Victories and Mirth

Book recommendations are precarious things.  It is not unsafe to venture an opinion into an established discussion: "yes, I agree -- by far one of his better works."  But to initiate the uncovering of something more closely bound to the truth of yourself is, well, downright reckless.  Too many variables impact the assessment of anything I read.  If the house was chilly or I was sneaking chapters between the work I should be doing, magic might be robbed from a tale.  If the tea was just right and the sunbeam stayed long enough over my spot on the couch then the story may have caught the flavor of beauty from the day and not the author's pen.  Worse still, if I spent the pages worrying over the pronunciation of the heroine's name, my preoccupation could have hindered my falling in love with characters whose lives remained too remote for any lasting attachment.
After all the extraneous influences have been adjusted for, there is the state of my mind which is ever changing.  Was I depressed, or fey, or bored?   Did the poignancy come from a perspective that resonated because of my history or was this an insightful work?
With established cohorts the risk from exposure is mitigated.  They are more inclined to view criticism through the reputation already built and at least consider a conflicting analysis, should I offer one.  But I seldom do.  As with much of my life, I prefer the route that most predictably leads to approval.  I hazard opinions when I am fairly certain of their reception, and I mingle in a homogenous section of society.
Upon recommendation of friends not constrained by the same self-imposed censorship, I read two great books this last week.  One challenged me with excellence of vocabulary, finessed fate versus destiny tension, and a spectacularly tragic hero.  The other elevated a standard of stark honesty that has begun the work of emboldening me. 
And I am reflecting.
Whether answering, "How was your Christmas?" or "What did you think of the new Harper Lee novel?" we are given the same opportunity for precarious vulnerability.  There is risk of appearing weak or foolish or even of standing in isolation. 

The alternative just might be more dangerous.

Things Into Which Angels Long to Look

Perhaps the opposite of a promise is a platitude -- the well-intentioned thought/optimistic verbal offering.  Cloaked in kindness, it is empty of substance and devoid of power.

I'm remembering how carefully I chose some words when my children were small.  We said "Biblical accounts" instead of "Bible stories" -- as if the telling, and re-telling through the four-year Sunday School cycle did not render the label irrelevant.  Familiarity may not always breed contempt, but it often breeds carelessness.  And here we are again in this season when unfathomable phrases that should bowl us over with their immensity are tossed around on marquees and in advertising jingles.  Virgin Birth.  Emmanuel.  Incarnation.  Gradually, the words and expressions have blurred from overuse and become more story and less account.

This year I heard a song performed in the middle of "A Rocking Christmas" (a sort of holiday variety show I attended as a guest of my mother) that stopped the frivolity of the auditorium as suddenly as if the lights had gone out.  There was a palpable response of reverence throughout that public center for the arts, and the applause was hesitant -- ashamed to intrude. The hook, at least for me, was that it effectively stripped away the fable lingo that has reduced miraculous happenings to "Once upon a time in a kingdom far, far away..." 
Through the lyrics I heard again the enormity of my poverty and hopelessness, and of the great Love that left perfect fellowship and unity and reached down into time, becoming bound up in a human body in order to buy me back for Himself at great cost.
Because I don't need platitudes.  I haven't faith that the well wishes of humanity will bring joy to the world, or peace on earth, or any degree of lasting comfort and joy. 
I require promises.

Mary, did you know
That your Baby Boy would one day walk on water?
Mary, did you know
That your Baby Boy would save our sons and daughters?
Did you know
That your Baby Boy has come to make you new?
This Child that you delivered will soon deliver you.

Mary, did you know
That your Baby Boy will give sight to a blind man?
Mary, did you know
That your Baby Boy will calm the storm with His hand?
Did you know
That your Baby Boy has walked where angels trod?
When you kiss your little Baby you kissed the face of God?

Mary did you know

The blind will see.
The deaf will hear.
The dead will live again.
The lame will leap.
The dumb will speak
The praises of The Lamb.

Mary, did you know
That your Baby Boy is Lord of all creation?
Mary, did you know
That your Baby Boy would one day rule the nations?
Did you know
That your Baby Boy is heaven's perfect Lamb?
The sleeping Child you're holding is the Great, I AM.

Sour Cream and Asiago

We were in a hurry and she was hovering uncertainly between two glass refrigerator doors at the back of Aldi's loop. It's my least-disliked place to shop because of the simplicity. Choices are blessedly limited and the aisles almost form a one-way traffic pattern that keeps everyone moving. However, this diminutive elderly female in a tan duster (somehow "London Fog" comes to mind) was hindering my procurement of lemonade. I calculated the distance and necessary speed, slipped in behind her, snatched the bottle, and turned triumphantly to the cart. 

But I was stopped by an arm on my sleeve and an earnest face lifted inquiringly to mine. 

"Can you read this?" Her manicured nails tapped to underline some words on a plastic container. They matched the lipstick on her carefully made up face.

I glanced around, but my husband had disappeared in search of avocadoes. 

"I don't know what it says and I can't be sure it's real."

Skimming the bold red type I assured her that it claimed to be sour cream, and purported to be real. 
"Oh, good," she gushed. "I'm making cheesecake and I need the right ingredients."

Suddenly I realized that I had heard these same words when we were around the corner choosing our granola. This conversation had occurred when a previous shopper attempted to access the cold foods!
I nodded and mumbled and hurried to put distance between us.
At the hard cheese bin I scanned the array. Seeing no asiago, I was about to select the parmesan, when the blue label on a wedge at the back proclaimed the presence of my favorite. On tiptoe I released it from the jumble and swiveled in search of my cart chauffeur. Instead, I encountered those eyes determined to lock with mine. 
"Thank you for your help back there. I just had to be sure. Is that asiago?" she steadfastly inquired. I nodded that it was. Where was my shopping pal?
"I just love that cheese. I like to eat slices of it."
I relented. A little.
"I do too."
Her smile became conspiratorial. "It's best to slice it really thin."

And at that, she broke through. We were exactly the same, I agreed. We grinned at one another and then she moved in an opposite direction, as if finally satisfied with our encounter. I didn't see her again, but I have thought about her a few more times. 
I imagine that small personage fretting about preparations for something she used to accomplish routinely.
And then I wonder if there really is an occasion that requires her stretching and reaching beyond her comfortable repertoire -- that leaves her stumbling over labels and soliciting aid from strangers.
Perhaps shopping for ingredients is the closest she can come to being part of the celebratory gatherings so prevalent these days. Or maybe it provides a plausible reason to get dressed up and go out...hoping to look someone in the eye and share a smile.

I wish I had given in more easily. I wish I had given more.

You who bring good tidings to Zion, go up on a high mountain. You who bring good tidings to Jerusalem, lift up your voice with a shout, lift it up, do not be afraid; say to the towns of Judah, "Here is your God!"
See, the Sovereign LORD comes with power, and his arm rules for him. See, his reward is with him, and his recompense accompanies him.                         
He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those that have young.

Before Thorns

I was reading excerpts from an Erie pastor's sermon blog when I came across an oft repeated teaching about Adam and Eve.  Adam's instinct for self-preservation prompted him to shift the blame squarely on his wife, in order to deflect the attention of God's righteous justice.  In that familiar lesson, there was enough rearrangement of words that I heard something new. 

Like so many, I only know connections that have been warped by sin.  With my parents, my siblings, my children, and my spouse I have a history, a track record.  Our interactions have always been tainted by self-love, deceit, jealousy, pride...and the list goes on.  It is a formidable challenge to break the well-worn grooves caused by indwelling sin.  I practice the exercises of sanctification, "put off ___ and put on_____", with years of effort spent to gain a slight victory.  Many times I have raged at myself for not holding back that sharp word or caustic tone -- again. 

But Adam had a connection of pure love with Eve.  They were, together, perfect.  Their communication was always "...helpful for building one another up according to their need that it may benefit those who listen."  And it all existed within an atmosphere where communion with their Creator was unhindered and fully satisfying.

This subject probably veers wildly into doctrine and theology and there are big pieces relevant to proper interpretation that I'm not even thinking about right now.  But the small part of the story that has caught my attention simultaneously wrenches my heart and gives me hope. 
Even the perfect environment did not inoculate Adam against seeking his own welfare before that of his wife.  He threw her under the bus.  He made a choice to save himself and leave her to perish. 

As I do.
Because the corruption at the core of all my relationships is that I look to my own interests, first.  The battle is to love others more than myself, regardless of the hurts and the sins piled up around.
This side of Heaven, the conditions will never again be ideal, but the calling is not contingent on the circumstances. 
It never was.

'Teacher, which is the great commandment in the Law?' And he said to him, 'You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.  This is the great and first commandment.  And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself.   On these two commandments depend all the Law and the Prophets.'

Higher Than I

There are great griefs and lesser ones; often the proximity and sphere of influence dictate the proportion of pain. It may not be my child with a granite-carved diagnosis of cancer, but it strikes at my heart because I have a boy who was that age ...almost yesterday.  Likely, hundreds who know his reeling family feel the same way.  I may have dined out in peace last night, but others were dining as vulnerable as I when the world exploded around them. And then thousands who knew someone who knew someone broadened the blast.  Although my son and my city have been spared thus far, and the mourning has a degree of removal in the impact, the overall consequence is an unbearable heaviness.

In this fallen world, there has always been sickness and hatred -- and the destruction caused by each. But lately there seems very little else, and it is piling up all around. Unbelief is supplanting faith, estrangement is dismembering families, open warfare is battering communities...the world appears precariously balanced on the verge of catastrophe, and I feel so very helpless.

Because I have been looking to my own strength, again.  I have been "putting my trust in princes".  I have been hoping in doctors and presidents and common humanity...and we have all failed.  

Seeing around me the waves of this sea I am Peter, emboldened to ask for the display of God's greatness to walk above the troubled water, yet drowning from fear when I acknowledge the ferocity of the storm. It would be impious to minimize the danger, but faith requires more.
Peter faced the reality of his physical circumstances; however, he neglected to account for the magnitude of his Deliverer.

And so I pray.
I intercede for bodies to be strengthened to fight disease and injury.
I plead for mercy and rescue and peace and healing.
Because that is what Peter did when there was nothing he could do.

"But when he saw the wind, he was afraid, and beginning to sink he cried out, 'Lord, save me.' Jesus immediately reached out his hand and took hold of him, saying to him, 'O you of little faith, why did you doubt?' And when they got into the boat, the wind ceased. And those in the boat worshiped him, saying, 'Truly you are the Son of God.'"

Hear my cry, O God,
listen to my prayer;
from the end of the earth I call to you
when my heart is faint.
Lead me to the rock
that is higher than I,
for you have been my refuge,
a strong tower against the enemy.

Let me dwell in your tent forever!

Let me take refuge under the shelter of your wings!

Not Acceptable

I value relationships where conversations go deep -- and ripple outward long after the visit has passed.  It was my privilege to have one of those times this Wednesday, dissecting the poverty and constraint of words.  A fellow bibliophile and wordsmith, my iced tea companion summed it up. 
"Sometimes words are too limiting, so there is nothing to say." 

I read voraciously, consume information from the modern potpourri that is the internet, and converse daily with intelligent people on a broad range of topics.  I deliberately vary my vocabulary. 

However, as my friend so keenly observed, our communication can be warped by words.
That, at least, was my takeaway.  It was poignantly applicable these last few days as my own careless speech created a mess that impacted dozens of people.  My first thought was to flee the country.  "Plan B" involved moving to another state, followed rapidly by a scheme to quit my job and never see anyone again.

When I stand on my own, I fall.  When I glory in myself, I am disgraced.  
Failure is humiliating.
Letting people down feels dreadful, and notoriety compounds the agony.  

However, something vital happens when I am stripped of my robes of self-righteousness: I have to run to Jesus for covering.  I hide where I should have been all along, and from that vantage point I begin the hard conversations from which I am not exempt, even though there are too few words.   

Who can discern his errors?
Declare me innocent from hidden faults.
Keep back your servant also from presumptuous sins;
let them not have dominion over me!
Then I shall be blameless,
and innocent of great transgression.

Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart
be acceptable in your sight,
O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.      Psalm 19

light (NOUN): the natural agent that stimulates sight and makes things visible

It is the first of November and I have my bare feet tucked among the crunchy leaves scattered around my chair.  With my shirt sleeves scrunched to my elbows and pant legs rolled to my knees, I picture myself a human solar panel, feverishly collecting rays to store against the shorter, colder, less bright days to come.  This is unusual weather, and I will not fritter it away indoors.

Five days ago the early morning walk began in darkness compounded by heavy fog (which seemed to add a deeper chill to the temperature lingering just above freezing).  It was easy to limp a bit and grumble a bit more as I battled the first half-mile of the climb. And there where the wooded mountain makes a sharp wall on the left, the moon suddenly cleared a beam through trunks and branches--cutting a narrow path between the road and the sky.  It captivated me the way a sunrise cannot: that swath of light momentarily illuminating the world, as if an unseen switch had been thrown.  The woods, to quote Robert Frost, were "dark and deep" silhouetted in columns either side of that pure white light, and vanishing away at the skyline.

The image has lingered, altering my narrow, frail perspective. 
Sometimes the waiting for daybreak feels impossible, and the intervening hours of darkness seem impenetrable. 
But they are not.

Remarkably, that pre-dawn searchlight was just a reflection of the sun inviting me today to imagine summer has not passed.  The Bible verses learned in childhood come back, "the greater one to rule the day and the lesser one to rule the night."  And echoing a deeper truth, the words of John beautifully illustrated by the dispelling of the blue-black night:  "In Him was life and that life was the light of  man.  The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it."

Tipping my head back to feel the last rays on my face, I pause to be encouraged by the truth so clearly displayed this week -- storing it up for a darker day.

The sun shall be no more your light by day,
Nor for brightness shall the moon give you light;
But the Lord will be your everlasting light, and your God will be your glory.
Your sun shall no more go down, nor your moon withdraw itself;
For the Lord will be your everlasting light,
and your days of mourning shall be ended.  Isaiah 60

Hyssop

Hospital lessons come back to me at the oddest times.  Today I wandered a while in the details of a visit from two dear friends.  I had only been conscious for a day, and much of that lucidity was bound in pain and confusion.  My right leg was broken at the top and the bottom, and my left arm was shattered as well.  Added to the mix was a fractured pelvis and a lacerated kidney -- all contributing to the necessity of having nurses frequently change me by rolling my disabled body first to one side and then the other.  I felt embarrassed every time they had to be bothered to come perform the elaborate ritual of attending to my personal needs...again.  I feared the helplessness and pain that seemed to accompany my hospital caregivers.  And so I reached the addled conclusion that the best thing for me was to get help hiding soiled bed linens.  I remember explaining to my visitors in a conspiratorial whisper that they could take away the blankets and sheets, wash them at their homes, and bring them back.  That would be a huge help.  This morning I ruefully recalled the betrayal and frustration I felt when my husband discovered the plan I was hatching and vetoed the whole thing.  "Just ring for the nurse."
The instinct to cover up, hide the evidence, bury the body is second nature to me.  And in that panicked fog of self-preservation I have missed clear understanding of the heart issues at hand many, many times.  Left to myself I expend energy dealing with the surface implications, rather than face the reality of my brokenness and the impact it has on those around me.  I don't want to be flawed and vulnerable --  I want to appear amazing and admirable.  I would prefer to lay another blanket on top of my soiled bedclothes than submit to the chore of changing the bed.  
The first shower after weeks of "sponge baths" is still vividly clear.  My skin seemed to drink it in through every pore.  Although my body trembled from the fatigue of remaining upright on the stool, nothing dimmed the exhilaration of feeling the water rushing over my face, head and battered body.
Amazingly, God does not let me lie in the muck and mire of my making, but plunges me into His cleansing flood of  "deep, deep love...unmeasured, boundless, free."

Have mercy on me, O God,
according to your steadfast love;
according to your abundant mercy
blot out my transgressions.
Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity,
and cleanse me from my sin!

For I know my transgressions,
and my sin is ever before me.
Against you, you only, have I sinned
and done what is evil in your sight,
so that you may be justified in your words
and blameless in your judgment...
Behold, you delight in truth in the inward being,
and you teach me wisdom in the secret heart.

Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;
wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
Let me hear joy and gladness;
let the bones that you have broken rejoice.
Hide your face from my sins,
and blot out all my iniquities.
Create in me a clean heart, O God,
and renew a right spirit within me.
Cast me not away from your presence,
and take not your Holy Spirit from me.
Restore to me the joy of your salvation,
and uphold me with a willing spirit.

For the Living

I learned two mull-worthy things during an afternoon community choir performance. The first is that Brahms' Requiem is unique because unlike all the other compositions marking death, it is a prayer for the living who are left behind in sorrow. It is music for those in this world; it is not a prayer for the dead. Therein lies a tangle of theological implications, but what strikes me is that Requiem is Brahms' longest work -- "comprising seven movements, which together last 65 to 80 minutes (Wikipedia)." That says something of the magnitude of human grieving if an artist's attempt to meet loss with comfort and intercessory prayer required his greatest musical endeavor.

Today was Autumn, with a capital "A". On the way to church the sun warmed the car quickly and I had to scramble under the seat to find my shades in order to safely drive. Two hours later the sky showed dark gray, the wind was growing fierce and there were snowflakes/ice shavings mixed in with the cold rain. Turnout for a 3:00 p.m. show was sparse, but the choir was well-rehearsed, the director was prepared and the concert successfully wove beautiful harmonies with alternately rousing, then reflective, German lyrics.

The close of the second number brought my second lesson of the day. If the audience is small, every person matters. Whether singing along (by invitation), applauding, or staying awake for an hour -- we were vital to the success of the event. One piece contained four solos, and it required concerted effort to sustain the applause long enough to include each musician. Frankly, if I hadn't made the commitment to attend I would have been home with a cup of tea and a book. Having "gone to all the trouble" despite the weather, I would have normally been satisfied with desultory attendance. But out of respect for the workmanship of the musicians, I couldn't allow silence to descend during their bows. Seventy of us applauded energetically and still we were a mere smattering of sound in that great vaulted auditorium.

When it is my choice, I prefer to leave the work of caring to the crowd. I like to blend into a larger number and maintain my superior solitude. The program said, "Oktoberfest", but the afternoon held more impact than a momentary lifting of the spirits. This human condition is sometimes one of great hardship and grief, and each one of us is crucial -- to mourn, encourage, sing, applaud, direct, compose or admire. No matter the trouble that preoccupies me, I have work to do.

In the world it is called Tolerance, but in hell it is called Despair...the sin that believes in nothing, cares for nothing, seeks to know nothing, interferes with nothing, enjoys nothing, hates nothing, finds purpose in nothing, lives for nothing, and remains alive because there is nothing for which it will die. Dorothy Sayers

Paths to Tread

The list of adjectives I have picked up and put down through the years defeats me: “patient, kind, does not envy, does not boast, is not proud, is not rude, does not seek its own way...always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres...” 
I’m glad for the translation of a way as a road, trail, path --­­ something that is an arduous process with a destination -- particularly in the living out of love. 
It is the most excellent journey, not merely the more polite response. 

I’ve walked such a "way" along a cliff atop the Atlantic Ocean where it meets southern Maine, sometimes through the wild roses with their stems strong from the pummeling of wind often as sharp as their brambles, sometimes with space for feet placed heel-­to-­toe-­to-­heel in order to keep to the upward side of the slope, and sometimes where the path openly tumbles into a broad dumping place of round stones that eventually transitions into the sea. 
There is only one curve where the grass is flat on both sides of the level stretch and you can turn to comfortably chat with a companion. At least in my memory, everything and everyone else becomes obliterated by the roaring, roaring, roaring of the sea and the care it takes to stay upright. 
A friend and I have shared boulder perches, and they have been stops to refresh one another. But no amount of encouragement brings us closer to the end--­­ to home. For that, we have to pick our way through the rolling, tumbling field of stones until the path is defined on the other side and we resume our single file journey. 

It’s a short one, that Prouts Neck cliff walk. But the image serves for me as a microcosm of this epic calling to love one another.
It is my nature to lollygag in the grassy places where my care for others is easy because it is reciprocal. 
I want admiration, approbation, compliments and welcome. Leaving that for sharp brambles, treacherous footing, and loneliness is more than I could ever choose, despite the destination promised me. 
I would never get home if the beginning or the keeping on rested in my strength. 

In this the love of God was made manifest among us, that God sent his only Son into the world, so that we might live through him. In this is love, not that we have loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins. Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another.

The Way to It

Job didn't follow his wife's pleading; he didn't "curse God and die".  

What did that beleaguered fellow do?  It seems he sat around much of the time, frozen in place by emotional and physical distress.  He asked questions, as he tried and tried to comprehend his new, terrible state.  

He heard the accusations of his friends, but did not move away as they attempted to solve the problem of "why".   I suppose he hoped they would come to a conclusion that would make sense of the devastation.  
In the end he found no truth or comfort in their attempts to define God in terms reasonable to created man.

Every thing that represented Job's life work was gone.  
Every relationship, every achievement, every possession, every ounce of personal strength...every vestige of honor, dignity and worth.

But he didn't curse God.  

"For I know that my Redeemer lives, and at the last He will stand upon the earth."  In the middle of pain Job declared that God was still ruling, and that Job belonged uniquely to Him -- had been bought back, ransomed, redeemed. Ultimately, he professed that there would be a day when each earthly loss would be seen in the proper context ...there, "at the last."

Job cursed the day he was born.  He begged God to take his life.  But Job didn't die.
Sometimes continuing to breathe, move, live takes heroic courage.  It is the ultimate expression of faith.  I imagine Job's unformed prayers of submission:  

Here I am.   Without all the things that I thought gave worth, value, substance -- empty handed -- I will not choose to die.   I will continue to be here, in this black hole, because I believe this is only a void from my perspective.  Even the darkness is light to You.  I will wait here for you to bring an end to this, whatever that end may be.

I believe that you are God.

From where, then, does wisdom come?
And where is the place of understanding?
It is hidden from the eyes of all living
and concealed from the birds of the air.
Abaddon and Death say,
‘We have heard a rumor of it with our ears.’

God understands the way to it,
and he knows its place.
For he looks to the ends of the earth
and sees everything under the heavens.
When he gave to the wind its weight
and apportioned the waters by measure,
when he made a decree for the rain
and a way for the lightning of the thunder,
then he saw it and declared it;
he established it, and searched it out.
And he said to man,
‘Behold, the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom,
and to turn away from evil is understanding.’

No Jelly Beans

For the first time in remembered history, I didn't have any of those delectable fruity little springtime candies. Not one. And usually I can eat a bagful, beginning with the pink and proceeding through the orange, purple, red and finally -- most reluctantly -- the yellow and green ones. This year, Easter doesn't feel like a new dress or junk food. It doesn't even feel like springtime. Instead, it feels like a prayer from the deepest part of me that has no words. It is the multi-layered bedrock of hope at the bottom of a dangerously deep current. 
No lasting good can be accomplished without resurrection -- the conquering of death and corruption. There is no healing of all the damage we do, as individuals, nations, and members of the human race.

Bright colors of this holiday pale to gray hues when I consider the grief and betrayal and darkness that I know -- and I ponder the magnification of the volume of brokenness in all the people who have lived through all the ages. Prompted by a friend's remark, I mused on the followers of Jesus who watched and listened and were convinced that this was the One for whom they were waiting --the Healer of the Nations. 

What blackness must have enveloped them as they witnessed the death of all their hope...dragged out over hours of agony. Where did they take their stunned devastation? I picture them staggering out, some to solitude, some in wounded companionship -- while their minds worked to process this unthinkable defeat. 

Did they huddle in silence or wail aloud? Was every hour weighted with eternal despair or did time pass without being noted?

And yet.

On the first day of the week, at early dawn, they went to the tomb, taking the spices they had prepared. And they found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they went in they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus. While they were perplexed about this, behold, two men stood by them in dazzling apparel. And as they were frightened and bowed their faces to the ground, the men said to them, “Why do you seek the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men and be crucified and on the third day rise.” And they remembered his words, and returning from the tomb they told all these things to the eleven and to all the rest.

It is unfashionable and unenlightened of me -- but I believe those words. I believe them as if my very life depends on the power that raised Christ Jesus from the dead.
Because, nothing is impossible in light of that truth.

And jelly beans are just an intrusion.

The Cure

Even eighteen months post-trauma (such a misleading label) I had a hole the circumference of a half-dollar on the side of my leg.  Internally my body had worked to heal lungs, kidney, spleen, and bladder.  It had grown a femur around the rod in my leg, regenerated bony matter in my wrist and fibula, and closed up fractures in my ribs and sternum.  
It had performed heroically. But the superficial wound to my calf was not a priority, so my body delegated efforts elsewhere.  
Emotional healing also comes with a built-in ranking, but it seems to work in reverse.  
It happens in layers, with the deeper wounds being exposed as time passes.  We would not have the courage to face the damage all at once; it is mercy that our brains limit the awareness and focus to one strata at a time.  How amazing that our fearfully and wonderfully made selves select what our minds process in order of survival, so that the vital functions are preserved.  Further down the road comes the work of healing the entirety of our psyche.

In physical and emotional rehabilitation, much takes place on a sort of auto-pilot.  Body and mind set their own pace of recovery, with health care professionals interjecting themselves when the timetable or path requires assistance.  
However, spiritual healing requires our full attention and cooperation.  Without introspection and purpose we feel easily satisfied that all is well and we are fine.  
Good, actually.  
Really doing well.  

In actuality, spiritual skin can appear unblemished while organs are failing.  Digging into the disease-laden muck lying below the surface is mortifying and painful, but it is vital.  And in ourselves we can neither see the need nor have we the ability to heal it.  The psalmist cried, "Search me, O God, and know my heart! Try me and know my thoughts!" 
C.S. Lewis once again provides a perfect illustration in his depiction of Eustace, whose inner corruption has finally manifest as the hide of a dragon, needing to have his scales ripped away in order to be brought to spiritual healing.

The very first tear he made was so deep and I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I've ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off. You know – if you've ever picked the scab of a sore place. It hurts like billy-oh but it is such fun to see it coming away.

Faithfully throughout our lives God draws our attention to the next layer down.  And like Eustace, we begin to address what we see -- only to find God alone is able accomplish the deep healing. 
It would be nice, and fairly nearly true, to say that "from that time forth Eustace was a different boy." 
To be strictly accurate, he began to be a different boy...
The cure had begun.

To My Blog Readers:

It is a strange thing for me to think of you, the blog reader.  I process life on paper, with boxes of rumination stacked in closets and corners of more than one room in our house. I view my posts as pages of writing that I have left lying about...as if on a side table.  They are not the scribblings I immediately lock away, ashamed to even look at again myself (and certainly not intended for other eyes).  
There are no expectations for these bits I "publish", other than the idea that my reflections are common to many and will perhaps find assent in kindred spirits.

 Most recently, I posted on sorrow.  December, February and March are particularly difficult for three women I love -- as these months carry memories of the final days of painful suffering for a husband, a daughter, mother and father.  I think of my own grief as I think of theirs.  They are changed from the people they were, but God has faithfully forged beauty out of their endurance through affliction. 
 
I know they are not alone, and sorrow is not reserved for great tragedies.   
We live in a world corrupted by sin, and shadowed by death (the last enemy to be defeated).  
We do not grieve as those who have no hope ...but grieving is not a brief pause before passing on to the next thing.  It is a deep, dark, impossible time that shows God's grace BECAUSE of the immensity.

I'm thankful for those of you who have responded with love and assurances of prayer, since God promises He works through our petitions.  Somehow.  
I encourage you to not stop with me, though; I hadn't intended the post to be about me.  
All around us are human beings, painstakingly formed by God, who are feeling the next breath to be beyond them.  And sometimes, if we are honest, it is our own selves who need to be borne along to hope.

Sing for joy, O heavens, and exult, O earth;
break forth, O mountains, into singing!
For the Lord has comforted his people
and will have compassion on his afflicted.

But Zion said, “The Lord has forsaken me;
my Lord has forgotten me.”

Can a woman forget her nursing child,
that she should have no compassion on the son of her womb?
Even these may forget,
yet I will not forget you.  

Behold, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands;
your walls are continually before me.

When the Angry Surges Roll...

Sometimes sorrow comes with immensity, and it is not the nagging murmur I never thought I would long for.  It knocks the wind out of me and leaves me unable to breathe or feel the need for breath.  In that moment I cannot pray, but my very existence becomes a prayer:  "God, continue to hold the universe together -- hold me together.  Don't let me break apart under this and cease to be."

Such is the reality, even for a child of God.  The path through life is war-torn by sin, with collateral damage everywhere.  
The way of the cross does not bypass pain -- rather it is a road of suffering.  
And prayer is not always an ordered composition of historically accepted spiritual priorities; it is the cry of the wounded, the helpless moan of distress.
It holds a broken acknowledgement of dependency and a shadow of hope.  
While thankful for the Lord's Prayer given in answer to the disciples' question,  "How should we pray?",  I am most grateful that Christ promises to pray for me -- and that He gives form to my groanings.  
In His words on my behalf I hear the weight of carrying me.

I am praying for them.  I am not praying for the world but for those whom you have given me, for they are yours.  All mine are yours, and yours are mine, and I am glorified in them.   And I am no longer in the world, but they are in the world, and I am coming to you.  Holy Father, keep them in your name, which you have given me, that they may be one, even as we are one.

I am helpless.  But He knows that, and He is not.

Though Satan should buffet and trials should come,

Let this blest assurance control:

That Christ has regarded my helpless estate 

And has shed His own blood... for my soul.

 

Seeing God

Lately, "transparency" is a recurring theme of discussion.  And it is a valuable aspect to incorporate into conscious living, since we thrive when we are truthful within our communities. 

Catapulted by the prevalence of the subject, I discussed with a friend the challenge of forgiveness.  She related a helpful description borrowed, in turn, from a college chum.  
"Forgiveness is the act of picking up the coat from the floor and hanging it back on the peg -- day after day."  That analogy works for me, because I am a sin-marred creature.  Unlike God, I cannot remove transgressions as far as the east is from the west.  Forgiveness would be more simple if I could "remember [offenses] no more."  Truthfully, most of my deep hurts require active decisions to forgive, every single morning -- all over again.  

But what about the flip side?  That aspect has been gnawing at me for a couple of weeks.  
When I ask God's forgiveness, I am trusting Christ's atonement for my sins.  And God promises that His redemption is complete so I can boldly come again and again and again.   But what exactly am I asking of another person when I request forgiveness?  If I put it in literal terms, it appears to be more presumption than anything else.  

"Will you overlook the offense?"
"Will you treat me as if I had not harmed you?"
"Will you absolve me of the guilt of what I did to you?"  
 
"Will you pick up the coat off the floor, every day, and hang it up on the hook?  For me?"  

There are matters I have forgiven, in my own time, and usually after much work by the Spirit upon my heart.  What a burden I am transferring when I basically call "time!" to the offended by confessing my wrong and asking them to assume the load of forgiveness on my behalf.

As I cogitate on all of this, I am overwhelmed by the mercy shown to me by people who live a life of forgiveness.  I mourn the hooks I have filled in the hearts of those closest to me.  And I am convicted of how careless I have been of the resources of grace.  It is a better thing for me to battle daily within myself than to haphazardly create messes that other people have to clean up.  

Still, I come back to this transparency ideal.  We live in community, and through the day-to-day living we encourage one another by reflecting God's character.  At the crux of the matter is the knowledge that I will continue to sin against others, even knowing the implications.  I will sin, and I will sorrow, and I will repent...and in faith I will ask forgiveness.  I won't ask because I presume on the goodness of another person, but because I believe God enables us to do impossible things as we live in the light of "such a great salvation."

In this the love of God was made manifest among us, that God sent his only Son into the world, so that we might live through him.  In this is love, not that we have loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins.  Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another.  No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God abides in us and his love is perfected in us.


   

A Time to Keep

 
The first thing I did in the emptiness after the last one left was re-stock the medicine cabinet with band aids, allergy pills and dental floss.  Then I washed, folded and stacked every towel in the house -- by color.  We purchased almond milk and granola that are still there three weeks later, as are the tortilla chips I nibble when I get the crunching urge.  While our children are my favorite people in all the wide world, it feels copacetic to move around our home without them in it.

I finished college at 20, married at 22 and had my first baby at 23.  
By the time I was 28 I boasted four, which elicited murmurs of "God bless you...," whenever I took them out.  There was no time to get ahead of the chaos even with my husband's suggestion, "What you need is a system."  I hadn't been the girl to babysit unless the pay was really, really good and my vague pictures of life didn't include marriage until well after thirty.  Looking back, I'm certain that was a better plan for the health and well being of the people I birthed, but once they were out I did my best to keep them alive.  In many respects the last twenty-three years have been a blur of semi-consciousness interspersed with brief intervals of lucidity that occasionally lasted long enough to plan dinner before it was already late. 

That has all ended.  And it truly doesn't feel bad.  I've read essays about the "empty nest" stage that we've entered and I find the perspective woefully misleading.  To make a metaphor of the recycling movement, I am re-purposed --with much of the same abruptness that propelled me into parenthood.  This change, in contrast with the first, comes with regular time for reflection.  I can deliberate over what I do with my hands, my time, my energy, and the endless possibilities of each new day.  Outside the warp speed (or time dilation) of raising children there is a world that has changed, and I am catching up with the culture around me.  Many things have altered drastically -- but I bring talents and experience to assimilate and interact in a valuable way. 

I am capable of anything, because I'll always be a mother -- the greatest ambition that I never would have thought to hold.  In my newly tidy house there are beds with clean sheets and towels because I'm half-listening for the exciting news that one of them is coming for a visit.  Cell phone innovation chimes small images of faces with accompanying messages about articles to read, job updates, wisdom teeth, and an occasional "I love you, momma".  And, unlike their childhood days, if one of them should require it, I have a healthy supply of band-aids.

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: 
a time to be born, and a time to die;

a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
a time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
a time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
a time to tear, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
a time to love, and a time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace.

A Tame Lion

I never used to worry about being a lukewarm Christian -- because the worrying itself seemed manufactured piety.  But these days I have been studying heroes and anti-heroes...and talking about them with high school students who observe and elucidate every inconsistency.  In earliest tales, heroes favored by the gods had supernatural assistance to bend the winds and help or hinder.  As literature progressed, heroes became more limited by human traits.  They were able to accomplish the task or quest, but ultimately failed to achieve happiness because of a fatal flaw.  

Today's protagonists are often equally capable of heroism and villainy, with circumstances influencing their exhibits of valor.  Evil is colloquially termed "bad", and there is no unadulterated goodness. 

If that is the prevailing tone of the culture, what aspects have I absorbed into my own heart?  
Is God really holy, holy, holy --- or merely benevolent?  
Are my good works filthy rags ---or are they shortcomings?  
Is Christ the Son of God ---or a moral teacher?   
It is more comfortable to minimize my sin, the attributes of God, and the enormity of Christ's atonement.  That is a much more reasonable approach in this day and age.  But if evil is diminished then the hero need only be marginally stronger.  What that leaves is a tepid religion...worth spitting out.

"The people who hanged Christ never, to do them justice, accused him of being a bore - on the contrary, they thought him too dynamic to be safe. It has been left for later generations to muffle up that shattering personality and surround him with an atmosphere of tedium. We have efficiently pared the claws of the Lion of Judah, certified him 'meek and mild' and recommended him as a fitting household pet for pale curates and pious old ladies."  Dorothy Sayers

A Little While

It takes fortitude to have faith when it is the middle of January.  Gone are the baubles and visits, the cheery drink and food, and the clamor of things to do and do and do.  Packing up and cleaning up are accomplished almost too soon -- leaving order and space.  
And into these come all the worries and doubts, finding room to pull up every available chair and stay.  Confining cold ensures that they are constantly within the walls with me, because it is hard to leave when the air hurts to breathe.

Somehow it is easier to believe and trust when the sun is warm and I can feel the earth growing...because belief is about life, after all.  Winter darkness squeezing at the edges of the daylight threatens to strangle my hope and shroud everything I see with heaviness and gloom.  This is the season of hope deferred -- and hearts become sick with waiting.  

So I take out God's promises and lay them on the table, the counter, the bedspread -- anywhere my eyes might fall on them.  I recount them in my journal, in my conversations, in my thoughts.  I set my "...mind on things that are above, not on things that are on earth."  These are the days I must purpose to see God, because I am easily distracted by my own physical and emotional malaise.  

And -- resolutely -- I clip a bit of dried hydrangea, bake some bread, stoke the fire...and find something to read.


Soon shall the winter's foil be here;
Soon shall these icy ligatures unbind and melt--A little while,
And air, soil, wave, suffused shall be in softness, bloom and
growth--a thousand forms shall rise
From these dead clods and chills as from low burial graves.
Thine eyes, ears--all thy best attributes--all that takes cognizance
of natural beauty,
Shall wake and fill. Thou shalt perceive the simple shows, the
delicate miracles of earth,
Dandelions, clover, the emerald grass, the early scents and flowers,
The arbutus under foot, the willow's yellow-green, the blossoming
plum and cherry;
With these the robin, lark and thrush, singing their songs--the
flitting bluebird;
For such the scenes the annual play brings on.
Walt Whitman