Remembering Janelle Moore (1934-2021)

 

Mom is second from the left, the smaller girl in the photo.

“Older women likewise are to be reverent in behavior, not slanderers or slaves to much wine. They are to teach what is good, and so train the young women to love their husbands and children,  to be self-controlled, pure, working at home, kind, and submissive to their own husbands,  that the word of God may not be reviled” (Titus 2:3-5, ESV).

Last month my mother-in-law, Janelle, met the Lord she loved face to face. She had been fading rapidly and was more than ready to go Home to Him. We were less ready to say farewell, but we rejoice in the hope of seeing her again someday and in the knowledge that she is no longer suffering.  Dear reader, you may meet her someday, so please allow me to introduce you in anticipation of that happy day. (If there are kitchens in Heaven, they would be the first place I’d look for her.)

Janelle Moore was a child of the Great Depression, born between the Greatest Generation and the Baby Boom. She grew up on a New Mexico farm during the Dust Bowl years and reportedly preferred farm work outdoors to cooking, cleaning, and learning with her mother indoors. Those lean years of growing up far from creature comforts like indoor plumbing helped make her who she was and prepare her for God’s calling on her life.

My mother-in-law was a mother of 5, a missionary to the people of East Africa, a Baptist pastor’s wife, and a special-education teaching assistant. She went by Janelle for all the 22 years I knew her, though that was not the first name on her birth certificate. One of the silly things I now wish I’d asked her is why she went by her middle name (and when she changed from her first name, if there had been a change she chose).

Several things I can say for certain without having asked: Mom Moore was hard-working, helping, humble, human, and holy.

Her hard work and diligence seem to have been lifelong. They began in childhood, with her helping on the farm. When she married my father-in-law before her 20^th birthday, she quit her own university studies and cleaned houses full-time to keep their little family solvent while her husband completed his bachelor’s degree in preparation for seminary and vocational ministry. She cooked 20 meals a week for most of her adult life, mostly from scratch. (Sunday supper was catch as catch can, everyone fending for himself or herself from available leftovers.) She kept a tidy, organized house, with a place for everything. She sewed the family’s clothes and many home accessories. I have heard that in Africa, she even processed the wild game her husband brought home from safari so that they could freeze it in usable portions. She was the kind of woman who asked, without a trace of irony, for a steam mop for Christmas or a blender for her anniversary.

Janelle was also committed to helping others in the name of Christ. As a missionary, she taught East African women the Bible but also practical skills like sewing, hygiene, and childcare. When the time came for the family to return to the US, she helped to plant a church which has continued to grow and thrive. When she needed a job to supplement the family’s income, she helped students with special needs in very practical, hands-on ways. In her retirement years, she logged many hours volunteering at the local crisis pregnancy center, helping scared and confused women choose life and sharing the love of Christ with them in the process. She continued to participate in the life of her church as well, in women’s Bible studies and an after-school program to help struggling readers. In her final years of independence, when she probably longed to be taken care of herself, she poured out her energy in caring for her husband, who suffered from Parkinson’s, and in supporting her oldest daughter in her cancer battle. Even after she moved to assisted living, she led a Bible study while she could and volunteered to help lead activities in the memory care unit where she would later reside.

Mom Moore was not generally the one up front in the spotlight. Her husband of almost 63 years was the preacher and singer, and her youngest son followed the same path for the first half of his life. Her oldest son and daughter pursued the fine arts. Another daughter became a counselor and professor. Another writes beautifully and sings in a women’s chorus. Mom was usually the one serving humbly in the background, in the kitchen, behind the scenes, freeing everyone else to soar. She was not a woman of many words, but she loved with her actions (and occasional straight-to-the-point practical advice). She agreed without hesitation to my husband’s request that she make a kneeler appliquéd with a Hebrew verse from the Song of Songs for our wedding. (And by the way, she only had 3 months to do it.) She agreed without complaint to my request that she make a double-wedding-ring quilt out of my wedding dress. My father-in-law accidentally on purpose let slip after the fact that the pattern I requested was very difficult and caused her no end of worry. But she pulled it off, and we have a lasting treasure in the quilt she made, which has hung on our wall ever since we received it. She thought of others first and put her energies towards the flourishing of her family without seeking credit or applause for herself.

That said, Mom Moore was also human. She loved chocolate and International Foods flavored instant coffee mix. She enjoyed her homemade gluten-free granola for breakfast while watching the birds outside the big kitchen windows. She needed to put her feet up at times with a sigh of fatigue and sometimes exasperation.  She was known to grumble occasionally about the noise or clutter in the house, the amount of time the television had been on, or one too many interruptions. Her knees and back wore out before the rest of her body. She liked playing solitaire, quilting, and researching family history. She enjoyed learning about nutrition and relearned how to cook in healthier ways in her sixties to maximize her quality of life and her husband’s. She delighted to have all her adult children home together and missed them when separated by land, sea, or exigent circumstances. (Yet I didn’t ever hear her complain or use guilt to manipulate them.) When her body and memory failed, she didn’t know what to do with herself without the ability to labor or learn anymore.

Finally, my mother-in-law was one of the holy women described in Titus 2 and 1 Peter 3:3-5. She was made a saint once for all by grace through faith in the saving work of Christ. Having been thus sanctified through the cross, she continued to grow in experiential sanctification her whole life long, through the indwelling Holy Spirit. Her life of reverence and service adorned the gospel of Christ and did not present cause for outsiders to revile the Word of God or the God of the Word. She was a woman of prayer and practicality. Last week, in reading the story of Tabitha’s death and resurrection in Acts 9:36-41, I thought of Mom Moore. Luke describes Tabitha (or Dorcas) as, “full of good works and acts of charity.” She had clothed the widows of Joppa through the work of her hands, and her death left them weeping. If Mom had lived in first-century Joppa, I think she and Tabitha would have been good friends and labored together with their hands and needles for the gospel of Christ.

In the last several times we saw her, we read Scripture to her to calm her anxiety and sang the old hymns to rejoice her heart. She knew we were known to her but didn’t know exactly how. She repeated statements like, “I don’t know where I am, but that’s ok. God knows where I am.” Now she knows where she is again. Home.  She is living the reality of those Bible passages and hymns, resting from her labors or laboring joyfully with no need of rest. I have no doubt that her Savior and mine welcomed her with a “Well done, good and faithful daughter.”

I wish you could have known her. But perhaps one day, you will. Rest in peace, Mom. We love you and miss you.

Litany of Lament

This was written the day before we saw my mother-in-law for the last time on this earth. She was a remarkable woman whom I hope to honor more specifically in a future post. Please pray for our family as we navigate the extra challenges of pandemic grief and participate to the extent we're able in her memorial service at 1 pm (Central Time) on Saturday, July 17. If you care to join us in celebrating this godly woman, you are welcome to watch the live stream at https://www.oakwoodnb.com.

My mother-in-law is dying,

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands;

Her busy hands unnaturally still,

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands;

Her final hours ticking past,

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands.

 

The pandemic rages on around the world,

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands;

Striking and fragmenting even the manner of our grief,

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands;

Robbing the bereaved of the consolation of embracing arms,

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands.

 

Loved ones in crisis overwhelm me,

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands;

And I hide myself in my tear closet,

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands;

To pour out wordless prayers into Your bottle,

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands;

Sobbing out the pain and grief and isolation,

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands;

The helplessness,

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands.

I weep for the grief, and the grief upon grief,

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands;

Of the cost and complications wrought by my frailty

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands;

And the way my threadbare tent disappoints us,

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands;

When it matters most,

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands.

 

How long, O Lord? When will You make haste over the hills and come to me?

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands.

Strengthen me to bear up under the crashing of Your waves and billows;

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands.

Come to me quickly, Lord. When will You comfort me?

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands.

Quieten my soul with Your nearness,

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands;

Your nearness You promise to the broken hearts and shattered spirits,

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands.

 

Our Father, who art in heaven,

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands;

Hallowed be our pain,

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands;

Invaded by Your goodness,

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands;

Glorified by Your grace,

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands.

 

Make of our sorrow a thin place,

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands;

A tabernacle where Your golden glory shines out,

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,

Not on my shoulders, but in Your hands;

Amen.

The Wonder of Taste

{If you came by because my first attempt at the new RSS feed failed, I apologize. I think I fixed the problem. The do-over should arrive in subscriber inboxes overnight.}

"No one craves manna meals forever, But they are waybread and sustenance Through the barren places On the way to the land of promises fulfilled." Cocoons, Chronic Illness, and FoNo

Saturday morning, my first appointed Bible chapter (Joshua 5) described how the Israelites celebrated the Passover together just before beginning the conquest of the land God promised their forefathers. The day after that, they ate the produce of the land. The day after that, the manna stopped. That reminded me of the words above, which I'd written days earlier.

It also moved me to awe. Can you imagine experiencing for the first time the taste of fresh bread, still warm from the baking; the burst of sweetness upon biting into a ripe grape; the savory, crusty tenderness of fire-roasted, freshly caught fish; the rich delicacy of a fig; the tart sweetness of a pomegranate? I can't remember those firsts. Perhaps some remarkable people can. Now consider the wonder of experiencing those flavors and textures for the first time at age 15, or 27, or 39? Unless entrepreneurs from the nations the Israelites passed alongside brought some local produce to trade with the hundreds of thousands of wandering Jews, the conquest generation was experiencing its first hot, fresh bread and roasted grain after a lifetime of manna and that one time with the quail (hashtag food poisoning).

I can't imagine that, but it must have been wonder-full. That Passover in Joshua 5 and the bread the next day were the first fruits of the land of milk and honey God had promised, a whole world of new flavors and textures, the adventure of discovering the delight of favorite foods. Lord, let me today not take for granted through long acquaintance the myriad flavors and foods You have provided!

And when they tasted that bread, the manna stopped. It lasted as many days as they needed it, but the Lord stopped sending it when the time was right for Him to give them something better, like transitioning them from infant cereal to solid food. Lord, make me content and grateful for manna as long as You provide it. When You lead out of the wilderness at the right time, let me not pine for manna but give thanks for the new joys and labors of the next place You lead me. Open my eyes to see and praise You in all the changes and chances of this life, every transition, every call to grow up in Jesus a little bit more. Lord, You know how little I like change. Grant me grace to trust that every transition is a chance to love You more and enter more deeply into Your steadfast love for me.

Cocoons, Chronic Illness, and FoNo

 

The doctor on the screen seemed to proclaim pandemic freedom

In the Pax Coronavax Mask De-Mandate of 2021.

Vaccination gives you wings

To soar beyond covidian quaran-time.

The jubilation among immune-normal folk coursed palpably,

With electric enthusiasm across airwaves and social media.

At last!

Smiles are back,

And those unsightly mask indentations?

Archived with the memes on toilet paper shortages

And recipes for homemade hand sanitizer.

 

The joy was not unmixed, however.

Some of us found ourselves as deflated as elated.

Ten million Americans fell through the loophole

Referring the immunocompromised to their physicians.

Without normal (or any) immune response to vaccination,

Our wings are still waiting to emerge.

We abide in the cocoons of our homes

And the small community of healthy family and friends

Enfolding us in the wings of their immune response.

 

Without innate protection

Or shielding by the wider community,

The glimmer of hope of attending church in person,

Or congregational singing,

Or seeing a movie in a theater,

Or date-night dining (even on a restaurant patio)

Receded again over the horizon

Into the unknown future.

 

The peculiar truth that most everyone

With chronic illness, disability, or cancer will understand,

And healthy people may doubt,

Is that for millions of us

The world opened up

When it closed down.

For the first time, all worship

Went online,

And we were truly worshiping with our church

And family, united in our mutual geographic separation.

Bible studies and conferences, too,

Education from kindergarten to doctoral seminars,

Book launch events, writing conferences, movie premieres--

All those elusive, inaccessible commonplaces from the healthy world

Opened accessible doors (rather, windows) to us

Whose geography is boundaried less by lines on a map

Than by our diagnoses and disability.

The able and disabled worlds commingled,

A flash of silver lining in the terrible storm thundering around us all.

 

Now healthy people are celebrating the termination of worship live streams[1],

Kicking video conferences and virtual Bible studies to the curb,

Rejoicing at returning to travel and festive celebrations:

Baptisms, graduations, ordinations,

Marriages and memorials,

Bucket-list vacations.

 

I celebrate your celebrations,

Rejoice with your rejoicing.

 

Yet I also grieve.

I grieve the loss of solidarity and access

As the able world takes flight and soars away.

As you wing your way back to normal,

Remember us who lament our necessary absence

From the camera rolls and photo albums

Of even those very dear to us?

As you leave your quarantine chrysalides behind,

Remember how confinement felt,

And let that remembrance beget compassion

For those for whom it persists?

Consider leaving the window of remote access cracked open

For our disabled, homebound world

To connect with your wingèd wanderings, your worship,

Your wonder at a world made novel by long confinement?

Remember how your isolation felt for 12, 15, 18 months,

And how worship live stream,

Zoom birthday parties,

Skype Bible studies were manna to you

In the wilderness of quaran-time?

 

No one craves manna meals forever,

But they are waybread and sustenance

Through the barren places

On the way to the land of promises fulfilled.

 

Until the pandemic is over

Or herd immunity achieved,

Or some immune booster devised to bolster

The trigger-happy immune systems with terrible aim

Like mine,

For which the least bad treatments remove bullets from the chamber of my defenses--

Until then, millions of us high-risk, immunocompromised patients

Are still questing for contentment,

Joy,

Peace,

Within our four walls

And masks

And well-scrubbed, alcohol-parched hands,

Grateful for virtual opportunities for community,

Worshipping from home in the chair or bed we can tolerate,

Taking comfort in some vaccine protection

When we leave our sheltering cocoons

For frequent medical appointments, but

Loving most of our people from afar;

Missing marriages and memorials,

Baptisms, graduations, ordinations,

Unless streamed;

Cherishing the hugs of the few who crawl under our burdens

By reinforcing the walls of our cocoons

With their own vaccinations, masks, clean hands,

And sacrificial steadfastness in covidian quarantine,

Though for their own sake they could spread their wings and soar again.

 

But, truly, as the healthy and able emerge from their cocoons

And launch themselves back into pre-pandemic life,

The fellowship of the suffering

Find ourselves struggling with some FoNo:

Not fear of missing out (yet some of that too),

But Fear of Normal.

Fear of being left behind by Normal.

 

I’m asking for a friend,                                                                                                                                            

And another,

And another,

And another,

And a few more beyond that,

But also for myself.

As your world reopens,

As your protection bursts your cocoon and gives you wings,

Please don’t forget to remember us

You’ve left behind.

 

6/25/21

___________________________________________________________

Sources:

*Private patient portal conversation with my rheumatologist

*”It Isn’t Over for Us” USA Today article

*CDC guidelines for immunocompromised patients after vaccination

*American College of Rheumatology clinical guidelines regarding COVID-19 vaccination

*The highlight reel of the above guidelines

*Excellent list of patient-focused resources from the American College of Rheumatology

*RA and COVID risk

*methotrexate and vaccine response

*what immunocompromised individuals should know after vaccination

*what immunocompromised individuals can do after vaccination

---

[1] for some churches

The Gift of Thorns {2021}

Pioneer Spirit rose from Antique Rose Emporium

So to keep me from becoming conceited because of the surpassing greatness of the revelations, a thorn was given me in the flesh, a messenger of Satan to harass me, to keep me from becoming conceited. Three times I pleaded with the Lord about this, that it should leave me. But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong (2 Cor. 12:7-10, ESV).

Twice here Paul states the purpose of his thorn: "to keep me from becoming conceited" (v.7, ESV). Granted, the affliction also came from Satan to harass and torment, but even that harassment proved a gift to pierce his pride.

More than two decades of living with chronic illnesses (including the last 11 years of ever-multiplying areas of chronic pain and 2 cancers) have acquainted me with weakness and feeling harassed. Few days pass now without the slow hiss of punctured pride. I hear it every time it pains me to say, "I can't do this. Will you please help me?" My private tantrums over unattainable desires, petty or substantial, reveal my addictions to control and comfort. My discombobulation at God's refusals exposes the areas of life where I still want my kingdom, not His.

Perhaps some people grow accustomed to this weakness, truly "content" as Paul was. I have not yet arrived at that place. As soon as I think I have, some new pain or health problem ambushes me (but not God), increasing the level of difficulty beyond my strength so that I plead with the Lord again for the removal of the thorn that carves out more and more space in me for the power of Christ to dwell.

At this writing my chronic pain is mildly on the uptick and a new, odd, uncomfortable autoimmune symptom invites questions and patience with the weeks of healing required. My cancer history requires frequent tests, exams, and imaging which crowd out other ways I'd prefer to invest those hours and that precious energy week by week.

Covidian quarantine wearies the soul. As the nation reopens, Amore and I are still mostly cocooned at home and among a small group of fully vaccinated family members. My autoimmune disease and the treatments for it mean that, though I am fully vaccinated, I am likely far from fully protected from the virus that causes COVID-19. Even in that I must depend on the help of others to protect me through their vaccinations and continued caution while we wait for some sort of safe, effective booster for the 10 million immunocompromised Americans. Or for herd immunity.

Every life experiences thorns, none of which are easy or pleasant. I suspect every life has experienced multiple painful thorns over the last year and a half. Paul's threefold prayer for the removal of Satan's tormenting angel indicates his realistic assessment of his pain. This passage challenges our perspective on suffering because Paul does not stop at pleading for relief but opens himself to receive the blessings in the thorn:

•      Purging the pride that sets us in opposition to God (v.7; James 4:6).
•      Staging the perfect display of God's sufficient grace (v.9).
•      Opening the way through weakness for Christ's power to reside in him (v.9).

Paul so esteems these blessings that he boasts for Christ's sake about the tough stuff of life rather than in his heavenly vision.

Lord, thank You for the gift of thorns. We don't like them and will be pleased for You to remove them as soon as they have accomplished Your work in us. Until then, they are a gift from You, our loving Father. By faith, we thank You and ask that Your grace and power would shine all the more because of them. Amen.