But God: An Intentional Love Story.

I stepped into the hospital chapel, alone. 

But God? A burden pushed from every side. It weighed so heavily within my spirit, yet my body barely functioned in its numb state. A thousand pounds might fall into my lap and I wouldn't have felt it. Only one exception, my lungs ached trying to breathe.

What language did I speak? 

I couldn't put words together in my mind, yet...I knew God interpreted my confusion, my desperate pleas, the anguish in every teardrop. My head hung in a sacred place where many had come before me in this same state, some knowing hope, some...maybe not. There remained nothing I could do, and everything I could do as I inhaled in pain and exhaled in promise.

I learn of my son, Tim's death.  He was so tired. 

Tears of surrender and anguish moved with the fluid prayers, both conscious and underlying. Time. Stop. Rewind, so I won't forget anything. Outside, his father and others paced, did their own petitioning. He heard the words first. I did not. My husband's eyes conveyed a sudden truth no one wanted to recognize.

Let this tsunami pull back, disintegrate, evaporate as if nothing broke the dam of reality. 

In that moment, no utterances surfaced, held under by the pieces of many shattered hearts. God, in all His glorious love and grace, never felt so real and so worthy of all my worship until that very moment.


Full Sail

Twelve years have passed and I am different. Different from that very second and transformed over time. All these collective moments both anchor me and set me free. Learning to find peace in both places,  the Lord God sets the course and I must trust Him.

Like the tides, faithful and true, covering up and pulling back to reveal treasures, the tide pools of tears and memory shells provide discovery and a deeper devotion...in both the wading...(the waiting) and the deep, my story.

I want to, I need to, I must voyage through Your perfect Will, Lord. 

You, Lord, in Your great love for me, For Timmy, are so intentional. As I write these thoughts, pour out my praise and prayers, I press in, buckle tight the grace gift life vest. It wraps around me in perfection and comfort and I see the generous deck hands You have provided to sail along with me. They, as well, are intentional, devoted, my own miracles.

I might have stayed under the heavy tarp of despair and grief..., the grommets of regret and isolation held fast to the what ifs, the should haves, BUT GOD...

I allowed, directed my self to feel His Spirit as all the deck hands prayed, continue to pray and honor our Creator and Giver of life. I billowed up, caught by the Wind and I began to sail through the waters only You charted for me, a personal, intentional course.

I dock in beautiful Ports of Calling and walk along shores where grace ripples so gently and so amazingly. Hope unpacks the grief and restores this vessel for myself, for others.  A certain horizon awaits me, the full sail Glory of the Lord in my own return Home but until then, I will speak of, serve and worship The Lord of Promise whose Love is intentional for every one of us.

Psalm 27: 13-14 
I would have despaired unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.Wait for the Lord; be strong and let your heart take courage; yes, wait on the Lord. 


Let go, Let God
He is Lord
Grace is Amazing
Heaven is Real

Considerably Yours,
Coleene

...And Then I Hear Him

I watch, holding my breath

Feeling both pain and overcoming joy.

His tiny features and newborn skin bond to my soul,

As I hold him so close, forever mine.

I ponder motherhood, an honorary role,

Intentional blessedness

So much to learn…

            And then I hear his cry,

            Prayers begin to yearn.

I watch as an angel appears before me

In the garden’s morning walk.

His magnificence shines and I am amazed at the sight.

He speaks words of purpose, a Holy Plan to be

I bow in awe and wonder as He speaks of Coming Light.

How God…why me?

            And then I hear him call me Favored One,

            Mary, so shall it be.

I watch as he grows and discovers,

Curiosity catapults and words articulate.

Motherhood is fun and hard, many surprises and delights.

Settled into somewhat routine

Jotting down memories, maybe some highlights.

The reality of life sets in

Detours appear,  Grace guiding us down the hard road

            And then I hear Him whisper…

            I will help carry your load.

I watch Him grow in wisdom and stature,

In favor with God and man.

Already set to do His Will , teaching

At the Temple, he stayed too long

Asking questions, listening, preparing for preaching…

Soon He would gather

The twelve Fisher’s of Men,

            And then I hear Him announce,

            “I’m about to begin.”

I watch him lay so still

That machine breathing in, breathing out.

Motherhood is love and hope, faith and…trust.

Prayers now in desperation

Oh, how I know God is a stronghold, a must,

As his spirit leaves,

To meet God on that night.

            And then I hear Him comfort me,

            “I promise to make this right.”

I watched Him as they mocked,

Spat at Him and lashed,

He walked with that Cross,

To the hill called Golgotha,  

And one hung alongside to believe

And one paid the cost.

Spikes driven, upright stood.

             And then I hear Him tell me,

            “Behold, your Son, this too will be good.”

I watched Him, again in the garden and beyond

My heart seeking more and longing for the Deeper Things.

His generously guided grace surrounds

To heal , infuse, purpose me

With the supernatural in and around.

I miss him so, it is true,

But the promises are Eternal…

            And then I hear Him give me

            A purpose, for the time here, external.

I watched Him as He died, prepared Him for that tomb

But on that third day, God’s preparation completed the Plan.

All the wrongs in the world hung with Him that day

For He Is God’s Son you see, the final Sacrificial Lamb

Overcoming death and sin, in the blood-price He paid.

Confess your need

Give Him your heart

            And then you’ll hear Him tell you

            I love you My child, and I will never depart.

 Considerably Yours,

Merry Christmas

Coleene 

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 

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.