August 6, 2010: Loved

My allusion last week to something my mother said 25 years ago prompted an old friend to email me and say that he had just mentioned Mrs. Lundquist to a young acquaintance. "I told Brytanie that your Mom, by all physical appearances, seemed to just be a simple woman — until she opened her mouth and spoke."

Doug got that right. Mom certainly had a knack for showing that she was not vain about her physical appearance. As she aged she looked more like Susan Boyle than Beth Moore. Even in kindergarten her teacher assumed that she was mentally retarded. And many decades later, when visiting a nursing home to help with a chapel service, she noted with amusement how kind souls would take the hymnal from her hands and turn the pages because they assumed she couldn't do it herself.

But when she spoke she was worth listening too, and when she hauled out her Smith-Corona she typed insights worth preserving. My brother just sent me an old essay she wrote when I was six and scared of penicillin shots. It is reprinted below. I love the way Mom could see the hand of God in ordinary events, and call to mind Scriptures that related to them. I also marvel at the simplicity and elegance of her pitch-perfect prose.

Are Not Tears In Thy Book?

Tucking his blankets more snugly about him, I hugged our little Paul, gave him a good night kiss, and waited to hear his latest confidence.

"You know, Mom," he said, "I found out that my days go in zigzags. Today was a rough day." He sighed and then concluded hopefully, "So maybe tomorrow will be a gentle day."

A "gentle" day. I smiled at the lovely thought before I sighed with him. I knew something about tomorrow that I was glad he didn't know. There was at least one rough spot in the coming day for our six year old son - a visit to the doctor's office for another penicillin shot. Paul would probably try to persuade me that he really didn't need that shot. He would wonder aloud if he couldn't get well without going through all that again. There would almost certainly be tears before he would quietly submit to the inevitable.

Some words that the Psalmist used about his own tears came to me. On one troubled day, David struggled with misgivings and fears concerning his future, and he prayed: "Thou tellest my wanderings: put thou my tears into thy bottle: are they not in thy book?" (Ps. 56:8).

How this flash of insight must have given David fresh hope! The ring of triumph marks the rest of the Psalm. God had numbered and recorded his wanderings, his "zigzags," his rough and gentle days. And his tears? He assumed that they too were measured, even treasured, and recorded.

Because I love Paul, I would spare him unnecessary tears by not telling him about tomorrow's appointment sooner than he needed to know. And because He loves him, He wouldn't let Paul shed one more tear than was needful for his ultimate good.

I thanked Him that evening for the loving mercy that sends us gentle days, and even counts the tears for the rough ones.