Shelter and Refuge
by Vina Mogg

Almost one century ago my home was built on a post and pier foundation
above the sands of the sea.

This tiny wooden cottage fitted together from pieces of tongue and groove ship lap
has weathered many storms, winds, and rain. Like an ark suspended above the waters, it has been a refuge from the elements. It rescued me when the depths of grief and transition and loss were overcoming.

The definition of a cottage is a small simple house.

The original word for cottage in Hebrew is suka: a temporary shelter or a booth made of leaves and branches interwoven.

My father grew up in a nipa hut in the Philippines. Its roof was made of thatched palm leaves woven together.

It was a house built on a foundation of bamboo poles to keep it safe above the ground during rains of monsoon season. Its walls and floor built from bamboo spilt by a rustic knife a bolo.
In Tagalog, the language of the Philippines, the house is called Bahay Kubo, which means cubed house.

Its cubed shape makes it easy to assemble and disassemble. Its four walls provide shelter from storms and rain.

Across the ocean from my father’s nipa hut my shiplap cottage was built a few years after his birth, in 1926.

Almost a century ago materials for the cottage were ferried from the city across the Puget Sound.

Timbers of local trees were split into tongue and groove planks and pieced together to from the outside siding and inside walls .

Logs were used to build its pier foundation hovering above the edge of the shore.
Foundation posts were dug into the sand hold up the house above the waterline.
Its four walls a cube with windows that open up to the Puget Sound and majestic Mt. Rainier.
This cottage was built as a temporary shelter, a summer escape from everyday life.

Two houses. A cottage and a nipa hut.
Two homes across the world.
Two temporary shelters. Sukas built as a refuge from the storms. The storms of life, monsoons and rain.

My father’s house was pieced together from split bamboo and woven leaves. It was the place he sheltered from the ravages that war that left upon his body. It was the place he recovered from the spectres death and pain and loss.

My cottage was pieced together from split wooden planks and shiplap beams. In the shelter of its tour walls I recovered from the sorrow of loss and disease and heartbreak.

These two homes were a refuge for pain and loss.
My father recovered from his escape as a WWII Bataan Death March survivor within the walls of his nipa hut.
I recovered from the grief of losing my mother to the ravages of Alzheimer’s within the shiplap walls of this cottage.

The pieces of my life are gathered from the span of two bodies of water, across the Philippine Sea to the Puget Sound.

God pieced together.
A refuge for us.
From two pieces of lumber that meet in the middle to form a cross.
On those two crossbeams of wood he carried our brokenness.
His brokenness became a shelter for our pain.
He himself became our suka, our temporary shelter. Our tent of bones and flesh that housed the glory and power of God.
The cross is our foundation.

By this action he himself became our dwelling place. We can live and abide fully in his presence because he was broken for us.

The things that break us leave our heart vacant.
We search for a place to hide.
A shelter.

God provides that space.
He longs to be our dwelling place.
A place to run to. To regroup. To reestablish, to nurture our souls.

He longs to be our hiding place
Our tabernacle. Our tent. Our suka.

Our refuge.

In Hebrew one word for refuge is dwelling or refuge

The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms:
Deuteronomy 33:27

His arms are our foundation of safety.
The pillars that will hold us up when we feel the storms of life will knock us down.

These everlasting arms can shoulder our pain and support us in power and strength.

Friend, let Him be your refuge.
Let Him carry you in His everlasting arms when you are
broken, beat down, lonely, tired, discouraged..

He longs to be your shelter.
Once settled in His arms
He can fashion something new from broken pieces.
He restores our souls.

 

 

Vina Bermudez Mogg is rebuilding life through words, wood, paper and paint in a century old cottage by the Puget Sound. Stories on restoring life and faith through seasons of empty nesting, motherhood, caregiving for Alzheimer’s, and its parallel to restoring a 1926 abode are found on her website, vinabermudezmogg.com.

Places she has been published include The Wonder Years: 40 Women Over 40 on Aging, Faith, Beauty, and Strength, Ruminate Magazine, redbudwritersguild.com, thewritelaunch.com, and mudroomblog.com. Follow her on Instagram @vinabmogg.

The Ultimate Sacrifice
by Amy Remer

It was a cool September morning.  Dew covered the tips of the grass.  The house was dark and quiet.  Such a calm moment as I opened my eyes.  My husband was still asleep, as were our four children.  I just wanted to stay in that moment forever and not face the day that was in front of me.  But I had to.  It was happening whether I wanted it to or not.

I woke my husband up so we could get ready.  We didn’t say much, but small tears filled our eyes several times that morning.  We were scared of what was to come, but we knew it had to be done.  It had to be done to save my life.

The kids woke up and we said our goodbyes.  I have never held my kids as tightly as I did that morning.  It was the last time I would be able to hug them like that… and they knew it.  I could feel it deep in their souls.  The fear poured from their bodies into my heart as I held them closer and closer.  I reassured them that I would be fine, yet I had no idea if that was true. I kissed them goodbye and walked out the door – it was the last time they would see their mom “whole.”

We drove and drove to the hospital for what seemed like forever. This was a very familiar drive for us; we had made it many times over the last three years for numerous chemotherapy appointments, surgeries, radiation treatments, scans, and doctor’s appointments.  However, today the drive was different. Today, the drive represented the most drastic life-changing moment. My husband and I listened to our favorite songs.  We tried not to think about the next 12 hours but it was like an elephant in the backseat. ‘He is being so strong,’ I thought to myself as the hum of the road rang through my ears and the trees zoomed by.

After about an hour drive, we pulled into the hospital parking garage.  My husband put the car in park.  Then we froze. How in the world can someone walk herself into a hospital to get her entire arm cut off? Our bodies were heavy… we couldn’t move. We sat in that car for at least 15 minutes before mustering up the courage to walk in that hospital for my amputation surgery. It had to be done to save my life of this sarcoma I had been battling for over three years. I was choosing to trust in God, even when life seemed impossible.  I was choosing hope, even when all hope seemed lost. I was choosing life, even if it meant the ultimate sacrifice.

So in we went, hand-in-hand, and we never looked back. We pressed into our faith and stayed focused on this gift of life that we are given each day. That was over a year ago, and I thank God every single day that I am still alive and breathing. This life is short, and every day is a blessing.

 

 

Amy Remer is a writer and speaker dedicated to sharing God’s faithfulness even in the toughest of times.  She has walked through the loss of a baby, a miscarriage, a child with special needs, cancer, an amputation of her arm, and the loss of her father.  Amy has been sharing her journey through social media and various speaking engagements.  She is in the process of writing her first book.  Amy resides in Swanton, Ohio, with her husband and their four children. Despite everything they’ve been through, it hasn’t stopped them from going on adventures and living life with no regrets! Connect with her on Facebook.