the bazaar

We don't get to go every year. Seems like our November weekends are particularly crazy... marching band, boy scouts and work. But this year, the timing was right and I was thrilled that I had half of an empty square on my calendar... and that it lined right up with my Mom's church bazaar. She works so hard every year... starting the day after Christmas when she hits the craft stores in search of clearance, and ending in a heap when bazaar day is done. How I love to browse those long tables and admire the handiwork of the church ladies... and I love that with a glance... I know which items were made by my Mom's own hands.
But we don't necessarily go to shop. The kids & I go to work. In the kitchen. Because not only does my Mom organize the front tables, she & Bob also put on a five star lunch! Chicken salad, taco soup, meatball subs... a few slices of tropical carrot cake! My job is to make the sandwiches... and scoop out the chicken salad to top off a salad. Laura works the counter, making and serving up the coffee and filling the orders as quickly as they come in. And Camden? He is the heart breaker. His job is to bus the tables... and he is good. So good, in fact, that the church ladies nearly swoon. And practically throw one dollar bills at him! Oh yes, that boy made over twelve dollars in tips!

Bazaar day is a day I love. Lending my own hands to something so near and dear to my Mom's heart, and being a part of her world. And most years I go away from it with tears in my pocket. Don't worry... they are tears glistening with joy and with gratitude. You see... these people... they appreciate my Mom & Bob. They see their hard work and know that these are two special people. A church is not ever just one person, or a few... it is about all of the hands that serve and worship Jesus. And my parents make sure they do their part and give all they can... and probably a little more. When the church members figure out who I am, they go on and on. About how much my parents do, and what a difference they make. And so my eyes tear up. Because while I hoped and prayed for their faith, I never quite thought to dream of this for them... and it is as much a gift to me as it is for their church. And I am ever thankful that God's dreams reach so much farther than mine.

hear my prayer

The memory has been sitting on my heart… heavily, I suppose. It was a beautiful moment, and it keeps calling me to prayer… day after day… hour upon hour.

She courageously left her hat back at her seat as she slowly made her way up for communion. Her family surrounded her… but her eight year old daughter especially caught my eye as she hopped on one shiny, patent leather shoe. She held her other foot just lightly off the ground, as to not dirty her white lace cuffed sock, and she leaned… just a bit towards her mother for balance. And with a sense of love so desperate that I could feel it, Kathy laid her hand upon her daughter’s cheek. Those slender fingers, once strong but now frail, spoke a lifetime to my heart. And in that instant, my own heart cried out for healing louder than it ever had before. They stood as a family... receiving the body and blood of Jesus... and the ache in my heart worked itself in a little deeper.

That day… plays vividly through my mind… and my knowledge of her courage and joy for each precious day attempt to cover my tears. In one selfish moment my heart cries out that I could not bear to lose another friend... and in the next... I am ashamed that I could even put myself into the equation. And with grace... God brings to me the real reason I pray for healing. The husband who adores her. The children who rely on her love for comfort, strength, example, and... balance. Her family... who can not bear the thought of her not being by their side in this lifetime. I don’t know if my prayers will be answered in the way I hope for… but I know that He hears me. And I know… that each and every day is a gift.