and say, “Katie . . . think bigger. . .” And it eases that ache in my chest so that I can smile. Just a little.

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Tonight, while the kids were in their classes, Nick and I sat in on the adult service. The preacher on Wednesday nights is a man named Andy Green. He has been diagnosed with terminal cancer. His prognosis is not good. But his faith is big. His love for God seems untainted by doubt. He knows where he is going. When I left, with tears in my eyes, I took one major thought with me. “God is never late.”

Nick stepped into the youth group for a few minutes. He and others gathered around a student that is moving away. They prayed, some cried. What a precious moment. The student and his family are very important to the church, to our family. We are losing one of the best babysitters we have ever had. And yet, I spoke with another girl about taking on the job. She seemed happy, her blue- spiked hair nodding eagerly, guitar in hand.

I loaded the girls up in the car and then drove around to pick up Nick, just in time to see him do a trick on a student’s bike. My little ones chastised Daddy for being unsafe and then asked him to do it again. He complied. On the way home, Eva told us, “At home, I gonna ride my bike and jump it. Then bring it to church and show everyone my super, cool trick.”

We communally told her that she was still too young to do that, though she insisted she was little enough. Through the laughter, I drove my family home content. Tonight, we went to church.

And we were given a challenge. Posed a question. Urged to think beyond.

What if . . .

What if we 50 women chose to love each other? And not just each other, but other women in our lives. What if we chose not to be petty? What if we chose not to judge one another, and also to not compare? What if we didn’t  look at another’s shoes, shirt, or hairstyle to see how we measured up? What if, instead of just trading polite conversation, we genuinely meant it when we asked, “How are you?” ?

What if we supported the other women in our lives authentically? What if we made a serious effort to not speak disparaging about other women? What if, when we said we would pray for another, we actually did it?

There were only 50 of us there, of all ages, of all sizes, of all personality types. But if those 50 alone made an attempt to model Christ’s love to each other, it would greatly impact our families, and in turn, our city.

The truth is, we need each other. Moms need other moms. We all need sisters. We need grandmothers. And from a woman whose mother is no longer on earth, trust me when I say that we need mothers. Even if they’re not our own. We need someone to call in those moments of panic. We need support. We need a listening ear for advice. Iron sharpens iron. We need to fill the gaps that have been left by disease, loss, division. We can be the healing balm.

We need each other.

And we all know how difficult women can be.

So . . . I am going to try, and I would ask you to try with me.

Let’s try to not be petty this week. Let’s try to not say one negative thing about another. Let’s try to speak words of life. Let’s try to not let our emotions rule over us. Let’s just give it a try . . . And let’s stop judging the other women we come into contact with. Let’s stop comparing ourselves. It’s pointless. And to be honest, it makes us ugly. Charm is deceitful and beauty is vain . . .

When we think about what we want, let’s try to be pretty on the inside first. I have a feeling that that sort of beauty will pour out. 

I can certainly remember all the dreams I have stubbed my toes on. I can recall countless times when I was driven to my knees by the loss of something I wanted. Sometimes it was by the Master’s hand, and rightly so, for whatever it was was not what my heart, in its right state, truly wanted. This pain eventually gave way to gratitude. And just as often, that which I treasured has been removed from my life without rhyme or reason. Leaving me crushed. Leaving me to question. Leaving me with scars.

  There is something very precious about pain. Even Jesus ached in the garden on the eve of his crucifixion. He saw the end result. He knew truth. And yet, death, so devastating, had to come first. I mention this to remind you how important our hurt is to our Creator. He cares. He does not pass by us in our time of need, but reaches right down, His right hand quick to save, His spirit a constant comfort.

The death of a dream can be so devastating. But if we can keep our eyes fixed on the One that made us, we can remember that He redeems all. He brings life out of the ashes. And so, from the smoke rises remnants of hope.

I think of my friends who recently moved to Hawaii. As long as I have known them, they have dreamed of doing so, but there was life and commitments and a mortgage. When the economy crashed, they lost the home they thought was the fulfillment of their dreams. To be sure, God understood that pain. But now I can see that He was whispering the entire time, “I have something better.”

Now, their messages and photos come from a beach in the Pacific. God gave life their bigger dreams.

I think of the first time my heart was truly broken. Oh, how I grieved that loss. It took seven months for me to heal, but oh my, how free I felt when I embraced that healing. When I opened my eyes and saw clearly (not through the fog of tears), and realized that path had not been what I wanted at all. I had been blind, and God removed that person from my life as an act of mercy! My mom told me that my time would come when I least expected it, and how true it was. I didn’t even see Nick Ristow coming, but once he was there, I saw my future, the one that God chose for me! And it has been so much better than I could have ever imagined!

Because I have hinds site now, I can tell you that I would have gone through as much heartbreak as it took to get to Nick. I would have waited for him, no matter how long the wait would have been, because my life with him, the fulfillment of this dream, has been worth everything!

But for those of you who are still experiencing the death of a dream, it can be so hard to remember truth.

And I can easily recall how difficult the last 9 years have been for Nick and I. Losing jobs, having to move over and over again, having opportunities given to us only to have them snatched out of our hands in the most unkind of ways. But I would walk that road again just to be with him. Because the joy and delight of being his wife outshines every single bit of hardship we’ve ever experienced.

Oh how good God is!

This living life thing is messy. Oh how it hurts sometimes, and I’m not talking about toes anymore. But when we trust in the Master’s hand, and through the hard times, keep focused on Him, it is easier to see the sun rising after our dark night.

The moments when I tuck my sweet babies into bed at night and kiss their soft cheeks, and when my husband holds me tight and tells me he loves me, and when God reminds me again and again of His great devotion to me, all else fades away.

The sorrow may last for the night . . . but joy comes in the morning!

]]> http://ristowswife.wordpress.com/2012/05/20/dream-furniture/feed/ 3 ristowswife 538247_230602180382314_100002976028091_400499_2123228561_n http://ristowswife.wordpress.com/2012/04/30/an-apple-a-day/ http://ristowswife.wordpress.com/2012/04/30/an-apple-a-day/#comments Mon, 30 Apr 2012 17:24:35 +0000 ristowswife http://ristowswife.wordpress.com/?p=807 Continue reading »

It was on stage yesterday that I was caught up in a memory. I sang the song “As the Deer”, a lovely song, inspired by the old songs of king David. But it was the last line, a common cultural phrase, that swept me up.

“You’re the apple of my eye.”

As I sang it, the words were directed towards my heavenly Father.  I picture a barrel of apples, but one that is more beautiful than all the rest. Its shine catches my eye, I reach for it, not even noticing the others.

And yet this cultural phrase that carries little meaning in other parts of the world, is entwined in my heart, my memories.  And every time, I know, I feel exactly what it means.

It was April 2010. I was sitting next to my mom in her bed. The history channel was on TV and she and I were writing letters. A letter to her sponsor child in Haiti explaining her illness. A thank you letter to someone who had sent flowers. Other letters that she could not bear to complete.

I could see out the window. The Millville plains stretched out to the creek where tall, stately trees indicated the flowing of the creek. Spring was coming. The sky was gray and the rain came and went for hours. With her eyes on the history channel and her thoughts somewhere unearthly, she reached for my hand.

She patted it.”Did you know you’re the apple of my eye?”

I told her I did. I had always known. Though no expressing of it had meant as much as that one.

“But I think it sounds better when God says it,” she finished.

I sang that phrase this weekend. I sang it to my Savior. But every time, I wondered what it sounded like when He said it to her. She went into His kingdom on May 18, 2010. While we experienced the unnatural horror of death, she was hearing His voice.

I wonder if He whispered it to her. A gentle embrace. A sigh of relief upon arriving home.

Or did He run to her, as she ran to Him? Did He touch His daughter’s face and say,

“Did you know you are the apple of My eye?”

I can’t imagine how much better it sounded when He said it.

And I cannot wait to hear it for myself.

You see, it’s not about doing the right things. It’s not about trying to be good. It’s not about following rules for a pat on the back. It’s about knowing Him. Wanting to know Him. A collection of days and moments spent believing. It’s about this crazy faith in the unseen. It’s about pursuing Him, though all else says it’s absurd. It’s about faith in the one true God. That He is a loving God, that He is a mighty, powerful God, and that it is He who has made us and not we ourselves.

I hope with all hope that you will hear it too. That you will endure, sprinting towards the finish line, or hobbling from earthly injuries, never giving up. Falling into the arms of the One that always loved you, even on those days of doubt when you were not sure He was even real. Even then, you were, you are, the apple of His eye.

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The smell of a ham baking. Family gathered around the food, snacking, laughing, complaining about the heat of the kitchen . . . these days I will remember always.

Hunting for the hidden Easter basket in the house, unwrapping goodies and fun gifts . . . laughter is priceless.

Easter. Spring. New life. This time of year brings an array of happiness to so many.

And for others it brings relief because it is a reminder.

A reminder that death was defeated. A reminder that, though Christ died, He rose again. He defeated death, he beat the insatiable grave, to walk again. To offer this hope to us.

It doesn’t end here.

This morning, Lori Corliss, my husband’s grandma, the woman that raised him, breathed her last breath on earth. We were not ready for her to go. But can you ever be ready for the loss of love?

But it didn’t end in that bed. It didn’t end with her last breath. It didn’t end with those last kisses. It didn’t end with those last hugs and expressions of love. Because she is with Jesus. I know this, because she told us she loved Him. He was her Savior.

She’s alive. Praise God, she’s alive. With new eyes that can see brilliant colors and the face of her Heavenly Father. She was so excited to go to church this weekend, but God brought her even closer. Not just into the assembly of His people, but right into His presence. Her legal name was Violet, and she hated it. She went by Lori all her days. I can’t wait to hear the name that God has for her. The name He chose straight from His heart. She’s hearing it now. Beautiful. Treasured. Child of God.

I don’t know why she had to go today. But I know where she is.

This week is not about eggs, food, the gathering of family, or even filing into a church building (though all of those things are good and fun). It’s about Jesus Christ, who conquered death.

“But thank God, He gives us victory over sin and death through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

1 Corinthians 15:57

This is what I wrote on the subject a year ago . . . Click here.