Too Much Jane Eyre

Chick flicks?  Why are they so popular? Why are we such dyed in the wool romantics that we continually gravitate toward fairy tales, novels, movies, anything that stirs our hearts and reminds us we were young once and were viable candidates for the starring role in our own once upon a time?

Our bodies may be old but our hearts are still beating. Is it possible to turn off the romantic spigot that still churns out the desire for palpitations caused by a sideward glance, a too-long gaze, a daydream, a song lyric, a love note?

Must our fairy tale only happen once, then fade away and turn to something predictable and careworn? Is this why marriages are set aside and families abandoned?  Is this why people walk away, searching for a renewal of the dream? This screams travesty and yet the pining seems strong and real enough that sense often is pushed aside in favor of chasing those long lost palpitations.

What is the answer then? Are movies a good idea to replace the longing? Or are they part of the problem?  Are novels an escape, or a too-potent reminder of feelings, delights, drama that are never to play in one's heart again?

Maybe books and movies paint an unrealistic picture of the dream of true love.  Did music really swell in the soundtrack of my own great romance? It seemed to. Did my prince charming really spring onto the scene with heart stopping, breathtaking heroics? That is how the memories play out in my head.

Then why could I ever hope to have them replaced with something new? How could anything new be better than the reality that was?

The problem is my heart still thinks it is young.....

What I Feel, What I Think, What I Learn

Awhile back I overheard a conversation about blogs.  With a bit of disdain, a comment was made that blogs are generally: "too sappy, too self-serving, and too preachy." Naturally it caused a bit of introspection, as well as outward 'spection of my blogposts.  Yup.  Very often sappy.  Very often about me.  Very often about what I have learned.

In pondering this indirect comeuppance and fighting the urge to put my tail between my legs and slink away, I stopped short and exclaimed:  'What the heck?'

I considered the definition of a blog, which in literal terms is the shortened slang of "web log," which merely implies a log, or journal, of one's life that is kept on the world wide web for others, as they choose, to peek inside and read what I feel, what I think, and what I learn.

I often feel emotional about things.  We that choose to feel lead heightened lives of joy and sorrow.  Our emotions are those things which set us aside from the animal kingdom in general.  My highs and lows and in-betweens are the things which will endear me to my posterity, displaying my all-too-human side. By choice, I will include in my journal the things I feel.  You may or may not choose to feel with me.

Sappy?  check

I often think.  It is one of my best qualities.  It is how I approach life and the things that happen to me. I process events by thinking about them, analyzing them, comparing them.  And I prefer to think about the things that happen to me rather than analyzing and comparing the things that happen to you. I find it is much healthier than spending too much energy on studying someone else's life.

Self-serving?  check

As I spend a life of feeling and thinking, it invariably leads me to learning something.  Halleleujah!  Life has a purpose then!  I also find that the best conduit for me to learn is to write.  That is when inspiration comes.  That is when the pieces begin to fit together.  That is when the "aha! moments" come. For me, there is not a better place for me to taste the things I am learning than as I sit down and write about my life.  The things I am learning are not intended to be crammed down any potential readers' throats.  They are for my benefit, and for the benefit of my posterity that will hopefully read Grandma's blog.

Preachy? Sure. 

I have been amazed and gratified to find that others' occasionally check in to see what Ardith is thinking about today.  But consider this a disclaimer: It will probably be sappy, most certainly about my life, and hopefully will show that I am learning something.  Proceed with caution.

Playing with Glass: Breaking Through Parameters

With any new endeavor comes the trial period.  We ask ourselves, what is possible?  What are the limitations?  What has been done?  What hasn't been done? For years I have explored the possibilities of papercrafting, surprising even myself at the wide range of paper's potential.  I love when others marvel at what can be unexpectedly created with "just paper."

I have begun exploring another medium, called Glass Fusion.  It is the art of combining random pieces of colored glass which will then be fused together in a high-temperature kiln to become a functional, decorative piece.  This, too, appears rather limiting; but as I play with the possibilities I am finding that one is really only bound by the preconceived ideas of what those parameters are. The sky is beginning to seem like the only limit.  When one isn't afraid to imagine more, then more becomes possible.

I fear that, too often, we put restrictive parameters on ourselves in other facets of our lives.  We imagine preset boundaries that we convince ourselves are unyielding.

     "I can't do this because . . ."
     "I'll never become . . ." what?
     "I haven't the talent to . . ."

Hogwash.  Where are these restrictions coming from?  Most likely from our own fear, hesitation, lack of vison and imagination.

My friends at Mor-Art in Lincoln City are so helpful and encouraging.  They have convinced me that anything is possible and willingly offer suggestions on how to make my ideas and visions become a reality.

Where paper may seem too weak and two-dimensional, and glass may seem too rigid and unmaleable--incredible things can be created, stretching the limits of the expected.  And that is very gratifying.

Not So Obvious

Some film and television stars are obvious casting choices. They may have a casual elegance, swarthy ruggedness, carry themselves with grace, or possess chiseled features that easily cast a spell and invite viewers to tune in regularly and come back wanting more.

And then there is Doc Martin.



Sorry, Martin.  Handsome, you are not.  Elegant?  No.  Swarthy?  Uh-uh.  Charming?  Not really.  Funny and quick witted? Nope.

Engaging in any  possible way?  Well, actually, Yes.  I cannot explain it. I don't fully understand what keeps me going back for seconds and thirds of this unique television show, imported from Britain and shown on PBS.

Here is a cast of eccentrics, filmed in an enchanting Cornwall village by the sea, and I can't get enough of it.  Playing catch up, we have been watching episodes from the first and second Seasons on Netflix and anticipate the deliciousness of overdosing on all that remain.

What does Doc Martin do and why does his ambivalent charm compell us so?  I believe he reminds us that we all have something very special to offer, even if the package we present is a bit lacking in, well, obvious charms!  His special gifts and skills almost excuse his rudeness, his brusqueness, his repellent personality.  He has no time to waste on trivialities, silliness, foolishness, or any of the accepted norms of regular society.

Perhaps it is like a hunt for hidden treasure.  Perhaps the outside of a person may be lackluster and easily overlooked, but with a little coaxing, a little tenacity, a little patience and kindness we can uncover a multi-faceted gem that continues to surprise us.  Just like Martin.

If you haven't looked into this surprising treasure, I suggest you give it a try.  Be prepared to pay your dues though.  Its charms may not be obvious right away, but as you come to know Martin, you will discover someone you can sympathize with, admire, and relate to in all of his awkward sincerity.

He may even remind you of real people that you might actually know.

And on television, that can be refreshing.

A Fair is a Veritable Smorgasbord

The more things change, thankfully some things manage to stay the same.  Our lives seem to be rolling forward with graduations and weddings and babies and jobs and mortgages.  Our children are grown and thriving and it is difficult sometimes to catch glimpses of the way things used to be, when they were young and needed us so much. The State Fair seems to be the place that brings to our remembrance the simpler, gentler times when four delightful little people clamored daily for our attention. 

We love going to the Fair.  Perhaps the best part is the remembering.

That's What It's All About

I grew up in the seventies.  I remember hearing about this new craze that seemed to be drawing the free-spirited, incense-burning, in-tune-with-the-universe type to dimly lit rooms with mats and twisted poses.  I didn't understand what it really was.  I think I believed it was more about meditation than fitness; more about the spiritual than the physical; more about the hippie generation than about down-to-earth health seekers.

I didn't understand Yoga at all.

Yoga is delightful and deserves a place in everyone's life.  It is about becoming in tune with your body and creating a dialogue between one's physical and spiritual beings, creating awareness and unity.

Yoga is about becoming strong without having to lift a single bar bell, using one's own body as very adequate resistence.  It is about achieving overall fitness in a peaceful, tranquil environment.  No grunting, sweaty men strutting around, flexing their muscles and dropping weights. No plastic barbie dolls in lycra drawing attention to themselves.

This is fitness for the introspective.  This is a regimen for those seeking true health; striving for well-rounded wellness of body, of mind, of spirit.

And I like it.

Not only do we isolate groups of muscles to strengthen them, but built into every workout is improved breath control, oxygenating the body, sufficient stretching and toning to reduce post-workout pain and stiffness.  Each session also ends with a relaxation and wind-down portion.  This allows one to catch their breath, remember why they are there, and rejoice in a renewed frame of mind and an invigorated body.

This is about wholeness.

And I adore my yoga instructor.  She is elegantly graceful.  Her lithe limbs and gentle nature are lovely and inspiring.  Her self-assured spirit invites an uplifting experience as she seductively leads her class to reach farther, gain more, do more, and try harder than they ever thought they were capable of doing.  She encourages us to live more purposefully as she radiates love and motivation.

Yoga has inspired me to envision the future me in a whole, new way.  I now see an able-bodied older woman with deceptive strength and flexibility who is warding off the signs of aging.  I will have energy, balance, and surprising tone in my muscles and my skin, standing straight and tall as the well-adjusted, confident, graceful old woman that yoga has enabled me to become.

And That's what it's all about!

Namaste.

The Lovers, The Dreamers, and Me

The world needs dreamers.  We have all the efficient, capable, make-things-work kind of people that we need.  We have all the nuts-and-bolts, carry-on, foundation-layers necessary to make the world continue to go around and around and around as it always has and always will.

Where we lack are the frosting-on-the-cake kind of people.  These are they that infuse the beauty and the life and the new ideas into the mundane, prosaic, pedestrian, day-to-day, get-er-done world.

My husband and I watched a movie about one of these dreamers a few nights ago.  This dreamer struggled to fit in.  He was frustrated that others didn't see things the way he did.  He couldn't understand why his efforts and contributions were astonishing to baffled, frightened, bewildered "regular" folk.  Those regular folk didn't seem to see life on the same grand scale that he did, full of vibrancy and beauty. Where they seemed content with the status quo, in carrying on within the bounds set by staid and safe society, he desired to serve and give and share the passion he had for life.

He was Vincent van Gogh.

During his life he managed to give us a body of work that broke free of the formulaic and the expected. The world that he saw, full of dynamic color and energy, has been preserved in some of the greatest works of art treasured by the world today.  At the time, his boldness was misunderstood.  His "Lust for Life," as the movie was called, made others uncomfortable.  They didn't know what to do with this anomaly that couldn't function on their "normal" level.

There are in our midst those capable of offering to the world something extraordinary.  There are those that see possibilities in the impossible; those that carry within them genius and brilliance; they think deeper, feel stronger, love truer. 

And yet.

Maybe they struggle to be understood.  Maybe they don't hear the cadence of the masses, the driving beat of normalcy.  Perhaps they have their own sense of timing.  Tried and true isn't good enough. Why must things be done the way they always have?

Perhaps these unique individuals run on a different time table, often starting well after the masses have already taken off. Perhaps they run best alone, allowing time for introspection and solitude and creativity.

Whose to say that outside of humanity's rat race, a special set aren't enjoying the scenery and serenity of a creative life, while the doers are struggling to keep pace with the real madness of a chaotic world?

The greatest travesty would be to try and chisel off their corners to make them fit in the round hole of normalcy. Let us rejoice in the dreamers in our lives, celebrating them for the sweetness they add to life.  There is a place for the doers.  Let's also make a place for the dreamers.

                                                                                Sunflowers

                                                       Starry Night

"I could have told you, Vincent, this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you."

A Personal Inventory: Taking Stock

It would seem easier to just drift along, letting the current of life take us wherever it will.

 Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream.... 

Life is pleasant enough.

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.

But somewhere along the way, I have become convinced that life has purpose; that our decisions and actions matter; that it becomes necessary to submit to a little self-examination from time to time.  And what better time to take stock of one's life than, each year, annually, as we open gifts and eat cake.

It becomes more and more difficult to see pictures of myself.  I cringe as I observe the changes that my mind doesn't perceive. I still feel like I can do anything.  But my stamina suffers; my memory suffers; my flabby muscles, flawed complexion, fading color, present a much different picture than the one in my head.

So when did it happen?  When did I get old?  And has age brought with it any perquisites? I cannot deny that I am settling into the role of matriarch, which brings with it a cloak of honor that I hesitate to claim.  As my family gathers around me, eyes filled with love and a desire to celebrate and toast me, I feel a little like a fraud.  Who am I to be esteemed so highly, when I merely feel like a peer who doesn't really have all the answers yet either.

My days are different now.  No longer am I scrambling to keep up with active children. No longer is my schedule automatically filled with others' agendas.  I admit I enjoy this new freedom of choice.  My "must-do" list isn't really all that long; quite manageable, actually.

I do find myself benefitting from these four outstanding young adults in my life, especially as they bring lovely companions to the table with them.  My children are no longer children.  They are comrades-in-arms; they are thriving, productive, talented, active, hard-working members of society.  They are my best friends.  They share with me their wisdom, their joys, their frustrations, their unique abilities.

I feel very blessed.

I am blessed with a personal massage therapist, whose loving hands coax away the worry and stress and aches and pains.  I just wished she lived closer.

I am blessed with a son who will always be in a position to take care of his old mother; who has had a role-model, in his father, who has showed him how to honor, care for,  and love one's dear mama. He calls me regularly and lets me feel apart of his life.  We visit as the old friends that we are.  How gratifying to know that he will always make room for me.

I am blessed with my own personal yoga instructor, who gently encourages as she desires to see me regain the strength that time has threatened. What a lovely dear friend, who has now become a lovely dear neighbor. What greater gift than to share her family's life on a day-to-day basis?

I am blessed with a personal poet laureate.  I am blessed with someone that shares my love of great literature, who thrills with me at the discovery of new and old things to love. Who knew that the best friends come in the form of daughters who view the world from the same eyes?

I have been filled with an overwhelming desire to explore the world, to travel, to see its wonders.  But my greatest desire is to have a traveling companion by my side to share these things with; someone to thrill with me, to ooh and aah with me, to marvel and ponder with me.  I pray always that my beloved husband will accompany me.  I choose him.

This has become more than a blogpost.  The casual reader has my permission to withdraw due to its lengthy nature.

I daily ponder my purpose.  I consider the blessings which have been poured out upon me and struggle to find their best use.  Great books and ideas have filled my head with so much to think about. What is my role in building the Lord's Kingdom?  I have determined that my joy is full as I serve as a teacher.  I love the impetus to study diligently.  I love finding new ways to explore thought, to build upon a foundation of faith, to expand and enlarge my understanding, and to ponder the mysteries of God.  These are the things that fill my days.

I have many challenges, most of them inward.  I fight to overcome anxieties.  I find strength in my Savior.  He doesn't always take away the struggles, but He never leaves me alone to deal with them.

I find peace in beauty.  I try to surround myself with order.  I try to distance myself from the frivolities of the world.

I am weak in so many ways but I look with confidence forward, always forward.  It may mean adjusting to the new pictures of a woman I hardly recognize, but she means well. She knows love and feels it daily.

She tries to live worthy of those that arise up and call her blessed.

Ten Minutes!

It still resounds in my ears. My mother's voice, kind and yet firm:  Ten Minutes!  Nothing more needed to be said.  I understood, loud and clear.  Whenever I would get a phone call from a boy, it would always be accompanied by this undeniable directive. Ten Minutes!

It wasn't that one shouldn't talk to a boy longer than ten minutes (maybe).  It was about courtesy to the rest of the family.  This was back in the day before "caller waiting";  This was back in the day of the busy signal.  And I completely understood that one shouldn't tie up the only phone line in the house.

Remember when the whole family relied upon just one phone line, which was perhaps tied to just one phone? And we couldn't even comprehend the idea of cordless.  Are you kidding me?  I remember the days of stretching that cord as far as it would go so that I could take a personal call.

And imagine trying to talk to someone whose family had to share a "Party line" with several of their neighbors.  Believe me.  NO party!

At the risk of dating myself with this disclosure, I think it brings up a viable conversation about phones today, and particularly, phones in the hands of young people. I wouldn't have known what to do if I had had my own phone.  I couldn't have imagined talking (or texting!) endlessly.  I learned what it was like to "miss" someone, to not be able to communicate with the boy I liked at all hours of the day and night.  When we went on family trips, there was absolutely NO communication. I had to be "present" with those that I was with.

I am thankful that the era of personal phones in everyone's hands with unlimited minutes and unlimited texting came after my own children were teenagers.  I cannot imagine the difficulty that parents have today in regulating and having any control over these abused devices. 

I am the first to admit the peace of mind that comes in having direct communication with a child.  Gone are the days of wondering where they are and what time they will be home and who they are with. Are they having car trouble, are they lost, have they run out of gas? 

I am also the first to admit that I frequently used the phone longer than my allotted ten minutes.  But as the time was brief, and such a rare and sweet treat, sometimes it was difficult to say goodbye and hang up.

"You say it first."

"No. I'm not going to say it."

"Okay, then let's say it together."


Repeat.


Repeat again.

Finding Fingerprints

They are easy to miss.  When we live our lives thinking that we, alone, are in control of the outcome, it becomes easy to miss the fingerprints.

The fingerprints are everywhere.  The evidences of God's hand in our lives are noticeable, but only as we allow ourselves the time, the meditation, the stillness, the humility necessary to discern them.  It also becomes critical to relinquish a little control, to be willing to be guided by One much wiser than ourselves.

The past month has been unique for me, filled with monumental moments, pivotal once-in-a-lifetime experiences; and thankfully, God's fingerprints were very evident throughout the whole journey.  In our moments of sorrow, He was there.  In our moments of joy, He also had a hand in our lives.  He brought strength, comfort, peace, insight, stamina, reassurance, and hope.  I am certain that these were all direct blessings from a loving Heavenly Father and His Son.

Thank you.

Just Can't Talk About It Yet

So much has happened since I wrote my last blogpost.

But I just can't talk about it yet.

The emotions are too near the surface to write about the sweet farewell with my father.

I should record the poignant midnight visit in the ICU when my father found an untapped reservoir of strength that enabled him to sit up in a wheelchair for a meaningful stroll through the quiet corridors; that enabled him to express what was in his heart, though the words were difficult to get out; which also enabled me to tell him the things that were in my heart.

But I can't talk about it yet.

I should write about the following day when this last rush of adrenalin led us to think that Dad had hope for recovery, leading us to tour endless care centers, walking miles of hallways filled with sadness, searching to find a place where Dad wouldn't be too miserable.

I should write about the rally when Dad met the administrator of the care center which we had decided upon.  I should write about the sparkle in his eyes as they talked about their common love of football which even led them to comparing their still impressive calf muscles.

But I can't talk about it yet.

Because the following day, when the adrenalin had fled, my poor sweet father could only speak with his eyes as he gratefully welcomed the ice chips that I spooned into his parched lips.

I can't talk about the ride to the airport, thinking, wondering, praying, hoping that he would hold on for a few more days when I would be able to come back, feeling like I was abandoning him.

I can't talk about the scene I created at the airport gate when, just before I was supposed to board, I got a phone call that he had become unresponsive and all the indicators had severely dropped and my hope of seeing him alive again shattered.



I should talk about the beautiful funeral.

I should talk about the lovely music which filled our hearts with the hope of the Resurrection.

I should talk about the sweet reunion with dear friends and cousins and aunts and uncles who had come to honor this great man, who had blessed all of our lives with his wisdom and his strength and his unfailing support and love.

But I just can't talk about it yet.

On Belay

When I was a kid I learned how to climb.

My natural instinct seemed to be to climb any tree that passed my simple analysis as a tree-climbing tree.  It was liberating to me. When the trees were mastered, I would find ways to climb onto the roof of my home.  I loved the challenge and especially the enhanced view of my little world.

But the best things to climb were mountains and my dad was an expert.

What began with simple climbs of large boulders and learning how to look for holds, soon graduated to larger challenges with ropes and pitons. I still pride myself on knowing what a caribiner was long before they became ubiquitous.

As any climber knows, the cherry on the top of a good climb is the chance to rapel down, a sort of harnessed backwards dancing which eventually brings the climber to the safety of the ground.

The key element to successful rappelling is the skill of the belayer.

A belayer is the climber's partner, who typically applies the friction at the other end of the rope whenever the climber is not moving, removing the friction whenever the climber needs more rope in order to be able to continue climbing or descending as the case may be. A belayer is the safety net between success and failure. I could not fall because my dad was literally my anchor.

I was always very secure in knowing that my dad was my belayer.  He was the strongest man in the world and I knew that in his hands I was safe.  No doubts. Ever. He was a mountain himself.

My belay has become unsteady.

My rock is crumbling. My security is jeopardized.

My father is ready to pass on.



I'm not ready to be off belay.

At the End of the Day

Have you ever noticed the significance of the common phrase "At the end of the day...."?

'Well, at the end of the day, it all comes down to this....'

'At the end of the day, we still have our health.'

'At the end of the day when all is said and done, this is what I have learned.'

It is a neat and tidy little way to put things in perspective.  It is a neat and tidy little way to draw conclusions, to wrap things up, to prioritize.

I like it.  I think at the end of the day we should all ponder what we have learned, what is important, what we will be carrying with us to the next day.

One of the greatest musicals of all time, Les Miserables, has an 'at the end of the day' moment.  And naturally it is written to music.

"At the end of the day you're another day older." A little pessimistic, but true nonetheless.

Considering the song is sung by the working class, it is permeated with frustration, hopelessness, exhaustion.  And really, at the end of the day I'm tired too, and I worry about the things I have failed to accomplish.

But I would hope that most of the time I cling to another verse that begins:

"At the end of the day there's another day dawning."

We would do well to say: 'perhaps I wasn't able to do all I would have liked, but tomorrow will bring new opportunities, new energy, new minutes and hours.'

I think 'At the end of the day' would be a wonderful theme for a journal (or a blog!). Imagine sitting down (well, you know, at the end of the day) and encapsulating all you have learned because of the day's events.  I think it could be enlightening.  Our days tend to drift and blend together without much to set them apart from one another.  And yet, at the end of the day, each is filled with unique lessons and experiences that may only pass our way once in a lifetime.

I hope that I am taking the time to ponder what I have learned, to ponder the conversations I've had, the people I have encountered, the kindnesses shown, the love expressed.

Because at the end of the day, isn't that what really matters?

Everyone Has Their Own Story

I have been reminded of a truth.  It is an obvious truth, and yet I think it is nice to be reminded of it when we forget and get caught up in thinking that everyone's life runs the same course as everyone else's.

It is true that we all are born.  And yet, I bet every single mother that went into labor has her own unique story of how each child's journey began and ultimately played out in birth, hopefully swaddled with love and wrapped safely in its mother's arms.

It is true that most of us are blessed to pass through the next phase of life called childhood.  We learn to walk, to talk, to interact, to discover ice cream, to learn joy.

Yet my childhood couldn't possibly have been the same as yours, even though we shared many of the same experiences.

Did you find love?  So did I.  Yet how fun it is to hear of each person's unique pathway to discovering it.

No one's proposal story is the same.

No one's path is the same.  Of the billions of people that fill the earth, each lives a unique life.

So why bring up this obvious truth?

So that we will STOP COMPARING OURSELVES TO OTHERS!

It is an invalid argument, invalid worry, invalid boast, invalid anything to think for one moment that our unique life can or should be compared with someone else's.

Rejoice in your life with all of its facets that shine because they are your's alone.

If your life isn't following what would seem "normal", celebrate that!  Why would you want to have the same life as anyone else?

Every person I meet has their own story, as do I.

And I would love to hear about your's.

Straining At the Bootstraps

Do you ever feel that if you try any harder to pull yourself up by the bootstraps, those darn straps are going to break, give way, and send you sailing across the floor?

Perhaps there is a better way.  Perhaps there are other answers, not necessarily solutions, but answers that we need to hear.

I have been fascinated with the illuminating scripture in Paul's second letter to the Corinthians.  He discusses the reality of a thorn in his flesh, which he has come to believe is there for a reason because although he has approached the Lord numerous times to remove it, it continues to beseige him, frustrate him, challenge him....humble him.

Ah.  So maybe that is why we all have challenges that we struggle with.  Is it possible our loving Heavenly Father thinks we may need to be humbled?  Maybe we really aren't as invincible as we think we are.  Maybe there are still a few things we need to learn.  Maybe the Lord is saying to us, as He said to Paul: 'No, Paul, you need this weakness to remind you every day that you rely on me' (2 Cor. 12:7-9).

Through what I believe was divine intervention, a couple of weeks ago I came across a talk given at the 2002 BYU Women's Conference by Stephen E. Robinson. Seldom has a message been driven home on such a personal level.  Maybe there are others that needed to hear this, but I truly think the Lord wanted me, alone, to hear it. Otherwise how could the words have struck such a chord with me?

He reminded me that longsuffering is a virtue.  He reminded me that just as we cannot fast and pray and study to heal a broken leg, neither can we always fast or pray or study to correct very real chemical imbalances and other physical shortcomings. 

He reminded me that we will be able to overcome all things through Christ, but in His way and in His time.  Sometimes the hurt will not be taken away immediately, even though we are desperately ready for it to be gone.

The name of the address is "With Healing in His Wings," referring to the scripture in Malachi 4:2 which promises of the coming day of our Savior when "the Sun of righteousness (will) arise with healing in his wings."

He reminds us that though we desire to have all our pains and fears and hardships taken away immediately, we may have to wait upon the Lord, trusting that He knows best what we need to learn. 

But relief will come.  It really will. And perhaps when it does, we will have become stronger, more full of faith, more trusting in Him to do what remains undone, to overcome our enemies, and take us home to live with Him once again.

If we are patient, our adversity and our afflictions shall be but a small moment.

"And God shall wipe away all tears from (our) eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain..." (Revelation 21:4).

Oh, how thankful I am to know my Savior.  Oh, how thankful I am to trust in Him.  May we persevere together and look forward to that glorious day when He will come again with healing in his wings.