But I did get some new photos up on Facebook and they're great, so take a look here:
Sunday, December 16, 2007
The latest photos
It's definitely time for me to post again, but I must be honest and say I don't have the energy. I've been fighting an ear infection for awhile now and it's tim for me to go to sleep.
But I did get some new photos up on Facebook and they're great, so take a look here:
Discipleship Year, Southwell Minster, Libby's Wedding and More
But I did get some new photos up on Facebook and they're great, so take a look here:
Saturday, December 08, 2007
A Tribute to Mallory
Last Tuesday evening I was doing creative writing while meditating on Christ when I felt compelled to write the following letter to Chris and Lee Langill, Mallory's parents. I sent it off and told them no response was necessary. But Chris wrote write back to say that they'd been meaning to ask me if I'd write something to be read at Mallory's memorial service back home in Evanston, and whether they could read the letter. I was honored to be asked. Here is the letter that was read.
December 4, 2007
Dear Chris and Lee,
I am sitting in a friend’s second-story flat in Bramcote, Nottinghamshire, England, perched above a park filled with noisy ducks. I’m facing a wall of windows and watching the most beautiful sunset I’ve seen outside of Arizona. I’ve never seen a sunset like this before in Minnesota, Illinois, England or Washington, D.C. The sky is literally aflame with long orange clouds topped by pink, gauzy strips. Shades of deep purple give depth to the brilliant colors. And I am thinking of Mallory.
I didn’t know that Mallory liked the sunset colors until I read your journal today, but it makes perfect sense. I do know she loved pink and orange and purple, because she was always wearing them! When I think back on the last year of Kids Church and my nearly 52 Sundays spent with the same small group in that same room, I always see Mallory as a little bright ball of energy and smiles, even if she was coughing or fighting a fever.
Of course there are no words that will make you feel better or diminish the grief. In fact, I know from experience that, when we Christians are going through deep grief, people will say so many words. Most of them will be well-meant, but even then we will want to scream because we’ve heard the same thing so many times. We get sick of being “preached at” or “cheered up.” We get sick of giving the same dreary explanation and the same assurances of gratitude over and over again. But we do not get sick of knowing someone else cares, that someone else wants to help carry the burdens, if even for a short while.
I just wanted to let you know, then, that I care. I do not know either of you very well and I certainly did not know Mallory as well as many did, but I did know her. And I treasured her. I loved her calm, helpful presence in the midst of a chaotic class, and I also loved that she wasn’t always calm. Despite the fact that she was the “sick kid” (though the other kids never seemed to notice this), she was still human, not saintly. Sometimes she talked too much or didn’t listen, but on the rare occasion when this happened, she was so quick to respond to my gentle chiding. She was not a saint, but she was better than a saint, because she was real yet she loved Jesus and she loved life with her whole heart.
As I told you in an email last summer, Mallory spoke into my life in a dark time, when she shared the complex picture of the servant seeking a precious jewel at great cost, only to see the jewel turn grey and lifeless as he presented it to the King. She wanted to know what it meant, and when I told her to ask God, she did. “I think it means we’re supposed to keep trying, no matter what happens and what the outcome is,” she told me. “God says that what matters is what we do and how we do it, not what we end up with.”
That was a powerful message to me as I contemplated events in my own life, but now I see her picture in a whole new light. God has used this word to speak to me of Mallory’s own life and her own heart. I see Him being tremendously pleased with her, and all that she accomplished for his kingdom, although the ending is so horrendously wrong.
I think of Mallory now and I remember her chattering about her cats, about how Aaron always wanted to play in the hospital play room, about how excited she was to go home and sew a teddy bear with her mom. I remember her bowling me over with big hugs and giggling and giggling and giggling. I remember watching her come into the kids’ room and scanning the crowd for her friends, then her big eyes brightening and that huge smile splitting her face as she ran towards Marissa or Emily. I remember Mallory raising her hand every week to ask us to pray for her and for her loved ones, and I remember her clear, sweet, unbelievably-intelligent-voice reading scripture passages with complete ease.
I recall how last year at Advent the children wrote prophetic Messiah passages onto paper ornaments. It was an activity that was fine and dandy for the older kids, but I knew many of our first graders wouldn’t be able to fit an entire Bible verse onto a Christmas ornament. So I handed the Bible to Mallory and she wrote out the entire verse in careful, perfect, small script more legible than my own. I thanked God yet again for sending Mallory to my class.
I’m glad, right now, that I’m not teaching Sunday School at Evanston Vineyard this year, for I don’t think I could bear being there without having Mallory in the midst.
The sunset is darkening now and the colors are becoming more muted—all but the orange. The orange is flaming out brighter than ever, as if in defiance of the approaching night. The reason I came to my friend’s place this evening is so I could do some creative writing in a peaceful spot, so I was doing some writing about a little dialogue I was having with Jesus. I “saw” him sitting next to me on the sofa and we were chatting about many things, when I suddenly noticed the stunning sky.
“This is one of the most beautiful sunsets I’ve ever seen, Jesus!” I exclaimed in my little mind’s eye conversation. I heard his response quite clearly.
“Yes,” he said. “Mallory had a say in it.”
I am so sorry for your loss. There is nothing else to say, but know that Mallory’s death touches so many of us, including me. As I write this, my eyes are filling with tears yet again.
It will be so wonderful to see her again. But I’m going to have to wait in a long line in heaven to get my turn, I think, because no doubt the Lord has already spread her fame far and wide around there, just as he’s done here.
With love,
Stephanie Fosnight
P.S. If you have not already seen it, I do recommend the book “A Sacred Sorrow: Reclaiming the Lost Language of Lament” by Michael Card. It’s at the church bookstore.
December 4, 2007
Dear Chris and Lee,
I am sitting in a friend’s second-story flat in Bramcote, Nottinghamshire, England, perched above a park filled with noisy ducks. I’m facing a wall of windows and watching the most beautiful sunset I’ve seen outside of Arizona. I’ve never seen a sunset like this before in Minnesota, Illinois, England or Washington, D.C. The sky is literally aflame with long orange clouds topped by pink, gauzy strips. Shades of deep purple give depth to the brilliant colors. And I am thinking of Mallory.
I didn’t know that Mallory liked the sunset colors until I read your journal today, but it makes perfect sense. I do know she loved pink and orange and purple, because she was always wearing them! When I think back on the last year of Kids Church and my nearly 52 Sundays spent with the same small group in that same room, I always see Mallory as a little bright ball of energy and smiles, even if she was coughing or fighting a fever.
Of course there are no words that will make you feel better or diminish the grief. In fact, I know from experience that, when we Christians are going through deep grief, people will say so many words. Most of them will be well-meant, but even then we will want to scream because we’ve heard the same thing so many times. We get sick of being “preached at” or “cheered up.” We get sick of giving the same dreary explanation and the same assurances of gratitude over and over again. But we do not get sick of knowing someone else cares, that someone else wants to help carry the burdens, if even for a short while.
I just wanted to let you know, then, that I care. I do not know either of you very well and I certainly did not know Mallory as well as many did, but I did know her. And I treasured her. I loved her calm, helpful presence in the midst of a chaotic class, and I also loved that she wasn’t always calm. Despite the fact that she was the “sick kid” (though the other kids never seemed to notice this), she was still human, not saintly. Sometimes she talked too much or didn’t listen, but on the rare occasion when this happened, she was so quick to respond to my gentle chiding. She was not a saint, but she was better than a saint, because she was real yet she loved Jesus and she loved life with her whole heart.
As I told you in an email last summer, Mallory spoke into my life in a dark time, when she shared the complex picture of the servant seeking a precious jewel at great cost, only to see the jewel turn grey and lifeless as he presented it to the King. She wanted to know what it meant, and when I told her to ask God, she did. “I think it means we’re supposed to keep trying, no matter what happens and what the outcome is,” she told me. “God says that what matters is what we do and how we do it, not what we end up with.”
That was a powerful message to me as I contemplated events in my own life, but now I see her picture in a whole new light. God has used this word to speak to me of Mallory’s own life and her own heart. I see Him being tremendously pleased with her, and all that she accomplished for his kingdom, although the ending is so horrendously wrong.
I think of Mallory now and I remember her chattering about her cats, about how Aaron always wanted to play in the hospital play room, about how excited she was to go home and sew a teddy bear with her mom. I remember her bowling me over with big hugs and giggling and giggling and giggling. I remember watching her come into the kids’ room and scanning the crowd for her friends, then her big eyes brightening and that huge smile splitting her face as she ran towards Marissa or Emily. I remember Mallory raising her hand every week to ask us to pray for her and for her loved ones, and I remember her clear, sweet, unbelievably-intelligent-voice reading scripture passages with complete ease.
I recall how last year at Advent the children wrote prophetic Messiah passages onto paper ornaments. It was an activity that was fine and dandy for the older kids, but I knew many of our first graders wouldn’t be able to fit an entire Bible verse onto a Christmas ornament. So I handed the Bible to Mallory and she wrote out the entire verse in careful, perfect, small script more legible than my own. I thanked God yet again for sending Mallory to my class.
I’m glad, right now, that I’m not teaching Sunday School at Evanston Vineyard this year, for I don’t think I could bear being there without having Mallory in the midst.
The sunset is darkening now and the colors are becoming more muted—all but the orange. The orange is flaming out brighter than ever, as if in defiance of the approaching night. The reason I came to my friend’s place this evening is so I could do some creative writing in a peaceful spot, so I was doing some writing about a little dialogue I was having with Jesus. I “saw” him sitting next to me on the sofa and we were chatting about many things, when I suddenly noticed the stunning sky.
“This is one of the most beautiful sunsets I’ve ever seen, Jesus!” I exclaimed in my little mind’s eye conversation. I heard his response quite clearly.
“Yes,” he said. “Mallory had a say in it.”
I am so sorry for your loss. There is nothing else to say, but know that Mallory’s death touches so many of us, including me. As I write this, my eyes are filling with tears yet again.
It will be so wonderful to see her again. But I’m going to have to wait in a long line in heaven to get my turn, I think, because no doubt the Lord has already spread her fame far and wide around there, just as he’s done here.
With love,
Stephanie Fosnight
P.S. If you have not already seen it, I do recommend the book “A Sacred Sorrow: Reclaiming the Lost Language of Lament” by Michael Card. It’s at the church bookstore.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Mallory Blake Langill (2000-2007)
Mallory died on Sunday morning.
Who was Mallory? She was an amazing, 7-year-old girl who loved Jesus, her parents, her little brother, her friends, her cats and making stuff. Her favorite colors were orange, pink and purple, because they were the colors of the sunset. I had the immense privilege of being her Sunday School teacher for one year. This photo was taken on my last Sunday in Chicago, just a few months before Mallory began to deteriorate. She'd always been sick from cystic fibrosis, and was on the double lung transplant list, and about a month ago was moved to a children's hospital to await new lungs. She didn't make it.
Here is an email I sent out today to all who'd been praying for Mallory. I am determined that I will always remember this little girl, and as long as I am writing and telling stories, I will talk about Mallory.
If you haven't already heard, Mallory's body could no longer take the wait for new lungs. She finally had to stop fighting. As her parents reported in their blog announcement, God decided to not only give hernew lungs but a whole new body to enjoy in His presence, in heaven. She died at about 4 a.m. CST on Sunday morning. See the entry here:
http://www.cotaformalloryl.com/node/35
I found out this morning, as I did not get a chance to check email or messages yesterday. Of course I am very grieved, not for Mallory because, cheesy as it sounds, it's more than true to say she is in a far better place. But I am grieving for her parents Chris and Lee, for her little brother Aaron (who's 4) and for all of us in her extended network of family and friends. Including myself.
Mallory had such talents and gifts of intelligence and friendship, as well as an incredibly perceptive heart. I was so looking forward to seeing her live life with new lungs and seeing her grow up into a lovely girl and young woman. I will miss her and I will never forget her.
Her own dad said that Mallory probably impacted more people in her 7 years than her parents have in their 40-something years.
Thank you for all of the prayers, whether you know Mallory or not. Her parents say the prayers and support have really gotten them through this time, and they are also grateful that so many strangers (including those in England!) have been praying for them. I know they will appreciate continued prayers as they now grieve and continue to face financial challenges because of the medical bills. Please pray for them as they strive to celebrate Christmas with Aaron in the face of such painful loss.
Some of you had mentioned that you felt uncomfortable praying for lungs for Mallory, since someone else had to die in order for that tohappen. Our prayers had simply been that some other family, in theirgrief and loss, would make the choice to donate their loved ones' organs. In the end, it was Mallory's family who made the decision tod onate their own daughter's organs, and I know that Mallory's death will mean life for others we will never meet. Please consider organ donation yourself, if you haven't, and check to make sure you'vecomplied with your own state's organ donor laws. For example, the Illinois laws changed a few years ago, but it's easy to register online if you haven't done so.
I wish it hadn't turned out this way. I know it didn't have to. But despite the sometimes overwhelming presence of death and evil in thisfallen world, I still know God is good and He is faithful. And rightnow Mallory knows that more than any of the rest of us.
Thank you,
Stephanie
If you'd like to learn more about lung transplants and cystic fibrosis, as well as hear the story of a very cool guy named Steve and the young woman named Kari who gave him new life, go here for an article I wrote last year:
http://www.pioneerlocal.com/evanston/lifestyles/health_family/135554,on-kari-111606-s1.article
As Steve told me in his condolence email, he constantly tells Kari's story for all of the Mallorys in the world. And now I want to tell Mallory's story for all of the others like her.
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