Peace, at last.


Rest in peace my beautiful boy. I will miss you and all you have done to enrich my life. Some day we will walk again on streets of gold.

I love you, Buddy.

‘Mom’

B U D D Y   E V A N S

Adopted home to live with us Thanksgiving 2005, at approximately 5 yrs of age.

Cancer took him from us far too soon, April 15, 2010

Living in the tension


I came across a couple of things today that stood out, a poem and a song. I was reminded again of how often difficult, even horrific life circumstances and hope can coexist for us as humans.  You know, that spirit of overcoming, of withstanding, of bouyancy. And this seems so unexplainable, contrary to logic, and completely unexpected. Like Anna Zizi’s story yesterday, there are many stories that we hear, read in the headlines, or see in documentaries and movies. Stories that leave us wondering how that can be? Asking if I am capable of that too?

One such story, or stories (details vary) that I came across, surrounds a poem that was found by allied troops in 1945, on a basement wall in Cologne, Germany.  The poem is anonymous, yet attributed to someone hiding from the Gestapo.  In it’s simple language is a profound message of hope and faith in a time of horror and adversity.

Even When God Is Silent

I believe in the sun even when it is not shining.

I believe in love even when feeling it not.

I believe in God even when God is silent.

And I recognized that a life of faith, whether new or maturing, requires a lot of us. It asks us to live in the tension of experiencing one thing and believing in another. Like so many things in my life, the tension is constant and is sometimes hard to bear. But in the end it comes down to one thing, BELIEVING. Hope is really all about BELIEVING too.

The poem, “Even When God is Silent,” inspired BarlowGirl, an American Christian Rock group of three sisters, to write their song, ‘I believe in Love.”

I Believe in Love

How long will my prayers seem unanswered?
Is there still faith in me to reach the end?
I’m feeling doubt I’m losing faith
But giving up would cost me everything
So I’ll stand in the pain and silence
And I’ll speak to the dark night

I believe in the sun even when it’s not shining
I believe in love even when I don’t feel it
And I believe in God even when He is silent
And I, I believe

Though I can’t see my stories ending
That doesn’t mean the dark night has no end
It’s only here that I find faith
And learn to trust the one who writes my days
So I’ll stand in the pain and silence
And I’ll speak to the dark night

I believe in the sun even when it’s not shining
I believe in love even when I don’t feel it
And I believe in God even when He is silent
And I, I believe
No dark can consume Light
No death greater than this life
We are not forgotten
Hope is found when we say
Even when He is silent

I believe in the sun even when it’s not shining
I believe in love even when I don’t feel it
And I believe in God even when He is silent
And I, I believe.

What about superficial hope?


My hope quotient can be increased by things like sunlight, fresh air, and good news. Does that make me superficial, or even fickle?

My hopes are dashed when a series of negative events pile up and I feel that I can no longer shoulder the load. Does that make me weak?

My hope in the future, even my eternal perspective, can be overshadowed by the cares of today, the needs of the moment, the unknowns of tomorrow. Does that make me faithless, or just human?

And my mood, being the complicated spaghetti mess that that it is with so many twists and turns, can over-ride hope, or smother it. So does that mean my hormones rule?

I don’t think there are any clear answers to these questions. I ask them in the desire to draw you into this conversation on hope, and to let you know that I don’t pretend to be an expert on it. I have lots of questions, just like you probably do.

Yet, I also have hope. I have the kind of hope that’s like a roller-coaster, up and down and upside down, in dark of tunnels, screaming down steep inclines, almost losing my lunch on the bends, but it NEVER leaves the track. The coaster rattles and squeaks and it feels like it’s going to fly off, or throw me off anyway, but somehow, miracle of miracles and gravity, I stick. God’s got to be the chief engineer on this ride… if not, then who? ‘Cause I should have fallen off a long time ago.

How about you?

Lesley-Anne

Hope for the future…