roby duke

I don't know what to say. I heard a rumor and didn't want it to be true, but it's just been confirmed that Roby Duke went to be with Jesus on December 26th. I'm so grieved by the news, but it's a grief tinged with envy. His is the better reality. The world seems lesser without him in it, but heaven has gained.

Just three days before his death, he played this last song at Calvary Chapel Thousand Oaks. The title is so poignant--especially in light of the fact that Roby has seen Him now, and has touched His beautiful face.

I only met him once, and it was brief at that. But someday, I'm going to sit with Roby and thank him for the many hours that he reminded me, through his gifts, that something far sweeter than this life waits ahead for me.



I Shall See His Face

It's almost as if Someone is standing there
I don't know what I'd give to see the face that seems to stare
And all my life I'd give to know His face
Just how much I know, I'm no fool I dare not say
As I go in the way of all the earth
As I step through the door there where time is no more
I shall see God

I'm older, much older now, and I still believe
That when all else is gone the Rock of Ages cleft for me
And I'm holding something I can't feel or see
And I'll tarry till the day I hear the music of the free
As I go in the way of all the earth
As I step through the door there where time is no more
I shall see perfect peace, perfect love

As I go in the way of all the earth
As I step through the door there where time is no more
Time is no more
I shall see God

I shall see Him
Touch His face
I shall see Him
Touch His face
I shall see Him
Touch His face
I'm finally gonna face the Beginning and the End


This is a portrait called "One Embrace," which Roby's friend, artist Chris Hopkins completed during Roby's memorial. I like to think he captured Roby's first moment in eternity.

And here's what his friend, Terry Clark, wrote to those involved in Catalyst Ministries:

Dear Catalyst Family,

Our dear friend, Roby Duke, has preceded us into the presence of our Savior, after a sudden heart attack yesterday, December 27, 2007. We want to honor Roby and thank God for the life of sacrifice and service that was itself a treasure given to those who knew him and thousands of people who heard his music. He deeply impacted our lives and we are eternally grateful. Since 1993, Roby's genius has been responsible for the production of U Gada No, Love Heals, This Christmas, Only Believe and ThePRIZE. During those years we have become brothers. We were so blessed to have been with him for his birthday earlier this month, then again last Sunday as we played together at Calvary Chapel in Thousand Oaks, CA. He kept glancing over at me as he sang his final song, "I Shall See God," as if to assure me that he fully believed what he was singing like never before. It was such a sweet and powerful moment as the whole congregation echoed over and over, "I shall see Him, touch His face." Our prayers are with Brantley, Roby's son; Anne Baldwin, his assistant and the whole Duke family. Thanks, Lord, for loaning Roby to us for a little while. It was way too short, it seemed we had so much more to do. But we are absolutely sure You know how to perfectly satisfy the deepest longings of our hearts. You've welcomed him personally to do exactly what he has been singing about for as long as we've known him.

So long, Roby. We'll see you soon.

Sincerely,
Terry & Nancy Clark

If you'd like to hear more of Roby's music, you can do so at MySpace or on YouTube.

home again

I'm home from a quick trip to San Jose to speak at a Christmas luncheon for "Mothers Together," a ministry of Menlo Park Presbyterian Church. This was my second visit, and both times, I've been showered with kindness and welcomed like a friend. That's a beautiful bunch of ladies they've got there. I hope to visit again.

This is a picture of the view from my balcony at the Garden Court Hotel in downtown Palo Alto Monday night. Below is a picture of that same view Tuesday morning, and one of my room just after I woke up (note the robe and slippers they provided). I could have stayed in this hotel forever.


Though I was only gone a scant 30+ hours, that doesn't mean I didn't pack for a week. We women pack for good weather, bad weather, a change in mood, a sudden dislike for red, or black, or green (these things can't be predicted), and for emergencies. Somehow, in all that planning, I forgot my toothbrush.

I also forgot nylons, but I realized that en route to the airport. So we made a stop at Fred Meyers before we left town and I picked up a pair. Dave tucked them in the front pocket of one of my two enormous suitcases--I saw him with my own eyes--and that was the last I saw of those nylons. Some female baggage handler (please, God, let it have been a woman) down at SeaTac's Alaska Air terminal decided she had to have those nylons for her own. So when I arrived in San Jose and unpacked, and realized I'd been robbed, Heather and Cathy (of Menlo Park) walked me down to Long's Drug Store after a fabulous dinner of Butternut Squash-Walnut Ravioli. Don't even get me started.

I packed books--lots of books, because the ministry team at Mothers Together set up a book-signing table for me. I packed my laptop, of course. And books to read. And my current knitting project. And all the oils, lotions, and ointments I'm currently using in my daily regiment.

I packed a notebook for all the ideas that bombard me whenever I have no paper handy. I packed earplugs, Vick's Vapor Rub, my hair dryer (because I don't trust hotels to plan for my forgetfulness) and my curling iron. I packed three pairs of earrings, because I couldn't commit to just one. I packed several files for my current writing project, although I knew, even as I tucked them in my suitcase, that I'd be too tired after flying to even peek.

And so, once we lugged those two enormous suitcases back into the house Tuesday night and unzipped them both, the detestable putting-away-again began.

It was while wiping emu oil off every travel bottle and jar that had shared a ride in the plastic compartment with my container of emu oil that I began to think of heaven in a new light. I'm ready to go there; I admit that frequently. But I've just realized yet another appealing highlight to that future trip.

"Naked I came into this world; naked I will leave."

I won't have to pack a single thing.

longing

Cora didn't want to go to Israel at first. She didn't quite see what all the fuss was about. I told her, "Cora, Chris is going ... and if he goes without you, you're going to miss out on sharing something wonderful. He'll try, but he'll never be able to fully describe what it means to him." In the end, she relented, but I could tell her heart wasn't in it.

And then it was. Somewhere between, "All right. I'll go." and the morning we piled our bags in the church van and headed to Sea Tac airport, Cora's heart began to burn for a land she'd never seen. Her excitement grew during the trip from Seattle to Atlanta, and during the short layover there, and all through the long flight to Tel Aviv. In the darkest hour of our flight, when our legs ached from inactivity and we found ourselves rising and stretching and congregating back in the steward's section (where we met a believing, Messianic attendant named Marwin), Cora's desire fought its way past her exhaustion and shone in her eyes.

She told me later that the tears first came when she saw on the screen that we'd crossed the Mediterranean, and she looked out her window and caught her first glimpse of the Holy Land.

She didn't stop there. Cora cried at nearly every stop along our trip. She became my blessing. My friend, who had been so reluctant, so unconvinced, so complacent about this journey, now drew it in as though it were breath.

Sometimes, now, Cora and I will look at each other across the room, and smile. And I can see in her eyes that she's thinking of Israel. She can see I'm right there with her.

I long for that land. As our friend, Dave Perkins, says, "Once you get that sand in your sandals, you can never get it out." I can feel the sand even now, and I'm counting the days until our next trip.

I've a longing for another place, too. In unlooked-for moments, my heart responds to a sound my ears miss. I turn and look up past the clouds, and I know where I belong. And someday, I'll leave this place, where all is weight and worry and regret. Someday, I'll cross that wide sea and catch my first glimpse of the One I long for most. And though I've read there's no crying there, I've a feeling that when I hold those hands for the first time and I see for myself the love written in His wounds, I'll wash them in my tears.

lost and found

The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. Through it all, let us praise the Lord. - Job 1:21

First, the found.

An old friend tapped me on the shoulder yesterday after church. When I turned to see the owner of that hand, and took in the beautiful (and still very young-looking) face of my friend, Lynn, I couldn't help but shriek just a bit. I hadn't seen her in years, though we live in the same town. It's a mystery to me how growing up can change you so. When I was twenty, I'd think nothing of driving five hours to visit a friend off at college. Now, I don't have the energy or gumption to open the phone book, copy an address, and track down a friend in my same zip code.

But in this case, I didn't have to do a thing. God brought her right to me, along with an unspoken suggestion: Perhaps you two should catch up a bit. I liked that suggestion. We stood in a row of chairs talking for ten minutes or so, then stood in empty space for another ten or fifteen minutes after the set-up/take-down crew removed those chairs from around us. Then we moved outside and talked some more, above the pounding of a basketball and the giggling of a game of tag.

She introduced me to her new (of seven years) husband, Scott, and I re-introduced her to Zac. She hadn't seen him since he was hip-level to her; now, he's 6'1" and whiskery. She'd never met Tera at all, though she'd heard of her existence. So I pointed Tera out to her. Lynn then updated me about her daughter, Amy, and now-married son, Christopher. We talked about our shared shock over the sudden death of a mutual acquaintance last month. My sadness only intensified when she told me that Mike and his wife had been separated at the time of his heart attack.

After all that first-layer chatter, we got down to the reason for Lynn's appearance. She hadn't been in church the last six months, not since leaving her church of several years. She'd felt disconnected there though she was firmly plugged in. Her feeling seemed to be legitimate, since no one has yet called to see where she'd gone. She knew she needed to find a new church home. And a series of unconnected events led her to us: Scott had a job interview last week. This was a must-get job, so Lynn started praying. And though I don't advocate making deals with God, in this case, I'm not unhappy that Lynn added "And if Scott gets that job, we'll find a home church" to the end of her prayer. While they waited for an answer, Lynn picked up my book--which someone had given her daughter--and started reading. She finished Saturday, and when she was done, she felt that not only did she know me better, she also knew a fair bit about the people in our church. That, combined with a "yes" on the job, cemented Lynn's conviction that God was leading her to Calvary Chapel. I'm so glad--and so looking forward to watching the rest of my church family discover this delightful woman.

We came home, changed clothes, and went to the home of some friends for lunch and a preview of a parenting series we're about to begin next month. With the business end of our meeting behind us, we then moved to "snacking and laughing" with the Kellys and the Hilts. I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.

Later, when we arrived back home, I said to Dave, "This has been a perfect day." I'd felt God's presence during worship. And Dave's message, on Hebrews chapter 6, had been powerful. He made me think, laugh, jot frantic notes, and re-appreciate my Father. The fellowship afterward--both at church and at the Kellys--had been wonderful. I couldn't ask for more from a day.

But then, I checked in on our kittens, and discovered I was about to lose my baby.

I wrote about the kittens in this post a few weeks ago. Since that mishap, while the lighter gray kitten grew stronger, the darker gray kitten grew weaker. She seemed to have something structurally wrong with her, which confirmed to us that Lucy probably dropped her when she moved the litter. She never could walk properly and she couldn't fight off the others when trying to nurse, so I took to feeding her with a dropper to try to supplement. For awhile, I thought I was winning.

But yesterday, I could see it was just a matter of time. I held her in our usual spot, under my chin, and then gave her a little milk, which she drank weakly. And then, because I knew she would never chase butterflies or scamper after her siblings or lie and sun herself on a cushion of green, I took her outside and set her gently on the grass. We didn't stay but two minutes, but it mattered to me that she met the world just once before she left it.

Dave had tried to protect me. Just days ago, he said, "Don't get too attached to that kitten."

But my heart was already long-gone. "Too late," I told him. And when she died in my hand last night, I kept stroking her little head. Long after her last tiny gasp, I kept loving her.

We wrapped her in a soft cloth and laid her aside so we could bury her properly today. But last night, I dreamt that when I went to get her, she had crawled out of her wrapping and was waiting for me and my dropper.

Of course, when I opened my eyes this morning and rushed to her, it wasn't so. Today we'll say good bye.

Life is a sprinkling of salt and sugar, of tears and laughter, good bye and hello ... of lost and found. I'll endure it here, because I know it's what makes a life full and gives a soul depth. I know it's what makes us who we are. It softens our rough spots, teaches us compassion, and "gentles" us so we can reach out to one another. But I'm looking forward to heaven. When these lessons have run their course, I'll be glad to give a final nod to salt, and tears, and good bye, and lost.

And I won't look back--not even once.