THE COURSE OF LOVE #4

THE BROKEN GOBLET~post edit

More than Four decades have unfolded since I first began to truly understand that marriage serves as an extraordinary crucible, a profound journey into the very essence of our beings—revealing both our deepest vulnerabilities and our remarkable strengths.

Now those vulnerabilities and strengths manifest themselves in widowhood

In the blush of youth, I once penned the portrait of an ideal partner, a "mythical man" crafted from expectation.

Time, however, refined that vision, showing me the far greater wisdom in praying for a divine transformation within both myself and my beloved, shaping us ever closer to a higher ideal.

The daily sequence of co-existence, woven with shared laughter and quiet understanding, was a constant revelation. It was a dynamic dance with someone who, though an undeniable part of mel, maintained his distinct identity; someone whose unique rhythms often diverged from my own, yet through whom I discovered my own evolving nature.

As a wise soul once observed, "None of us are perfect packages—seek instead the fundamental truths." And indeed, it was the essentials that truly mattered.

My quiet, personal spaces were joyfully invaded by the vibrant spirit of the man who swept me off my feet, utterly unaware of the profound and beautiful chaos that awaited me in the decades to come.

He was my steadfast companion for forty eight years. That was the man I stood beside, the one who once garnered a traffic citation on the bustling 5 Freeway for an offense as charmingly idiosyncratic as driving *too slowly*, his gaze captivated by the majestic Goodyear Blimp drifting overhead.

This is also the man whose sheer will to survive allowed him to walk away from a harrowing motorcycle skid at 40-50 miles per hour on the Hollywood freeway during morning rush hour. The scars bore the reminder.

Those moments, both trivial and terrifying, served as poignant reminders of his inherent fallibility, a humanity that mirrors my own. Our enduring partnership, year after year, was a testament to an abundant, sustaining grace. There is no prescribed blueprint for a "normal" marriage; indeed, who can truly define such a concept?

Our union was not merely an agreement, a covenant but a living testament forged in hope, unwavering faith, and an outpouring of grace that emanated from a source far greater than ourselves.

We navigated tempestuous gales, confronted unforeseen crises, and emerged, as if "tempered by love, sealed by God above." Even when the "better" in "for better or worse" seemed an elusive distant shore, our foundation remained. For as scripture reminds us, "My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways," declares the Lord. "For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts" (Isaiah 55:8,9).

A relationship, even one deeply rooted in love, that demands consistent effort can, at times, present formidable challenges. Yet, I am immensely grateful for the maturity that taught me the invaluable lesson of embracing duties I might otherwise resist. It is through grace that I found the strength to honor the sacred vows made to my husband.

I am often drawn back to a simple, yet powerful, symbol of our journey's resilience from the nascent years of our "marital bliss." When unwrapping our wedding gifts, we uncovered two perfectly matched, elegant wine glasses – an unexpected offering, perhaps a "white elephant" re-gift, given that neither of us had ever indulged in or even contemplated wine. Like the opening scene of a grand narrative, these stylish goblets, designed to elevate an inherently delightful experience, seemed to hint at our own unfolding story. We carefully removed them from their packaging, placing them gently on our newly carpeted floor. In an instant, one toppled, shattering into pieces, leaving its lone counterpart. That single, exquisite goblet, which I rediscovered on a high shelf, became a quiet metaphor for life’s unexpected brokenness—a poignant picture of grace anticipating the inevitable "worldly baggage" that life would bring. It represented the essence, the core that remained.

That solitary goblet graced the shelf of my china cabinet, a quiet, enduring symbol, a shared memory my husband and I periodically referenced: the day the other goblet broke, and we began to learn the profound beauty of what endures.

Rebecca Schoof (The us that became me)

THE COURSE OF LOVE #3

That famous opening from Charles Dickens' *A Tale of Two Cities* often echoes in my mind when I reflect on my journey together with my loved one. "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..." – those words resonate deeply, capturing the beautiful complexities of our shared narrative, where seasons of brilliant light have coexisted with challenging shadows, and profound understanding with perplexing moments of silence. It makes me question if I was truly prepared, adequately "built," for the unique journey of a life intertwined with a husband.

I realize now that my innermost thoughts and feelings have, at times, remained a mystery to him, not for lack of my desire to share them, but because the very architecture of his being, his distinct 'wiring,' processes and understanding the world in a way so wonderfully, yet fundamentally, different from my own. 

There were moments, I confess, when my mind would wander, observing other couples seemingly effortlessly aligned, and I'd wrestle with the insidious whispers of comparison, questioning what I might be missing. Social media, of course, paints only the most curated versions of happiness, a deception I am increasingly learning to recognize.

It was in those vulnerable spaces that sometimes allowed frustration to take root, interpreting forgetfulness, focused absorption, or occasional detachment not as facets of unique design, but as a deliberate lack of care, or even selfishness. For those moments of judgment, and for the careless words that have too often spilled from my lips in haste and misunderstanding, I truly regret. My care was, though sometimes poorly expressed, an unwavering constant.

Yet, through all the introspection and the sometimes-painful learning, one truth remains an absolute anchor: we belonged together. We are intricately intertwined, and in our uniquely 'wired' ways, we were each other's steadfast support. I cherish this profound connection, recognizing that in our own distinct language, we declared, "We are each other's!"

I eventually learned to shed the impulse to "fix". He was not my project to be mended; he was a magnificent creation, precisely as God intended. The elusive nature of perfectly aligning our perceptions, of completely understanding each other's interior worlds, is a reality embraced with more grace. My perspective increasingly shaped by gratitude for who he was rather than by a desire to be someone else. 

While my human longings might  conjure an image of who I *wished* him to be, our true identity, our shared purpose in Christ, remained steadfast and profound. The journey of sanctification, of becoming more like Jesus is a lifelong process for both, never truly finished, always evolving.

It was in the quiet, unassuming moments that my heart swelled with a special kind of blessing—catching glimpses of an open Bible in his hands in the hush of an early morning, a simple yet powerful testament to his unwavering faith.

I regret ,

too, the times I didn't fully embraced or celebrate his passions, for my impatience , and harsh words that sometimes erupted, particularly when my simple questions, intended to connect, were met with frustrated silence amidst focused tasks, perhaps in the kitchen.

There where days when the weight of being a wife felt immense, leaving me with a weary and questioning adequacy. Yet, when I reflect on the countless precious milestones that we shared, the depth of our history, the very thought of a life without him seamed unimaginable at that time.  Yet here I find myself years later in that unimaginable season with out him.

After all these years, through the unexamined moments and the perplexing phases, there finally came a dawning of clarity, those profound "Aha!" revelations. I see now, with a quiet confidence, that we were going to be more than okay. This journey demanded a steadfast spirit, and a readiness to embrace it fully. I laced up my sturdier spiritual "sneakers," tightened my commitment, and sharpened my resolve, prepared to stand firm with the full armor of God. (Ephesians 6:10-18)

THE COURSE OF LOVE #2

THE COURSE OF LOVE #2

It often strikes me how little control we truly have over our fundamental nature, and indeed, over so much of our journey. The ancient wisdom that questions who grants us our voice or our silence, our sight or our blindness, resonates deeply as I reflect on life's intricate journey. (Exodus 4:11)

And then there’s Reinhold Niebuhr’s profound plea for serenity and courage, a prayer clung to in moments of profound truth, seeking the grace to accept the immutable, the strength to alter the possible, and the clarity to distinguish between the two.

For decades, I occupied the role of wife, beginning as the spirited companion of early adulthood and continuing through the gentle unfolding of middle age and beyond. I was more than just a wife; I was the root from which my husbands children sprang and the matriarch embracing his grandchildren.

Each year that layered upon the last didn't merely pass; it etched an indelible story of shared moments, an accumulation of time so rich and specific it could never be replicated. It was a testament to enduring commitment, a deliberate choice renewed time and again. I was granted a privileged, front-row perspective into the evolving landscape of his existence, a constant witness to his triumphs and trials, his dreams and his quiet struggles.

Yet, despite this profound intimacy, our journey was rarely simple. There were times when my heart found only a reluctant joy in the blessings that poured into life, and by extension, into ours.

It wasn't always an easy acceptance of the unique gifts God had bestowed upon him, and on me, as his partner. We were, unequivocally, two distinct universes, each orbiting with its own gravitational pull, attempting to communicate a language of love and life that neither of us had ever/never truly mastered. Moments of profound appreciation, which in hindsight now feel so abundant, often slipped through my grasp, unacknowledged or unarticulated.

Our relationship, like any living entity, was a constant process of adaptation and transformation. The roles we assumed, the burdens we shouldered – those 'hats' we wore through the seasons of our lives – were heavy, demanding, and ever-changing. We frequently pushed the boundaries of our affection, testing its resilience, sometimes to its very limits. There were periods when our mental and emotional reserves dwindled, leaving us exhausted and struggling to bridge the chasm of understanding. In those vulnerable moments, my own shortcomings became painfully clear. My fervent desire to navigate life's challenges, to 'survive,' often unmasked a deep-seated selfishness I was reluctant to confront. I was, at times, far from my best self—lacking kindness, wavering in steadfastness, and falling short as a compassionate partner.

We certainly weren't the picture of idyllic romance often painted in stories or social circles. 'Couple of the Year' was never a title we aspired to, nor one we would have likely received. The illusion of a perpetually 'happy couple' is, I've come to believe, a dangerous myth, especially for those of us who lived a richer, more complex reality. Our marriage, with all its imperfections, its raw honesty, its peaks and its valleys, was an undeniably and extraordinary adventure. I learned early on to resist the temptation of comparing our intricate journey to anyone else's. Our union wasn't designed for external validation; it was uniquely woven , special in its own peculiar way, and yes, wonderfully weird. It was ours, and in that, lay its profound, irreplaceable value.

THE COURSE OF LOVE #1

THE COURSE OF LOVE #1

"The course of true love never did run smooth," penned William Shakespeare,

a timeless truth that resonates deeply as I reflect upon the intricate tapestry of my marriage.

That last milestone, marking 48 remarkable and mystifying years, compels a profound internal excavation – a deliberate effort to unearth the foundational truths and distilled wisdom that anchored our union. It wasn't a journey where years simply accumulated; rather, it had a dynamic evolution, each season requiring conscious effort and continuous recalibration in a neurodivergent world.

They say a successful marriage demands falling in love repeatedly, always with the very same person. This adage often prompts a chuckle and a moment of wonder for me: "Who exactly was that man I married, today?"

It speaks to an ongoing discovery inherent in a long-term partnership, especially when two individuals, seemingly wired with entirely distinct operating systems, committed to building a life together.

My initial connection was rooted in seeing beyond superficial interpretations of 'love,' recognizing a unique spark that reflected a profound beauty – an echo of the divine glory that resides within every soul.

It was indeed a testament to God's grace that our paths intertwined and our hearts aligned before the complexities of daily life had a chance to obscure that initial, potent bond. (an understatement)

Over four decades, I gained an ever-deepening appreciation for the layered complexities that formed the architecture of our shared life.

Revisiting the genesis of our relationship often recaptured those initial glimmers of connection that drew us together. Our imperfections, far from being deterrents, served as the challenging yet beautiful crucible in which our commitment was forged.

Ultimately, our journey, with all its human frailties,

remained a testament to a higher purpose: to glorify God. If we are, as scripture states, fearfully and wonderfully made – even if uniquely so on the spectrum – then our focus must pivot from our own preconceived expectations to that divine design.

Oh, the heartaches I may have sidestepped had I only possessed this understanding in our earlier years!

My path has been strewn with pivotal learning experiences, the wisdom gleaned from what I once perceived as marital pitfalls:

For far too long, I harbored the unspoken expectation that my husband should intuitively grasp my desires, discerning them through subtle cues. The stark reality was he often hadn't the faintest idea. This realization was a profound turning point, underscoring the absolute necessity of clear, direct communication. If I desired understanding, it was my responsibility to articulate it.

I learned the invaluable art of discerning which battles truly warranted my engagement. Not every disagreement demands a stand; some are best acknowledged, understood, and then allowed to pass, preserving the deeper harmony of our connection.

There were moments when allowing natural consequences to unfold, even if inconvenient or seemingly illogical in the short term, proved to be the most effective teacher – both for him and for the dynamics of our relationship. It fostered a deeper sense of personal accountability.

I discovered that persistent nagging, an attempt to govern territory that wasn't mine to control, served only to erode respect and create distance. True influence stems from partnership and respect, not relentless pressure. Yes, I failed miserably on so many occasions.

Finally, and perhaps most crucially, I cultivated the resilience not to panic when traversing the inevitable rough terrain of our shared life. Just as the Apostle Paul observed in 1 Corinthians 7:28, "those who marry will face many troubles in this life." This ancient wisdom is not a prophecy of despair, but a realistic acknowledgment that challenges are inherent. Learning to navigate those difficulties with faith and fortitude, rather than fear, was paramount. Yes, I failed, many, many times.

Every year refined my understanding of what it meant to build a lasting, meaningful partnership. It was a continuous process of learning, loving, and striving toward a shared, divinely-inspired purpose.

Yes, and I failed again even until the end. Such is the course of love, tainted by sin and cracked by our own limited knowledge.

~rjs

THE GENESIS OF MY ADVENTURES IN ROMANS

This post was spawned by my recollections of first encounters with the book of Romans as a young adult in college. I hope to recount more of my adventures in that book in subsequence posts.

My years in Portland at Multnomah University in 1968 remains a vivid and cherished memory. Living in Sutcliffe Hall, a building with a fascinating past as both a blind school and former mortuary, was an experience unlike any other. The old building groaned and creaked with a symphony of noises – banging pipes, wheezing radiators – a constant soundtrack to my college life. This "symphony of old building noises," was oddly comforting in its consistency. The unpredictable steam heating, while temperamental, proved surprisingly useful as a makeshift clothes dryer in Oregon's damp climate, a true lifesaver during those rainy months.

Sutcliffe Hall possessed a unique charm. I particularly loved the wide ramp leading to the second floor, with its dormer cozy alcove nooks, perfect for escaping into a good book. The dorm rooms themselves were a delightful mix of sizes – some surprisingly spacious, others quite compact , cell like-a testament to the university's budget constraints, I suppose! Dorm life, despite its occasional chaotic moments, fostered a strong sense of community amongst us. We formed lasting bonds, navigating the ups and downs of several years together.

Multnomah's deeply ingrained faith permeated every aspect of campus life. The university's slogans of the time – "If it's Bible you want! Then you want Multnomah!" and "Multnomah deals in life change, Don't settle for less!" – perfectly encapsulated the atmosphere. My faith deepened considerably during those years. Weekends, while relatively quiet, offered ample opportunities for personal reflection and exploration.

My academic experiences were equally transformative. Dr. John G. Mitchell's Romans lectures at "Fort Mitchell" (Central Bible Church – an imposing structure!) were legendary. His ability to instantly recall and quote scripture was truly awe-inspiring. While I struggled with his effortless memorization skills, his passionate teaching in Irish brogue style profoundly impacted me.

His anecdote about Dr. G. Campbell Morgan reading a Bible book 40-50 times before in-depth study resonated deeply, shaping my own approach to biblical study. My pastor, John MacArthur, echoed this emphasis on repeated readings for comprehensive understanding.

Personally, I found immense solace in Romans, chapter 5, particularly during a difficult breakup year. Its message provided comfort and strength during a challenging time.

Looking back, my time at Multnomah University in 1968 was a rich tapestry woven from challenges, profound learning experiences, and the forging of enduring friendships. Even the noisy pipes of Sutcliffe Hall became part of the soundtrack of my spiritual journey, a constant reminder of the effort and perseverance required for true understanding. It was, indeed, a year unlike any other.

Warmly

Becky

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ARE YOU MY MOTHER (edited)

P.D. Eastman's *Are You My Mother* resonated deeply with me as I read it to my children when they were little . The little bird's desperate search for its mother mirrored my own early experiences, a poignant reminder of the challenges faced by children of missionaries in the mid-20th century.

 
My own childhood, spent largely in board and care school, was marked by frequent and extended separations from my family. 

My parents, driven by a powerful sense of purpose and the demands of their ministry, embarked on a life that prioritized service above all else, a characteristic of many missionary families in the 1940s and 50s. 

This involved significant sacrifices, including the difficult decision to send their children away to boarding school or to live with relatives in the US. While I understand their dedication and the context of their choices, the impact on my family dynamics was profound.

The logistical difficulties of that era – unreliable communication, arduous travel, and the constant transience of missionary life – created a sense of emotional distance. Saying goodbye became a recurring, almost ritualistic, experience. Being sent away at the age of six irrevocably altered my relationship with my parents, severing the emotional dependence that is crucial during formative years. Though my love and respect for them remained unwavering, the intimacy and closeness I craved were lost. The pervasive pressure to maintain a perfect outward image, fueled by the demands of our parents' ministry, further complicated our family dynamics and cast a long shadow over our relationships.

Despite these challenges, my childhood holds precious memories. The landscape of my early years, the vibrant culture, the distinctive food and climate – they remain deeply ingrained in my identity. My Spanish accent, even today, carries a tangible echo of that time and place.

I am reminded that none of us inherit perfect circumstances, including our parents. They were limited by their weaknesses and did not always offer what was needed. Their own experiences shaped them and their decisions, sometimes with outcomes that were far from ideal. However, rather than dwelling on what could have been, I chose to focus on learning from the past and building a healthier future. 
The realities of missionary life have undoubtedly evolved; today’s realities are vastly different.

49 YEARS AT GCC

Dear Friends,

Boy, have we been hit with all the home goings this year!

This year will have marked 49 years since my husband and I first walked through the doors of Grace Community Church – a journey that began in the San Fernando Valley, a very special valley. It feels like a lifetime ago, yet the memories remain as vivid as yesterday.

I recall the electrifying energy of those early services held in the crowded gym, the rhythmic rustle of pages as everyone eagerly followed Pastor John’s fervent expository teachings, a young man then, full of passion and zeal.

We, too, were young, and the intensity of those services, the camaraderie of furiously scribbling notes, the excitement of absorbing new spiritual insights—these were formative years.

Sometimes, finding a seat meant ascending to the choir loft after the service began, or even joining our fellow congregants seated on the floor. It was a testament to our shared spiritual hunger.

How things have changed! We've watched our church grow, evolving from that bustling gym to the expansive sanctuary and welcoming patio where we can now choose our seating with ease. I remember the anticipation as the new worship center rose from the ground, a tangible representation of our community’s growth. The seminary, once merely a dream, was now a reality, and even the bookstore has blossomed from its humble beginnings as a "Book Shack" (a former chicken shed) nestled in the parking lot.

Grace Community Church has become more than just a place of worship; it's a sanctuary, a source of comfort and encouragement, a true family. While keeping pace with everything can be challenging these days, it was a blessing to see Pastor John’s pace adjust as well. The slower rhythm of his last years allowed me to reflect more deeply on his messages.

And the uplifting music, performed by such incredibly talented individuals, continues to nourish my soul, even with my unmusical ears.

This week's events serve as a potent reminder of the unpredictable nature of life, and in those times, I feel an even deeper gratitude for the steadfast support of my church family. Their unwavering love and presence have sustained me through past trials, and I know I can count on them for years to come.

My heart overflows with thankfulness for Grace Community Church and our dear Shepherd who is now rejoicing in Gods presence, the enduring love that binds us together. It's a community that has enriched my life immeasurably over these past forty nine years, and I look forward to more years of shared faith and fellowship without Pastor John and without my husband.

Warmly,

A sinner saved by grace.

My Dear Care Givers

My Dear Care givers,

I know what you are going through, stay strong as you navigate the sundowning hours. You all deserve a medal.

The following is an edit, and final edit of a post from the past.

I've been reflecting on the demands of caregiving, and a striking analogy came to mind: the Olympic decathlon. The sheer physical and mental endurance required of caregivers is extraordinary, rivaling the rigorous demands placed upon Olympic athletes.

Imagine a caregiving decathlon. It wouldn't be confined to a stadium; the arena is the home, the hospital, the assisted living facility – anywhere the loved one requires care. The events? They’re diverse and relentless, a whirlwind of tasks spanning multiple days: the "medication marathon," the "mealtime medley," the "mobility maneuver," the "emotional equilibrium event," the "hygiene hurdles," the "communication relay," the "financial fitness trial," the "advocacy sprint," the "spiritual support long jump," and the ever-present "crisis management race."

Each event demands a unique skill set and unwavering stamina. The "medication marathon" requires precision and vigilance, while the "mobility maneuver" demands physical strength and careful technique. The "emotional equilibrium event" – navigating the emotional rollercoaster of caregiving – is perhaps the most demanding of all, requiring immense patience, empathy, and resilience. Even the brief rests between events are often snatched amidst a flurry of tasks, mirroring the brief pit stops of a Formula 1 race.

Unlike the carefully scheduled events of the Olympic decathlon, the caregiver’s decathlon is unpredictable. The "crisis management race," for instance, can erupt at any moment, demanding immediate and decisive action. This constant state of readiness, the unrelenting pressure to juggle numerous responsibilities concurrently, is the hallmark of this unique competition.

Caregivers are often unseen athletes, enduring their grueling competition day after day, year after year. They may not receive the accolades of Olympic champions, but their perseverance, strength, and dedication deserve recognition and respect. They are the unsung heroes, silently navigating their own demanding decathlon, and they deserve our unwavering support and appreciation.

The wisdom of Heraclitus – "Everything flows, nothing stands still. Nothing endures but change" – resonates deeply within the context of caregiving. It's a constant state of adaptation and resilience, and a powerful testament to the human spirit. While a formal Olympic event for caregivers may seem unlikely, their dedication and strength certainly warrant a medal of honor in our hearts.

Sincerely Yours, From one who knows.

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