A Baby Girl and the Meaning of Forgiveness

Thirty nine years ago last month, a baby was kidnapped from her home on her first birthday.

The parent's of that little one had tried to have children, but couldn't.

Finally, they were able to adopt this little girl when she was three months old.

She was the first child of these parents.

She was the first grandchild of my parents.

She was the first niece of mine.

I was twelve when she came into the family.

I was thirteen when she was kidnapped.

The man walked right past the end of my sister and brother-in-law's bed to get to her.

They never woke up. They would always wake up when she even scratched her fingernails on the sheet of her crib. The only explanation for them not waking up was that God chose to keep them asleep. It was found out later that he had a gun and a knife and planned to kill them if they woke up.

"Happy Birthday, Punkie" my sister said, as she walked into her room.

But there was no "Punkie" ( short for pumpkin).

She tried to call the police, but the phone lines had been cut.

She tried to drive, but the wires were pulled on the car.

She ran to her neighbors.

All points bulletin was futile.

She was gone.

Anguish.

The first time I saw my dad cry was then.

We tried to carry on.

Day after day.

Week after week.

Month after month.

Five months later, a tip.

The FBI had found her, but because of her condition, had decided not to tell us that they had.

Really? Like her condition would have made us love her any less?

He had abused her. Threw a milk jug at her head. She was in Arizona. She was in a coma.

The man was stopped as he was driving to the desert to dispose of her.

When my sister and brother-in-law heard, they raced down there.

When my brother-in-law walked in and said, "Hi, Punkie", she sighed and closed her eyes for the first time.

She came out of her coma on Christmas.

She could smile. She could coo, but she never walked or talked. She never developed past the mental age of about four months.

The summer of my seventeenth year, I took care of her because my sister had to help on her farm. I was so proud, because that was the first time she cooed.

She lived until she was thirteen. She died at the same age that I was when she was taken from us.

We loved our little Laurilee.

So many years ago and yet still, I cry.

She blessed us.

I have been asked on many occasions how I can so easily forgive people.

Why do I love women who had affairs with my husband?

Why do I hug them and tell them they are beautiful?

How did I forgive my ex-husband for the pain and devastation that I saw in my children?

Why do I hold no ill will toward the man driving the semi-truck who crashed into us and caused a downward spiral in my health that makes me daily fight for life?

The reason is because of Laurilee, my mom and my sister Joyce.

There are many people in this world who know they should forgive.

God forgives us. We should forgive others, but it seems so hard.

One day, when I was thirteen, I was walking down the sidewalk with my mom.

I said, "Mom, do you want that man to die? (the man who kidnapped Laurilee)

She said, "No, I want him to know God and go to heaven. I hate the sin, but I love the sinner."

Another day, I watched the news. I saw my sister being interviewed. They asked, "Do you want that man to die?" She said, "No, I want him to know God and go to heaven. I hate the sin, but I love the sinner."

Impactful to a thirteen year old.

Impactful to all who looked on.

I was blessed to have experienced that time of life, because it made it so easy for me to live a life of forgiveness.

I watch people. I hurt for the people who have such a hard time with forgiveness. I long for them to see that unforgiveness and bitterness yields turmoil, but forgiveness yields peace.

May God grant all of you the ability to release the things you hold onto.

Our little Laurilee plays in heaven now, free of all that held her back on earth.

Do they call it the "Am I Going to Wear a Pink Ribbon Room?"

My life seems to bless people,

BUT

My life stresses people.

That is why I chose to tell only a few people about the mass the doctor found in the pink ribbon place last week.

Today, the mammogram.

Suspicious mammogram.

So they took me to a room where the TV plays relaxing music and you watch scenic pictures. There is a sign on the TV that says, "PLEASE DO NOT CHANGE THE CHANNEL". I think they are trying to get people to relax there.

There was another lady there in the "am I going to be a pink ribbon person room".

We looked at each other.

We both looked peaceful.

She said, "I believe in the afterlife."

I said, "I do to. That is why I am at peace."

She said, "That is why I am at peace."

We talked and laughed as the workers looked in, curiosity etched on their faces.

I think maybe people don't laugh much in the pink ribbon room.

They called me out to talk to the radiologist.

They sent me back to the pink ribbon room.

The sweet lady and I talked and laughed some more.

Then the ultrasound.

The tech commented...

"Usually people are in a panic by the time they get to me."

Ahhhh... but I have the secret that is not a secret at all.

Not all things are good, but God makes good out of all things in my life.

Relief...ultrasound turned out fine.

Maybe an MRI later, but the news is pretty good.

Last Friday, I was talking to a lady and a 12 year old girl. I was just talking about God and life and how great life is. The girl started crying. I hugged her and said, "Hun, what's wrong.?" She said, I want to be like you. I want to trust God like you and be joyful in everything." I have been told that by many people, but at that moment in time, my heart nearly burst with gratitude for the events of my life that bring attention to Father God. My joy is not natural, my joy is supernatural. I have that joy in large part because people pray for me. There is absolutely nothing better than to be used by God. Whatever my future holds, life is good.

PS:I did not have a picture of the pink ribbon room, so I put a picture of a pink ribbon sky, taken from my bedroom.

My Trike

My oldest sister told me I needed to post this. I wrote it about 5 years ago and it remains one of my most favorite writings. Here's to you, Joyce, and memories of a great childhood!

My Trike

Today my trike came home; came home to my heart.

It had weathered many a storm and many a threat since my childhood,

but now, it is safely at home.

Ah, the days of the trike. Life could not have been better than in those days.

I can still feel the wind through my hair as my little legs pumped up and down as fast as they could go.

Gliding. Gliding was fun. One foot on the back of the trike and the other

foot pushing off...then away I would sail.

By the time I went off to school, I was too big to ride you anymore. You went away to the barn. I visited you now and then and dreamed that one day my children would ride you and experience that same joy and laughter that you had given to me.

I got my own home and moved you here, but my kids wanted bikes, not trikes. So, you sat and you waited.

Some tried to take you to the dump, but I rescued you. I could not let you go. You represented one of the happiest times of my life.

I always thought I should fix you up, to make you look as you did in your glory days, but life was busy with work, and family and trying to please others. The one I loved most would have thought it a waste of time to fix you and he would have never let you in the house.

Still, you waited.

The one I loved left. Life was pain. I would walk past you when I went to the barn and think back to those happy days. But now life was busy with trying to survive. I did not have time to fix you, so still you waited.

Then one day a wise man said, "Your trike doesn't need fixing. It tells a story. Just look at it and read the story."

Today I put you in my own bathtub and I washed off the dirt and there it was, before my eyes; your story.

I put you in a special place, right next to my rocker and I cried as I read your story. It is the precious story of my childhood.

Little trike, I am sorry about the dented fender. I am sure it was caused by one of those wrecks we had with my sister and her trike. I wasn't a real good driver back then.

Look at that seat. I remembered well those little legs pumping as they rubbed the paint off the side of the seat. And the platform on the back...paint worn off from all that gliding.

As I look at you and those worn wheels, I remember that my love of cruising around corners all started with you. I loved screeching around corners with you. I remember ending up with more than one skinned knee as I practiced those feats, but that did not deter me.

Trike, could it be that you and I have some things in common? Could it be, that all my bumps and bruises...all the dents and rust...they show a story. Who I am now tells a story. My physical beauty has faded, but could it be that when people look at me, they see a story of pain, yes, but also a story of the God who loves me and will one day take me home. Home to his heart.

The Friend I've Never Met

For almost a decade I have known of a woman.

I have yet to meet her, although she is a dear friend.

This woman paints, and although I do not think she is famous, I have spent many an hour looking at, and being comforted by her paintings.

This woman never knew that I looked at her paintings. They are in a public and yet private place.

One day it occurred to me that this woman likely did not know that her life had affected many.

Was she like so many of us that have an effect on multitudes and yet sees herself as insignificant?

I did not know for sure, but felt compelled to write her...to let her know that she had significance beyond what she could imagine.

Upon receipt of that letter, I found out painful news.

This precious lady had cancer.

Advanced cancer.

I felt compelled to crochet a shawl for her.

A yellow one to symbolize the sun. A cheerful color.

Then I felt compelled to crochet another.

A peach colored one. It looked so peaceful.

Then I heard God's voice say, "Crochet her yet another, in royal colors, to remind her that she is royal...a princess...a child of the king."

One day as my heart was heavy, I prayed,"God, speak to me. Tell me what you want me to say to her."

Instead of words, a picture. A picture of Jesus reaching out his arms to her. Clothes stained and dirty as he went through the trenches with her.

I asked God, "How do I convey this to her?"

He said, "Give your most precious picture to her."

I said, "The picture of Jesus holding the little lamb? The lamb that is me?"

"Yes, that picture."

"Yes Lord. It is time to pass the picture on. Time for someone else to ponder the picture and see the comfort of your arms."

So freely I gave.

Then,

The news.

Cancer?

Me?

So long to wait. The wait to know how bad it would be.

But during the wait I remembered, "She knows how I feel."

I was comforted.

I received a picture. An antique one from her. A picture of Jesus' little lambs.

I cried. "Jesus, the tapestry of our lives that you weave. It is so intricate."

"You knew a forehand what I would need."

"You spoke to me before I knew her need and caused me to write to her."

You, God, are amazing.

I wonder if the friend I've never met knows how amazing she is?

Does she realize that the people she has touched; the people she has influenced; the people she has encouraged, have in turn encouraged others?

I think of one person in particular that she has influenced, who in turn helped me through the pit of despair so many years ago and encourages me still.

Friend I have never met, you call me precious, but you are the precious one.

You will never know how many people you have blessed, just by being the you God wanted you to be.

The Blessing in Caring for One's Parents

Wow! It's hard to know what to write for my first blog ever, so I just decided to write about the two people on earth that are most on my heart...my parents.

Often as I go through my day, I think about how blessed I am to be able to care for my parents. I am constantly reminded that the very things they used to do for me, I now do for them. For instance...
When I was young, my parents helped feed me. Then I fed myself. Then I fed my kids. Now I help feed my parents and as time goes on, my kids will help feed me.

Here is another big one. When I was young, I asked a lot of questions. Sometimes over and over. I became a teenager and thought I knew all the answers and my parents didn't. Then I grew into my twenties and discovered that my parents knew more than me, and I asked questions again. At the same time, my kids were asking me the same questions I asked my parents when I was young. About the time my kids decided I didn't know much, my dad started losing the answers. My heart was crushed. I needed his answers and he could no longer give them. I wish I would have asked him more questions earlier and had listened more carefully to the answers. Now my kids think I know things again. My parents rely on me for the right answers and I feel like I don't have any of the right answers!

What can I learn from this?

Thankfulness. Thank you God for all the years you have given me with my parents. Thank you that I, in some small way can give back to the people who gave so much to me.

I have also learned about how quickly life passes. We can't go back. Live each day gleaning as much wisdom as you can from the saints that God has put into your life to teach you. Give as much as you can each day to all those who are around you.