Shalom Shattered, Shalom Restored

It didn’t bloom last Spring, this tulip in its little pot. A stem came up with promising green leaves but no blossoms ever appeared. Perhaps the confines of the planter restricted its roots.

What a sweet surprise to discover it pushing up through the soil a couple days ago. As I’ve been led recently to look at the shattering of shalom in my life, God is using this plant to speak to me. My heavenly Father has brought a lot of healing to my heart’s garden over the years. But I recognize that there are still constraints that choke my growth.

One of my earliest recollections of trauma involves the death of my sister, Debbie, at age four. I was born eleven months after her so we were very close. And yes, I remember her clearly. When she died, I was told that she’d gone to be with Jesus in heaven; my constant companion, my best and essentially only playmate, had left me behind. Such a time of confusion, bewilderment and the unfairness of it all. Then when I thought we were going to see her—it was the funeral we were going to but I didn’t understand what that was—and expecting to see Jesus too, because of being told earlier that’s where she’d gone, I was sorely disappointed that Jesus was only a painting on the wall, and my sister lay unresponsive and cold in a pretty box. I felt foolish for my beliefs and somehow thought I should’ve known. But how could I? I was only three years old.

I can see where this experience has led me to often see myself as left out, not worthy of being included. It seems silly, I know, to think of not dying as a message that I wasn’t worth including, but that is how my little three-year old brain worked. It was a lie I believed about myself and carried along with me, a box I restrained myself in. Also from this I can see where I hold myself away from whole-heartedly investing in relationship with loved ones because how could I stand it if they leave me behind too. Then there’s the sense of “I should’ve known” in any given circumstance where there really is no way for me to know in advance something that is beyond my comprehension.

Thankfully my Jesus is not confined to a painting. He was with me in that earliest time as He now is in this present time. The Holy Spirit has brought healing and will continue to do so. Fully experiencing the pain and sorrow and grief means that I will fully experience the joy He has for me. There is no shame in not knowing what is around the corner and failing to understand life and the confusing incidents in it. Like that little tulip in the planter on my balcony that didn’t reach its bloom last year but is poking its head up again this year, trying again for another chance, my heart is coming up through the grime of sorrow and finding a place of inclusion in His light. Shalom restored.

Wasting Away in Blackberries

The old farm where I grew up is in the process of being destroyed organically. My dad sold it thirty-plus years ago and since then, it has become unrecognizable. Blackberry vines surround every structure and wherever there’s an opening the vines have snaked inside, digging in their thorns and pulling down roofs and decimating walls. Little of the barn buildings can be seen and I expect by next year blackberry vines will fully encase the house. Who knows why the present owner has allowed this destruction but it hurts my heart to see this once beautiful piece of property looking like Sleeping Beauty’s castle before the prince came to rescue her.

Renovating isn’t even at option at this point. If ever I were able to buy back this land, we would have to bring in a bulldozer and completely level it before we could restore it. 

A writing exercise sent me to this verse: “The LORD determined to tear down the wall around the Daughter of Zion. He stretched out a measuring line and did not withhold his hand from destroying. He made ramparts and walls lament; together they wasted away.” (Lamentations 2:8 NLT) As sad as it looks and for various reasons according to further study, God made the choice to let Israel, the Daughter of Zion, be destroyed. Whether it was with blackberry vines or some other vegetation, or at the hands of sword-wielding warriors, the end came. He still has a plan for full restoration that He is working on. He has measured it all out and knows exactly how far things must go. Clearly grieving over loss is an expected part of the process. 

I grieve over losing things, from certain places I enjoyed living in, to those I love making less than best choices or at least, contrary to my beliefs, to friendships that soured and died, to my own youthfulness passing by. I look around to see where God put His measuring line in hopes the mark He placed for the boundary is in sight. Knowing that God uses a measuring tape reassures me that there will come a time of restoration. When I understand that tearing down a city allows a new one to be built, hope surges up and the pain in my heart ebbs. 

Bouquet in the Sand

An affinity for capturing segments of my life through my little camera and trying to be artsy with it led me to join a photo challenge group on Facebook. There are daily prompts that we are free to interpret in our pursuit of a photogenic moment. Then we post our choice on the group page. A couple days ago the prompt was ‘yellow’ and on a walk at the beach I found something that made me ask “Why? What? How?” My sister ‘hinted’ that I should write a story that answers those questions. Thus the following story emerged. Don’t know if the questions are answered but painting this scenario with words gave me some satisfaction and I’d like to share it with you.

Bouquet in the Sand

By Anita van der Elst

January 14, 2013

Rose petals flurry onto the sand, stems flopping in random array along with the yellow daisy and the orange mum.

“How could he do this to me? This is how he ends it? With flowers?” Rivulets on her cheeks mirror the estuary on the bay. She shakes clinging pale pink petals from her fingers; furiously swipes at her eyes with the backs of her hands. A man in a yellow kayak dips his double-ended oar from side to side on his steady way into the marina. It is a soothing sight. For a moment.

She climbs onto the rock jetty, remembers moonlit cruises from this very harbor. Fine dining on the yacht; promises made; whispered words of love—a cliché of clichés. She should have known, seen it coming. Meeting his family that first time gave her fair warning. Their condescension cloaked in political correctness. She ignored it, convinced love could conquer all such prejudice. Hers could. Apparently his could not.

A breeze tosses the twisted branches of the lone tree above her, eddies down, scattering the rose petals, drawing her back to the floral mess. Her heart breaks anew. Romance, once sweet and fresh, now compostable. She cannot bear it, sinks to her knees.

Knowing the impossibility of reassembling the petals, she reaches for the stems, pulling the remaining intact blossoms together, forming a bouquet. Tenderly nestles it between two knobby-kneed roots exposed in the sand. Her heart deserves this memorial.

She faces into the wind, welcoming the tingle on her skin.