Sunrise Swallowtails

We only moved a mile away from a place of great sadness to a new home, a place where we hoped healing lived as well.   Four months previous, our oldest son went home to Heaven after succumbing to a chronic kidney and lung condition.  Forced to pack up Tim’s things a little earlier than I was ready for, the boxes remained closed; memories tucked away and out of sight.  The new house gave us walls freshly painted and an ordered tree-lined street populated with playing children—all boys.  I pondered the additional pain of the sights and the sounds.  Summer break left me with more idle time to function, trying to do ordinary things in a straightjacket of hurt. I slept, cried, prayed, and wrote in my journal.  I felt deeply, I talked with God continuously, and I mourned. 

God, listen.

I made a discovery of a small park with huge sycamore and pine trees just a few houses down within my community.  The summer mornings found me awakening at 4:00 A.M. needing to talk with God and feel my son’s spirit.  I grabbed my music and with my tennis shoes tied, walked out the door to this park.  Around and around I walked the path that took me through the trees, around the pool and through the grassy areas.  Sometimes I counted the laps; eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Other times, I just sang the songs of sweet hope playing in my ear.  All the time I talked to God.  I asked Him all those hard questions. I told Him all my fears, my doubts, and I poured out my brokenness.  I longed for comfort and a sign that told me Tim was good, perfect, eternal.

 God, show me.

The sun began to rise from the east. Dark gray, to a lighter gray with a tinge of tangerine and pinks, the stars still twinkling in the dawn, the trees now silhouettes of grace.  Then I saw them.  Were they leaves floating down?  No.  They glide with direction, yet carefree. They float with purpose, yet relaxed. Butterflies.  Big yellow and black Swallowtail butterflies awoke with the morning’s first light to follow my footsteps.  Many flew ahead of me, some behind, some overhead.  This happened every morning that I walked.

God, delight me.

That whole summer, when and wherever I allowed my self to go, a Swallowtail butterfly gracefully flew into my path.  It fluttered into my vision, and angel from God; my son saying “Hi, Mom.”  The second summer after Tim’s death, I became proactive in a foundation that raises funds specifically for his particular chronic kidney condition.  Meeting with the coordinator at a restaurant, a butterfly also met us at the walkway and then followed us up to the entry door. We sat at a table facing a window.  While I ate and made plans for our upcoming fundraising walk, the butterfly relentlessly flew back and forth past the window.  “Well Tim, I am sensing a happy feeling from you about what I am doing here.”

God, heal me.

Four and a half years now, a day does not go by that I do not think about my son.  I await the first appearance of the butterfly in spring, but it always catches me off guard as I am gazing thoughtfully out a window, or walking to retrieve the mail.  Ministering to my soul, their beautiful wings dance to a song filled with music of promise--and I am comforted.  Like the butterfly, a worm who once crawled on his belly, barely inching forward, God wrapped His arms around me, held me tight until I felt OK enough to face the world again, and then let me fly.  Seeing His plans all from a different perspective now, my hope is to ask God to share this same hope with others who mourn, that their same comfort will arrive on Angel’s wings and a prayer. 

God, use me.

Employed with the local school district, I work as an instructional aide at a high school.  It began as any other day.  Spirit Week and Homecoming events filled this week’s calendar of activities. The news came as I sneaked in a few seconds late to second period. The stoic calmness of these normally hyped-up 12^th graders for Foods class was palpable. “Something happened,” I quickly calculated. Indeed this tragic news stunned me as I gazed upon the heart-broken students sifting the information. A well-known, popular student and member of both my 2^nd period and 4^th period classes passed away in his sleep the night before.  I looked over to his chair across the aisle from my own in disbelief, Ellis’s seat empty.  Within another minute, our principal entered the room and relayed a confirmation. Then, she asked me to step outside.  With an encouraging hug, she spoke kindly expressing her concern for my own well-being.

“I understand you lost a son and if this day is difficult for you…” she spoke.

“I am good, really,” as I sniffed and wiped away my tears.  “Thank you, but I want to help. Can I help?” 

“Yes, dear. Come with me,” she instructed. 

I spent the next two and a half hours in a room designated for grief counseling. I helped spread out butcher paper on tables and dumped out colorful markers.  Water bottles and tissue arrived along with a constant stream of weeping classmates.  They gathered in circles hugging each other, unable to take it all in.  Walking over to a table, I shared how writing out my thoughts, my memories of my own son, in a journal, helped me.  I handed a felt-tip marker to a student and asked him to write a note to Ellis. And so it began. Without going into detail, I shared as a mother who experienced the pain of a son dying.

 “These words you write are precious and a gift to Ellis and his family; these memories keep Ellis alive in our hearts.”

 Nine tables with the tear-stained butcher paper memorials came alive with colorful stories, memories, song lyrics and expressions.  A group of about eight girls sat outside the room on a picnic table, mascara stains across their cheeks, trembling with grief.

“Can I tell you a story?” I said.

Huh? What? Not comprehending what I said.

“Can I tell you a story?” I said again.

“Sure,” as they looked quizzically to one another.

My butterfly story, how God sent me angels in black and yellow to guide my grief walk and how now they bring me a “Hi Mom,” I calmly shared. Within a minute, these girls were engaged and the sobs softened. 

“If you ask God to help you with your pain, He will. Something will remind you of your friend Ellis and every time you think of it or see it, you’ll feel warm inside and remember him with a smile instead of a tear.”

Their heads now lifted, they thanked me for my story and we shared more hugs.  I walked inside the room and found a black marker and a yellow crayon.  A big butterfly now flew across the butcher paper memorial. 

In II Corinthians 1:3-4, the Apostle Paul tells us, “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort; who comforts us in all our affliction so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.”

I am eternally grateful for my angel butterflies, a beautiful creation of God and a gift to remind me of God’s personal love for us all.  Sometimes all you need to do is look up to see Hope.

Coleene VanTilburg

October 28, 2011 

"Sinner's Creed"

Flipping over the last page of an autobiography I just finished, "Sinner's Creed," by Scott Stapp, (with David Ritz) lead singer of the band Creed, the lyrics to Stapp's songs, or rather his poetry put to music, tell his story on their own. It seems I had some insight to that, or rather my son did, as he urged me to tune my ear to a new band called "Creed" who seemed to sing of God and "spiritual things." Tim and I always enjoyed music in the car, and most of what he liked, I liked, and visa-versa. We listened to bands like Matchbox Twenty, No Doubt, Goo Goo Dolls, Collecive Soul, and Third Eye Blind. He liked some of my old school bands too like, The Beatles, Zepplin, and Fleetwood Mac.

 "Listen to these words mom, Tim said. He's a Christian, I can hear it in his lyrics."

I questioned his interpretation, until I gave a listen. Tim knew I paid attention to the lyrics. When he received a Green Day CD, I took it back to the store, after hearing some very disturbing lyrics.  He never fought me on that decision, which made me happy.  Anxious for me to listen to the words, the Creed song Higher began to play on the FM station. Driving Tim to his job at the golf course, I remember specifically, cruising through the low-hanging layer of fog, the cow pastures on either side of me, dawn just breaking, and Stapp's powerful voice asking the question, "can you take me higher?" The next few lines confirmed to me that this song was not about a "drug induced" euphoria because he sang about going to a place "where blind men see, where the streets are gold" a place he longed to be, where love replaced hate. It was subtle; Jesus' name didn't come up, but I could feel something, hear something...

Instant Fan!

Before the days of Air-1 (Christian alternative music, family friendly stations), I'm not sure I would have tuned in to "Christian music" on a daily basis at that time in my life.  The car was not exactly the place those days where spiritual instruction took place. We were usually hurrying to get to soccer practice, pick up dinner, get to work, or some sort of medical emergency. Sunday, yes, we did make it to church, but my sons, not so much. Tim, despite his lack of "organized church" after his teens, never doubted in God's love and longed for answers to questions not so easily understood. Life was hard for him. He gravitated to the lyrics, "It's like he's born again, but he's mad or confused or something..."   We'd continue to listen after purchasing the CD's  and Tim would read the lyrics.

Forward 15 years. Yes, Tim, you understood more than you knew.

Seeing this book on the "recommended reading" table at the bookstore two weeks ago, I grabbed it and finished it up in just a few days. "Creed" was not a Christian band. Stapp had a hard time with that label put on him. (his band members as well). Scott Stapp, a gifted individual in many genres, grew up knowing Christ as his Savior, but missed the grace part. His life became a series of dissapointments in trying to please people and please God and hypocrisy and abuse tortured his soul.   It is a story of survival and many, many "restarts"  in his walk with God.  I found myself rooting for him, only to be saddened by his failures. Very slowly, he entered into the rythym of grace. With the help, love of his wife and her family and never truly giving up,  he began to let go of the things he could not control, live sober,  taking back his soul, but giving it over to the cleansing grace of the Lord who never left him.  Scott Stapp's story is a powerful testimony of a brilliant singer/song writer, where grace was  held at bay by those closest to him, his grandfather only giving him a glimpse.  When he finally allows it to pierce his heart, grace begins to absorb the hurt.

With all his giftedness, Stapp became very sucessful in the world, surrounded by all the desires that come with being a rock and roll star.  His heart though, belonged to God and God persued him and in reading this book, I feel Stapp's songs were prayers persuing the loving God he knew he truly needed to embrace.

He writes, "These songs were hardly alter calls. Rather than promoting my religious past, I was questioning it. I wasn't selling my Christianity; I was struggling with it. By no stretch of the imagination were they anti-Christian, but at the same time they couldn't be considered Christian creeds. My firm conviction was that fans who responded to the lyrics also shared my struggles."

How different a tune, how different a second stanza, with his questions answered, if Scott wrote his lyrics knowing that Christ is all about grace.  God's unconditional love and patience for this gifted human clay of a man allows him now to tell his story and be real, be authentic, and relate  to  individuals who have been hurt by hypocrisy and the cover of "religion," destroying trust issues as well as addiction and depression.

I am still a fan.

Tim liked his lyrics and loved the music, his powerful "made for rock"  voice. He understood that like himself, Scott Stapp struggled to understand pain and purpose. They sang in harmony. Tim also found amazing grace, now walking the Golden Streets. Lives weren't lived perfect--full of "rock and roll" and then some, but grace always abounds and grace hold me still, with one foot tapping to the beat...

"Inside Us All"

When I'm all alone
And no one else is there
Waiting by the phone
To remind me
I'm still here
When shadows paint the scenes
Where spotlights used to fall
And I'm left wondering
Is it really worth it all?

There's a peace inside us all
Let it be your friend
It will help you carry on In the end
There's a peace inside us all

Life can hold you down
When you're not looking up
Can't you hear the sounds?
Hearts beating out loud
Although the names change
Inside we're all the same
Why can't we tear down these walls?
To show the scars we're covering

There's a peace inside us all
Let it be your friend
It will help you carry on In the end
There's a peace inside us all

[Guitar Break]

There's a peace
Oh there's a peace inside us all
Let it be... Oh, I said let it be, let it be your friend
There's a peace inside us all
Let it be your friend
It will help you carry on In the End
There's a peace inside us all
There's a peace, inside us all, Inside us all
Let it be, Let it be, Let it be,
Let it be, Let it be, Let it be,
Let it be, Let it be your friend.

Good God Day

Evil slithers in for a dip in Paradise.

Toxic warning. The deep end is cordoned off,

But Adam-man toe-tapped into the slime pool of “What-ifs,” of don’t-you-want-tos.”

Free will gave him choice

--and he chose.

Entertaining the enemy,

They coil together to reproduce.

Dry and parched,

The world chokes for the Breath of God.

God breathes

And she received.

For in this Promise,

Hope resuscitates.

Living water pours out through and aqueduct of Grace.

Evil taunts the GodMan.

Walking the wilderness of temptation,

Maneuvering, offering up…

The Flesh resists.

Evil, on its belly, infiltrates the followers,
Kisses His cheek.

The noose strangles.

Sin sways in its own weight.

Betrayal serves Him up.

In fear they scatter.

Thrice denied, the bird calls in harmony with the devil.

“Another Way?”

“I AM the Way.”

The world sleeps.

“They say you are a king?”

“Who are you?”

“The son of God?  Blasphemer!”

“Give us Barabbas!”

“Crucify Him!”

Evil smirks in presumptive victory,

Sliding through the thorns,

The slurs and mocking,

Disguised as a cat-o-nine-tails.

Tearing.

Shredding.

Dragging the splintered Cross,

It divots the earth,

Marking only one path to follow up a hill,

Planted between two choices,

I believe. I do not. 

All have sinned. All are separated.

Greatest Love bridges troubled waters of the soul.

He bled out to take us all in.

It is done.

Forgive them Father.

The earth sighs and trembles.

The veil splits and the Holy becomes ours, 

Accessible again.

The sun eclipses on a Good God Day,

A day when all will be made right, 

When Truth victoriously rises, defeating death.

Giving life eternal. 

A mother weeps for her Son,

A Son fulfills Prophesy promises,

Prepares his generals for the battle.

And the Father…

God holds His breath

To breathe life anew,

Into us,

Into you.

John 3:16 For God so loved the world, that He gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believes in Him, will not perish, but have everlasting life. 

 

 CV. 

Six-Year Rose

Six-Year Rose

Always a sigh

With an eye to the sky.

A heart and a glance;

Holy circumstance.

Comfort I seek

That day, in a week.

Six-year rose

Not one to oppose.

One single stem,

Purposed resplend

Porch light on

Moonspun dawn.

Descend the stair

I see you there.

Illuminated

Divinely stated.

White and pure,

You found your cure.

Heaven, reachable

Peace, teachable.

Slow to unfold,

A sight to behold.

Shimmering through

A window view.

See me still

In God’s will.

Though others fade,

One bloom made 

Winter’s midflight,

But spring’s delight

A promise late hour

In a white rose flower.

Bloom eternal

Memory fertile

Six years more?

I wait on the Lord.

Coleene VanTilburg

Feb. 19, 2013 

~ 

I arose late one night last week, after Ted left the house in the wee hours. Wee hour?  Sixty minutes fills each one, twenty-four brings the sun full circle. Tick Tick, time passes, almost 6 years since my son journeyed to Heaven.  A disturbance rouses my slumber. The TV, on for no one; no one any more. The screen goes black; silent night returns.  

Stepping down the staircase, illuminated by a porch light left to shatter the darkness, the rose stem with one single bud beginning to burst,  reached up. I stopped mid stair to gaze at the flower, showing off its bloom through the slats of the blinds of my front window. Funny how every other rose bush in the garden received their yearly pruning--all 10 of them 'cept this one. No reason for me; God's timely purpose.

A Holy encounter with the God of peace.  A pure rose still at bloom despite circumstances, despite the world, despite even me.  A white rose to see in the wee hours of  dawn, each petal whispering love, opening to beauty in forever and ever. Tears slide in gratitude, for God is good and white roses are good and heaven is good and Tim...yes, he is good.