Thick and Dark

At a pottery class yesterday I was immersed in mud, cold water and metaphors.  When pulling the column upward, we had to move slowly, or our fingers would mar the outside surface instead of creating a pleasing pattern.  A base must contain enough mass to support the piece, while remaining thin enough to enable ease of handling.  I wanted to spend a bit of time contemplating the poetry of the process, but I was hindered by an elementary issue.  The teacher talked about centering the clay properly (making a wall of your left hand??); however, I could not get it to balance.  As the wheel whirred around, my focus on the strange phllummping just seemed to exacerbate the problem.  Finally, in panic lest I ruin my fourth piece in a row, I closed my eyes to drown out all the visuals. 
Then, I felt the center. 
My left arm became a fixed point and centrifugal force helped my hands shape a sphere worthy of a bowl or mug or planter-type-vessel-thing.

Grief and pain do the same thing to me.  The more deeply I gaze at them the more I am lost in a worsening wobble. 
I am caught in the pattern of self-blame and self-justification.  Why did I think I should have anything better?  But, shouldn't I?  Given my fallen nature, how could I?
As with the clay, I have to close my eyes.  I need to shut out the distractions of my mourning for the world I envisioned/ the life I think I deserve. 
I must put aside the responsibility for moving the lump of taupe matter into a balanced place.  I have to look at God.

His character, His promises, His presence never change. 
His sovereignty is the constant.  The center.
When my heart is fixed there, the wobbling ceases. 

'Til We Have Faces  presents an analogy of this same conclusion, although the writer skillfully shapes it into an ancient Greek tale of the great sacrifice necessary to strip us of our cheap imitations we cling to so desperately, in order to bring us to bow before Love Incarnate.  It gives me great hope to think I am learning lessons that God drew Job and C.S. Lewis through before me.  And the testimonies they left behind are sturdy pots that bear the finger marks of the Potter who does all things well.

“Holy places are dark places.
It is life and strength, not knowledge and words, that we get in them.
Holy wisdom is not clear and thin like water, but thick and dark like blood.”   C. S. Lewis

He Is Near

The equations required to properly balance early morning weather with appropriate walking apparel are more than my brain wants to handle at 5:30.  A glance at the thermometer does not always help, although it can usually put me in the ballpark of the proper number of layers.  At thirty-three degrees, I only need one pair of pants (and can stride more quickly), but at nineteen degrees a fourth layer on top is a must.  Stated wind chill influences whether or not one of those is nylon.  Still, there are mornings when the only words I exchange with my walking partner are, "It feels so much colder than twenty-one."  Clearly, my calculations were off.

Of particular delight to me are the times we veer toward the hill and face the surprising truth that the day is not as cold as the so-called forecasters promised.  Usually we don't see the sunrise that morning, because the cloud cover is so thick that everything is squished down under a heavy greyness.  Which is a blessed, blessed thing to a body that acutely feels the nuances of temperature.  The clouds, my scientist walking buddy explained, have held in the warmth of yesterday's sun.  While it is enchanting to march along marking the colors changing almost every minute, I meditate on the lesson that an overcast sky is bringing a different kind of gift.  A much less ostentatious one than a magenta sunrise, but a kindness just the same. 

I have been looking at clouds from at least two sides these days.  Events of recent years have combined with my deeply rooted selfishness to create devastating chasms in relationships.  The weight of the damage and the loss of companionship hang over daily life with an almost physical presence.  Without any context or prompting, a close acquaintance asked about the state of "things".  Surprised, I described the last week with a lifting of the clouds in one area.  If not actually sunny, there had been a distinct brightening.  As I teared up with relief and gratitude she wisely observed that if it was not a permanent shift,  it was the gift of a respite.  

While we were in the middle of this summer's dry season a different wise woman shared the exchange she held with her husband following a brief downpour.  "Twenty minutes of rain," she fretted, "that's not enough."   It wasn't sufficient to end the drought, but it was relief -- a little bit at just the proper time.  Convicted of her lack of faith, she thanked God for the gift He had provided.  And she brought that message to me. 

Today the sun warmed our part of the world and highlighted the leaves brightly burning in their autumnal array.  Today I held a precious baby who is growing and thriving and supported by an admiring fan club.  Today a message of repentance, mercy and forgiveness ministered to foolish, wayward sheep.
Cloud cover and rain showers.

The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears,
And delivers them out of all their troubles.
The Lord is near to those who have a broken heart,
And saves such as have a contrite spirit.

Many are the afflictions of the righteous,
But the Lord delivers him out of them all.

A Passing Thing

I like being liked.  It makes me feel complete and ...healthy, somehow. 
It's almost like finding a hidden superpower -- because when the feedback is positive and steady, I am charged up for any obstacle.  For a little while.
Time and time again I have noted and railed against this internal inclination, stiffening my resolve to find my identity in a deeper place rather than hanging out on the thin ice of public opinion.  But it is the bent of my heart to want the approval of people around me. 

Today's message was about being trampled by suffering.  For me that is living in a narrow corridor of disapproval, dislike and what even feels like hatred.  I didn't think I wanted to hear anything else about that crippling place, and I focused on the details of the sweetly snoozing infant a few feet away, delighting as a grin split her dreaming face.  Her eyebrows lifted in the form of surprise before all those dainty features stretched again into a one-month baby smile.  And then words from Daniel wrested my attention to horns that were growing and being broken off and more erupting, with everything pointing in different directions (but surely "the beautiful land" meant there was something good?) until I was reminded of a battle scene of intermingling forms and faces and I wanted to call out, "What color are the good guys wearing?!"
It turns out the point was hope.  Hope.  Despite the losses caused by (perhaps?) some of the horns which were bad, there was ultimate victory.
Still, the time of defeat was almost complete.  All the externals were stripped away, the wounds were staggering, and rescue had to come from an outside source.
Suddenly, this mysterious passage sounded so familiar.

It is only when the work of my hands is exposed as the rotting filth of self-righteousness that I can be freed to repentance.
It is only in the absence of affection that I turn toward the source of all love.
It is only when I lose my life that I find it. 

Likely, there were other take home points intended.  But I have spent too much time considering the hideous beast that seems to prevail; it was good to remember the Ancient of Days. 

“For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach.” J.R.R. Tolkien
 

Struggle Bravely

I have received many weather alerts and emergency drills by

way of radio, television and now smart phone.  Tornado watches send me to my basement, despite the fact that I live in a tornado-free zone.  Hurricane warnings motivate me to run every item of dirty laundry so that I won't need electricity, for days.  I check weather maps each morning and anxiously refresh updates on false alarms.  No meteorological prediction has yet lived up to the hyperbole with which it was billed.

Friday morning, at 3 a.m. we were awakened to a pounding on our door by first responders, cautioning us that we should be ready to evacuate.  The house next door was surrounded by water, and it was still rising. 

Flash floods.

I hadn't heard any rain.  It certainly wasn't coming down.  But the water was coming up -- through the drought hardened lawns -- right before our eyes.  And twenty minutes after we packed a bag of necessities and moved our cars to higher ground, the alarms began to sound on the radio, television and smart phones.
While there are many interesting things to learn during a natural disaster about camaraderie, rescue boats and the time it takes to carry all the lower shelf books up to the second floor of our house, there are deep lessons for me. 
After the water had begun to subside, and the adrenaline faded, I kept hearing everyone echoing, "...it came up so fast."  
Grief and sorrow and sin and guilt are like that.  They come faster than the warnings.  They come in drought and they come during heavy rains.   They come in the middle of the night when I am fast asleep and they assault me with disaster that I struggle to wake up in order to comprehend. 

Wisdom sets me to work building the walls, defenses, and digging out the run-off basin -- in advance of the emergency.

Today, while the sun is shining and the crisp air is drying out the muddy remnants of the things we used to store in the basement, I leaf through the books as I permanently shelve them on higher ground, stopping on a bit of Thomas a Kempis.
“My Son, thou art never secure in this life, but thy spiritual armour will always be needful for thee as long as thou livest.
Thou dwellest among foes, and art attacked on the right hand and on the left. If therefore thou use not on all sides the shield of patience, thou wilt not remain long unwounded.
Above all, if thou keep not thy heart fixed upon Me with steadfast purpose to bear all things for My sake, thou shalt not be able to bear the fierceness of the attack, nor to attain to the victory of the blessed.
Therefore must thou struggle bravely all thy life through, and put forth a strong hand against those things which oppose thee."

Fifty years before Columbus wheedled some ships from the Spanish monarchy, a Dutch monk was shaping blocks that are as perfectly suited for disaster preparedness today as they were five hundred years ago.  
Because it always has come up so fast.

Almost Persuaded

Spending time with a very new person clarifies my philosophy on all kinds of things.  Environment should be stimulating (but not hectic), music must abound, and vocabulary may as well be precise and varied.  Why not? In this culture where a single profanity can serve as noun, adjective, or verb --oftentimes in the same sentence-- the world seems to be withering from lack of excellence in speech.
A few weeks ago, a new song was introduced in the morning worship service.  Frankly, I had heard it on the radio and dismissed the lyrics as trite, predictable and ...uninspired. 
But this was different.  Within the context of people proclaiming faith in the face of personal pain, trial and heartbreak, I heard something that flipped my heart upside down.  With faces lifted, the whole hungry hurting flock of us caught the rhythm of a battle march, a call to arms, a fight song.  And it wasn't about taking back a piece of geography, or carrying a banner, or even about going into the lions' den.  It called us to look up -- and trust.  With voices united we spurred each other on to rest in God's great love and care despite the most difficult of circumstances.
In the epistle to the Romans, the apostle claims that he is "persuaded that neither death nor life nor angels nor principalities, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth nor any other creature can ever separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus, our Lord."
Those are beautiful words.  However, it is a rare day in which, "I am persuaded." 
Willing?  Yes. 
Wanting?  Yes.
But the magnitude is unfathomable to me.  Love, beyond comprehension, is powerfully holding on to me, in spite of the brokenness, "within and without"?   Eight nors in two verses seem to provide a hefty argument.  And perhaps that is the point.  The evidence is piled on in order to persuade.  Like a rousing fight song, our weakness and neediness is anticipated and provided for in this artfully crafted list of all the things that can't get between us and Love.

Perhaps the lyrics of the song aren't poetry.  But sometimes the most basic, stripped down vocabulary might serve best.  I took Greek from a teacher who claimed the Gospel of John was written so simply that we should be able to translate it after just two semesters of the ancient language.  He had lofty ambitions, but we did muddle through a good-sized portion.

"God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son..."
That's a rousing march, if ever I heard one.

Crumbling Mountains

I was listening to a young man teach about God's faithfulness.  And he said many good, true things. 
"God keeps His promises.  God provides.  God is always with us."
Particularly poignant was the correlation drawn between Moses' question to God and Jesus' answer to Peter.  Two men were doubting and overwhelmed.  Moses, afraid of what the people were going to think of him, asked by what authority he should lead.  "Who shall I say sent me?"  The twelve year old girl next to me blurted out, "I AM!" and I looked over at her confidently nodding face.  The recorded words of God are, "I AM that I AM.  Tell them I AM has sent you."  Moses, faced with a bush that was burning but not consumed still needed more convincing before he stood before the Israelites and told them to follow him.
And the disciples, trapped in a boat on the lake in the middle of a storm they did not foresee were panicked as they recoiled from the dim, approaching figure. 
"Take heart.  It is I," was the reply to them from the Son of God who intimately walked, talked and dined with them.

It was teaching intended to strengthen and encourage.  But even as I assented, I struggled with these words from someone so young.  He recounted God's provision through tuition expenses and medical bills and early days of married life -- just enough at just the right time.  Rightly, he reviewed God's daily mercies as an act of praise.  And he urged his listeners to notice and record these times in each of our lives.  Because our stories prove God's faithfulness.

But what if they don't?
What if there isn't enough money to pay the bills to keep the house or car or electricity?  What if healing doesn't occur, or is incomplete?  What if it doesn't all work out in just the right way at just the right time?

I have been devastated by these questions.  They represent a chasm I can still fall into at almost any moment.  The only comfort for my doubt and fear and grief and pain and loss and emptiness and loneliness is to bow before God -- the great I AM. 
Regardless of the outcome, God is still God.  He is "...infinite, eternal and unchangeable in His being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness and truth."  I might lose everything, but His faithfulness continues -- through generations.  Whether I see it or not.

Recounting times of blessing is work that strengthens me, because I am an Israelite who needs an awful lot of convincing before I follow God's call out of slavery.  In my frailty I am prone to respond to Christ's presence in a storm as if there were an evil spirit approaching.  His words are, "Take heart.  It is I."  It was good to be reminded.
And sometimes He causes the winds to cease; He is able.

But He might not.

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way,
though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea,
though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble at its swelling.

Nine Patch

In lieu of writing I have been quilting. 
Sunday afternoons, which used to seem packed with all the right things, gape at me with bleak absence, so I use that time to cogitate and scribble -- or something along those lines.  But the approaching arrival of babies to people I love has sent me off on different afternoon endeavors.

I know women who are Quilters; I'm not.  But I enjoy the search for the right melding of complex pattern and fabric.  I draw up a model and color it to scale.  I visit at least two different stores, at least two times each -- carrying with me a bag of the pieces I've already bought -- adding, taking away, sometimes starting all over...until I find the combination that fits together in all the right ways.
Although I enjoy the design phase the best, all my graph paper renderings and glued swatches do not a quilt make.  I can visualize it, I can describe it, but it isn't actually there until I measure and cut and sew and iron and sew and trim and sew...for as many blocks as I planned. 

It feels like faith.
Sometimes I retain the vision and am feverishly snipping and whirring and pressing. 
Other times I have to remove three blocks to rework a row.  I've probably taken out as many seams as I've put in, using it as break to sit down and put my feet up while I spend quality time undoing the work I thought I'd completed.
When I'm overwhelmed at the immensity of the project, I lay whatever is finished on the peninsula counter and walk all around it.  Eventually, the piecework soothes and encourages me until my circling becomes admiration and I have to remind myself that there are thirty-nine more blocks that won't get done unless I start working again.
It is a common condition in this broken world to be stuck in the place of waiting for God to do the work of healing that only He can do.  Meanwhile, we continue: picking up small cut squares, matching up the edges as closely as possible, running a straight seam and pressing it open to take a look. 
Some days it feels like bewildering insanity to believe that He is real, and is at work...accomplishing beauty no matter how devastating it all appears to be.  Other days the pattern is emerging, and the colors are aligning to create balance.

Standing at my kitchen counter, good things are happening beyond that amazingly stunning, cunningly-fitted treasure that will communicate love for a new human being and her parents (if it all turns out according to my modest plans). 
I'm laying aside the urgency and hurry.  I'm learning to settle into the joy of the process.  I'm less angered by the broken needles, empty bobbins and awkward seams.
It feels like faith.

Dappled Time

It's a strange thing to be waiting, anticipating the arrival of someone you never met, but with whom you plan to build a lifelong relationship.  We know nearly nothing about you -- boy or girl? fair or dark? small or tall? shy or chatty? bookish or athletic or neither or both...and yet we expect to recognize you. 
Frankly, we expect to love you; we already do.
Expressly for this purpose we are pacing gritty city streets on a hot summer today, parceling out our twelve cash dollars for a fresh mint iced tea here and a raspberry filled French twist there.  We browse little boutiques when we need a restroom, and linger in coffee shops to charge our phones.  It's not too much of a holiday, because we know your parents are not having the most relaxing afternoon.
And there it is:  your parents.  I keep getting stuck on that benign title that will completely encompass everything you know about these two people who begat you.  See, I have been acquainted with them in the pre-you days.  But my knowledge is limited by my own relationship with each, and you will see them differently than I do right now.
The woman laboring to bring you into the world has been nurturing others much of her life.  Her friendship is fierce and deep and is not dissuaded by ugliness or brokenness.  Laughter spills easily and her hand slips readily into the hand of whoever is standing nearby.  She is so vulnerable with her ready offer of love, and so brave.
Very few people have been acquainted with the loss and sadness she has, and yet she remains open.  Her trust in the goodness of God has persisted through bewilderingly painful times and she gives reflected strength to those who are close to her. 
She loves your daddy, your papa, your father.  That guy.
She thinks he is wonderful, insightful and kind.  And her days are a little bit emptier when they are not together.

He endeavors after all the things she believes him to be.  He is steadfast and true; his faith is deep.  Like his own father, he is independent in spirit and humble in nature.  Like many firstborn, he carries others along.  He follows rules even when he wishes he felt free to break them a bit more, and he is always challenging himself, with new goals, new skills, new experiences. 
With your mama he has learned to pause a little, soak it in, be at home. For that peace she brings, and the beauty she carries about her (and innumerable other things) he loves her. 

That's who I know them to be, now, in this space before knowing you changes them. 
They will envelop you in music and good food, healthy habits, classic books and a context in which community is valued.  
I can't even guess at what you'll see.
I hope you will love them as two splendid, flawed people who daily give their lives for you.
Because you have already changed them, sight unseen.

Psalm 139:13-16

In Context

In my early married days I tried to be a model church newlywed by volunteering with the monthly girls club. Some women led badges in physical fitness, campcraft, or nutrition.  I caught linoleum on fire with a sewing machine, veered the Christmas cookie offering into a realm dubbed "chocolate poops", and gained a certain measure of fame for my habit of stomping, clapping and singing whenever I had to venture into the pantry.  The last was adopted after I confronted a rodent, at eyelevel, during my brief period of blissful ignorance.  I think leaders and members alike preferred the barely suppressed hysteria evinced by my flappy/clappy hands to the uncontrolled shrieking of that face-to-face encounter.

As with all responsible outreach endeavors, there was a theme verse to begin every meeting.  It had even been thoughtfully wrought into song version for those not apt at memorization.
"Girls, what does the Lord require of you?"
"To do justice.  To love mercy.  And to walk humbly with our God."
And then, with less confidence and fewer voices,
"Micah 6:8."

This is an excellent paradigm for how to live.  It is succinct, yet all-encompassing.  It is simple, yet rife with implication.  One of my offspring has it tattooed on the soft inside of an upper arm.  I feel good about that as a life motto (even if I still don't know what I think about the means of adornment).

Today I heard the context for the first time.

With what shall I come before the Lord,
and bow myself before God on high?
Shall I come before him with burnt offerings,
with calves a year old?
Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams,
with ten thousands of rivers of oil?
Shall I give my firstborn for my transgression,
the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?

Those preceding verses are packed with the weight of guilt of sin -- not a casual acknowledgement that someone slipped up.  Thousands of rams.  Ten thousands of rivers of oil. 

The fruit of my body for the sin of my soul. 

I have fallen short of a standard that is unreachable to me.  I am indebted beyond my ability to ever pay. 

That nifty three-point life motto is actually the overflowing, grace pouring, running over answer to the question -- with what shall I come before the Lord? 

He has told you, O man, what is good;
and what does the Lord require of you
but to do justice, and to love kindness,
and to walk humbly with your God.

It's not a checklist of moral living to be misappropriated by my pharisaical heart, but a joyful  THANK YOU!   The staggering, crippling, immobilizing debt has been paid in full.
Live justly, love mercy, walk humbly.
Only that.

I hope the little girls were more astute than I.

From the Archives ~ February 7th, 2016

It is a sad day.  It is a day filled with waiting out the end of a life -- a life that rippled and trickled and flowed with implication.  And in the heaviness of last visits, last words, last breaths come the echoes of all the endings that entered abruptly and seemingly early in other lives.  Memories of bedsides, hospital smells, desperate hope ...then resignation, flood back.  Even so, these are recollections of other pain: not today's story.  They draw me to the sorrow, and they close my mouth. 

Words are weak --too empty, too abrasive with their very sound in times like this. What is there to speak to impossibly looming separation?  How express the priceless hours and minutes weighted by these dwindling moments?  Countless messages are sent out, grasping for some way to articulate the thing to say; most summarize with the only not-wrong word, "praying".

"Healing, restoration, strength, wholeness" -- these fit my definition of answered prayer. They serve for most people, I suspect.  Still, despite the petitions of many, crucial and beneficial relationships are destroyed by death, disease and sin.  Words recited in morning worship affirming God's goodness and mercy and faithfulness and love, were juxtaposed with news of this downturn (a ventilator and efforts to make the patient comfortable).   Maybe "praying" isn't the right thing to say...

Other instances of cancer have similarly brought mothers, fathers, spouses, children, grandchildren and friends to this place of final moments.  And while each story is unique, God has shown the sameness of His faithfulness to those who have been in the fiery furnace, who have emerged without a scorch mark or the smell of smoke on them.  Like Moses, their faces are radiant from the presence of the One who revealed Himself -- the One who walked with them through the flames.  While these are not words I will say to the grieving, they are the testimonies that encourage my heart, encourage my prayers on their behalf. 

On this sad day, I am praying for Grace that confounds a wife, a daughter, sons, and siblings with comfort and peace...that can only come from a God who loves.

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. 

For just as we share abundantly in the sufferings of Christ, so also our comfort abounds through Christ. 

So Loved

This tends to be the time of year for a calendar replete with social events, and I have been honored to attend many these summer months.  But often, between gifts and hors d'oeuvres, there are glimpses of grief.  With each celebratory occasion, there seems to be someone joining in, despite their own heartache.  Babies are welcomed by the barren, couples are toasted by the lonely, and friends are congratulated for successes by those mired in failure.  Bravely, folks put their own sorrow aside to enter into the happiness of another.  Sometimes it brings a rest from the burden; sometimes the observance of joy blesses if it is at least in the life of someone near and dear.  From whatever motivation, showing up is often devotion of the most selfless sort. 

Recently, there was sadness in the eyes of a wedding guest who greeted and smiled and danced -- despair so deep that I couldn't help but wonder at the magnitude of pain contained in one so young.  And I admired the friendship she was living as she twirled on the outside.  Between toasts she entrusted me with a small portion of her story -- echoing with abandonment, isolation and the resultant deadness of heart.

On the way home from a together time that beautifully reflected the couple who stood before an altar reading vows of fidelity and faith, a song played. 
"Ocean" was vibrantly cascading through 12-string steel guitar sound, and the car and our heads were filled, filled, filled by the abundance of rhythm.  "That," I thought, "is the sound of life."
I wanted to give it to the girl who says she no longer believes in love, or happiness, or marriage, or religion.  I wanted it to beat and pulse and lift her -- all the way to feeling, all the way to being alive.  And I wondered that in a room replete with Christianity she could have felt so alone.  What do we who claim to know Love Incarnate -- what do we reflect?  Is it a willingness to go into the stormy, messy, dark places seeking after one small lost one, or a careful allotment of approval proportionate to behavior?  Do I live a gospel that is risky and exposing, or do I pare my world to prudence and safety?  Unfortunately for my comfort levels, "binding up the brokenhearted" will seldom be clinical and sanitary.  It is more likely to involve getting a close enough look at my own unworthiness, my glaring insufficiency that I am overwhelmed by the staggering magnitude of grace until I can't contain the rhythm.  Look up!  Listen!  There is belonging, healing, love -- for me.  For you. 

Sending a link to a tune will not convey this.  I know.  And I can't puzzle out how to reach her, anyway. 
So... I am praying. 
I'm praying for that girl, and for so many others in this world crammed to the gills with brokenness and pain.  That she would meet, face-to-face, the Lover of her soul.  And, please God, that she would be drawn inescapably through us who claim to have looked full in that wonderful face.

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.

Half Past Six

"There's something missing in this picture," a voice called out from behind the wall of a front screened porch, and I peered through the grayed barrier to discern the forms of a man and a woman with their morning mugs of tea or coffee.
My response was filled with a smile. "She's taking the day off."
It was just the note to keep me grinning through the steep uphill stretch that winds over the creek before bisecting corn fields.
I love this walk.  Every single morning it is work to get up and get out and begin moving.  For three years I have been rehabilitating with a faithful training partner and excepting the icy mornings, this is the route we take.
We are like clockwork.  And the world around us is moving on a daily pattern as well -- and we all fit together in coordinated community. 
At the start of our trek, the public bus slows in its approach and veers across the double yellow line, allowing safe passage on the 100 ft. stretch of state highway.  We can tell when the driver is on vacation because his young replacement doesn't know to expect us and whooshes past with a wake that nearly pushes us over.  But we are off that road almost as soon as we've begun, and the new one climbs with trees and rocks on both sides.  The occasional township pick-up winds carefully, watching for us beyond each curve and lifting a hand in greeting.
In all, five different vehicles usually pass.  Each one slows, moves to the opposite lane (more to demonstrate respect than a commentary on our girth) and gives that same morning salute.  One beat-up dark green truck is always barreling along until its owner spots us.  It often appears as if he is running late, but we are smiled and waved at just the same.  A white minivan passes both ways, and we have deduced that it is a short run to pick up a health care worker, since the passenger on the way back seems to always be wearing the same odd shade of green. 
Regularly, there is a banana peel lying at the broad curve just before the houses come closer together.  I've tried to guess whose breakfast was eaten "on the run" again.  The minivan owner does not seem the type to litter, even if it is biodegradable.
In addition to the motorists, a homeowner lets his yellow lab roam in the yard while he collects the morning paper.  The dog's name is Sparky (or something similar) and he won't bite, we've been assured.  The retired gentleman at the top of the hill just happens to be at the end of his driveway and lets us know if we're running late.  Over the course of three months we have seen the abandoned house renovated, and have congratulated the new owners on the spruced up yard, windows, shutters and front door. 
Today I needed to walk before sitting through church.  As I hiked the first mile and a half alone, I gratefully visualized my legs as strong machines that were propelling me upward and onward.  I distracted myself by following the antics of the bright golden finches among the brown stubs of last year's harvest.  No cars were out today and no one made conversation to ease the work load.  I internally negotiated turning around at different points, shortening the duration on this day so heavily overcast that it made my bones ache.  Then, at the three mile mark, that voice called out to me -- reminding me of my context on Walters Road in the early morning hours. 
Such a funny thing -- our regular lives, intersecting with other regular lives, are causing an impact.
I affect, just by living.  Each human being, whatever level of interaction they choose or eschew, is in community with their part of the world. 
And that thought makes me smile.

It Is My Honour To Present...

I have flowers in my room and on the kitchen table -- lavish bouquets of purples and pinks that were intended to convey thanks.  For me, as for many, there is no surer way to communicate appreciation and fondness.
These came from students, because I have the privilege of working with them, digging into literature and theater.  In both endeavors I seem to stand at the center of talent, emotion, and energy -- waving my arms to keep the current moving in a semblance of direction. And because I am there, they share the treasures of their thoughts with me.  Generously.
This year I was invited to emcee a graduation, which was another one of those tasks I felt certain required grown-up involvement.  Absent a real one, I agreed to act the part.  Between segments of speaking I tucked myself into a chair in the wings and listened to them, one last time.
A girl in a floor length gown read the gritty details of living through an alphabet of activities in search of that single great calling, all to find that it is a valuable thing to be a "jack of all trades/master of none".  Another spoke of the significance of being adopted from a foreign country at 9 months of age...and being brought to this town.  By these parents.  To have this community.  Two graduates reflected on the bittersweet passing of seasons of life, remarking on the swiftness of time.  I smiled as a shy student did not rush through her piano offering, but lingered over the last notes so they had time to sink in.  And I cried a little bit when a teenager sang, "God has been faithful, He will be again."
In so many areas of life I have failed more than I have succeeded.  But God continues to provide opportunities to serve with a little more humility, to love with less selfishness, and to live out grace.  One of the essays took the perspective of looking back at life, from the very end, and seeing all the disfigurement caused by harmful decisions and careless living.  "But," the author affirmed, "the Artist is merciful."  He then concluded with a description of the beautiful picture built out of a life filled with cracks and scratches and brokenness.

It was sweet and kind and mannerly of them to give me roses and lilies...but they have gifted me with so very much more.

Morning by morning I wake up to find
The power and comfort of God's hand in mine
Season by season I watch Him, amazed
In awe of the mystery of His perfect ways
All I have need of, His hand will provide
He's always been faithful to me.

I can't remember a trial or a pain
He did not recycle to bring me gain
I can't remember one single regret
In serving God only, and trusting His hand
All I have need of, His hand will provide
He's always been faithful to me.

This is my anthem, this is my song
The theme of the stories I've heard for so long
God has been faithful, He will be again
His loving compassion, it knows no end
All I have need of, His hand will provide
He's always been faithful, He's always been faithful
He's always been faithful to me.            Sara Groves

Strength for Today

"Is there anyone in America who does not know and love these cookies? They were, incidentally, created by a Massachusetts housewife in 1929". That is the heading of the portion of the book I am currently reading, while I listen to The Book Thief on audio. At least, that is what I was doing until the words all piled up in my head and I paused to scribble for a bit.

I am missing people.  Many, many people.  Some are on the other side of this life, some across the country, and some are the opposite end of a phone call that hasn't taken place in more than a year.  It could be that the weather sneaked its way into my house and my head with a quarter of an hour's sunshine terminated by violent hail, then torrential rain  ...followed by another blast of sunshine.  Or maybe it is this time of year and all the anniversaries that seem to send out engraved invitations and follow-up reminders to memories of days that are gone.

Rather than milling around in my sadness, I made the decision to pull out the cookbook and the butter and bake some of those chocolate chip cookies that were an element of together times.  It is a double batch, because I don't know how to make them any other way.  As the beater clanked (the bowl won't stay clamped) and the kitchen warmed, my shoulders eased a bit.  And now, with the mounded treats lined in rows on the cooling rack,  I am thinking of the words from a morning hymn, "Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth; Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide; Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow -- Blessings all mine, and ten thousand beside."
I have sung of God's faithfulness in happy days -- it was easy when blessings seemed to overflow willy-nilly.  But to sing those words when loss is palpable is proof to me of that dear Presence that enables me to believe they are true.  The recognition, in turn, leads me to worship, because that is most definitely not a faith I could muster up on my own.
Interestingly, I have reached the portion of the audiobook in which thirteen year old Liesel Meminger carries buckets of snow down to the basement hiding place and incites a snowball fight with the emaciated Jew, Max Vandenburg.  Although I am struck by the contrast between our situations, there is a small comparison as well.  That scene captures a moment joyful in its commonness.  There is such relief in doing something so basically human within the context of extraordinary hardship.

Perhaps it is a very little bit like following a recipe created by a homemaker almost one hundred years ago.

Gladden the soul of your servant,  for to you, O Lord, do I lift up my soul.
For you, O Lord, are good and forgiving,
    abounding in steadfast love to all who call upon you.
Give ear, O Lord, to my prayer;
    listen to my plea for grace.
In the day of my trouble I call upon you,
    for you answer me.

Mother: (v.) to live out love

I read a book with an Italian protagonist who complained that Americans are always turning nouns into verbs.
"Can they do that?' he questioned, and he tried a few aloud to emphasize the absurdity.
Every rational assessment urges assent.  A mother is a person; a person is a noun.  Still, there is no other way to phrase it:  I need mothering ...the giving, receiving and participation in.  It is grammatically incorrect, but entirely necessary.
Scrawny, substantial, stiff, conforming -- whatever the style or shape of the gaze and embrace -- it is the stuff of life.  New mothers, seasoned mothers, mothers who have never birthed or brought home a child ALL participate in the great work of nestling, nurturing, and nullifying the overwhelming worries of the world.
I have been mothered by women in their nineties and women in their twenties, by random strangers and dear friends. It has taken the shape of a smile empathizing with my current calamity, and a knock-down, drag-out hug that squeezes all the sobs from me.  As if a silent alarm is sounding, someone steps out of their world and enters into the hurt and pain and need of another, at a moment's notice.

When my very own mother finds a hit, she sticks with it.  Thus, I have received a Mary Engelebreit calendar for twenty-four of the last twenty-five Christmases. Thankfully, the illustrator is prolific, and the booth at the mall continues to proffer the annual gift solution.
This month of this year the decorated letters plead, "Be kind.  It's hard to be a person."  
Just so.

Mothers ease the great load of personhood.  They lift the edge of that leaden blanket, and just for a moment, the weight and pressure eases. And in whatever peculiar aspect such lightening is wrought, it is most assuredly "mothering".

The Things I Would, I Do Not

Borrowing from a beloved instructor, my daughter demanded, "highs and lows" as we hunched over our individual portions from the new Mexican takeaway place in town.  It was an effort to connect during a rare convergence and I was grateful to her for it.  I worked to enter into that moment, to listen to the words drawn from each, rather than plan for my own.  She persisted -- she is strong that way -- and brought the question to me.  "High point of the day," I said, with an open look back over the fourteen hours, "was the feel of the heated seat when we climbed into the car at the end of the day."  And I relived that moment of enveloping rest after a long, hard, satisfying week of work.

Although l am instrinsically lazy, I am also most myself when I am productive.  Despite the hours I spend avoiding the things I must do, labor strengthens a sense of rightness in me.  I was made for a purpose.  Sometimes that involves folding the laundry and putting it away, rather than stopping at the transfer to the dryer.  On other occasions it can include grading papers, balancing the checkbook, and building order forms instead of allowing the accumulation of towers on my desks.  Every now and then I get to select colors, find solutions or review notes on a favorite author.  No matter the level of appeal, I usually have to drag myself to the task at hand -- as if the nature of its being required automatically puts me at enmity with it.  I war against the very things that benefit me.  And that innate rebellion includes how I eat, exercise, speak, or prioritize my time.  It is contrary to my nature to choose the things that are good for me.
I'm grateful God provides the grace to recognize the battle -- and the myriad of small victories for which He daily supplies the will and the strength.

Nestled into a spare two hours on a Saturday morning I am surrounded by the clutter of a charging cell phone that I was too tired to connect last night, the French press I brought up to my room so that I didn't have to leave this space for a second cup, something to read and a method for writing.  This might count as the high for today -- unless the rules include the memory of a couple of hours spent on a Friday evening talking over the ups and downs of a day with people I love to know.

There is nothing better for a person than that he should eat and drink and find satisfaction in his toil. This, I saw, is from the hand of God...

It Is Because of Me

When the sermon is about Jonah, I know ahead of time it will apply -- and usually in a freshly-painful way.  I ponder Jonah's resigned, "throw me overboard and the storm will cease," and I am impaled, like the victim of a sixth grade insect collection, on my guilt.  As stuck as it is possible to be.  Because as clearly as the sailors had no idea of the doom they were inviting on deck when they accepted Jonah's fare, I have persuaded people I love into the storm of my consequences.  "It is because of me that this great tempest has come upon you." 
Just before the preaching began, I was smiling at a little girl with a homemade purse in her chubby toddler hand.  And then everything became watery as I thought of calico bags I had made for the Sunday supplies.  That project was probably more about exhibiting my needlework than clearing the way for a little one to learn to worship (gaining approval was often the preoccupation that pushed God aside as I clambered for top billing).  But today, when it is all gone from me, I would go back to that time. 
I would let them choose their clothes so the morning was filled with joy, and have junk-food breakfasts no matter who relayed the gooey details to the Sunday School teacher.  I would listen to them, instead of requiring all questions or comments or wiggles be suppressed so as not to distract anyone from worship, or reflect badly on my parenting.
For God's own sake I would love them the way He has always loved me -- with the messiness coming out all over the place.
I fear it is too late to calm the tempest of my own deserving.  And that is the dread that keeps me up in the night and busy, busy, busy in the day. 

Still, there was hope in the first chapter of Jonah's story.  That is, after all, the gospel. 
Surely, as the sailors exclaimed, the Lord is God. 
He is able to raise the waves and the winds, and He can still them. 
I am not.
Somehow, I suspect Jonah didn't want a great fish to rescue him from the depths into which he was hurled. My guess is that he was done...ready to die for his Tarshish escapade.  But God carried him through death itself, set his feet on solid ground, and told him -- again-- to obey.
As He does me.
Incline your ear, O Lord, and answer me,
for I am poor and needy.
Preserve my life...

save your servant, who trusts in you—you are my God.
Be gracious to me, O Lord,
for to you do I cry all the day.
Gladden the soul of your servant,
for to you, O Lord, do I lift up my soul.
For you, O Lord, are good and forgiving,
abounding in steadfast love to all who call upon you.
Give ear, O Lord, to my prayer;
listen to my plea for grace.
In the day of my trouble I call upon you,
for you answer me.
There is none like you among the gods, O Lord,
nor are there any works like yours.
All the nations you have made shall come
and worship before you, O Lord,
and shall glorify your name.
For you are great and do wondrous things;
you alone are God.
Teach me your way, O Lord,
that I may walk in your truth;
unite my heart to fear your name.
I give thanks to you, O Lord my God, with my whole heart,
and I will glorify your name forever.
For great is your steadfast love toward me;you have delivered my soul from the depths of Sheol.

For Diana

On April 4th, I drove my father to the storage unit to take a look at the things that were left to be sorted and cleared out, stopped by our business in which he had invested "sweat equity" (as well as the more tangible kind) to greet the employees, and shopped for a card and some birthday dinner for my mother from the hot food bar at Wegman's.  On April 9th he was gone. 
It's been four years, which should feel like a longer time.  I wanted to write about him, to honor him.  I composed mental word sketches, rearranging adjectives and memories.  He was larger-than-life and the pieces or the impact of him won't fade away.  But thinking of him has led me to thoughts of my mother, who was always eclipsed in my heart by his emotional expansiveness.  

My mother wasn't the one who impulsively took me shopping two days before the Junior/Senior banquet to buy a multi-layered gauzy frock that was edged with seed pearls and worthy of a wedding party.  But she paid the tuition for twelve years of private school out of the precariously waxing and waning bank account of a small business owner.   My mother didn't pile everyone into the car for a spontaneous trip to New York City, but she stood in line for the half-priced Broadway tickets while my father plied us with roasted chestnuts and dirty water dogs.  I remember his exasperation with her and the papers that had to be cleared off the kitchen table each night before we could set the plates for supper, and the macaroni and cheese or lasagna or crepes we could only eat if he was away.  Now I realize the stress represented by all those stacks of mail, as well as the daily strain of a dinner containing meat, starch and vegetable -- all while she held a full-time job that provided us with health insurance.

My mother has always been beautiful, in face and manner.  At the same time, she is the only one of my grandmother's seven children who tested in the genius range when the school administered IQ evaluations (a story my grandmother often related to the chagrin of the three engineers, lawyer, chef and musician who did not score so highly).  Growing up under such a standard of well-rounded excellence effectively removed any doubt in my mind that women were at least the equal of men.  Her husband would often remark that he wouldn't have amounted to anything without her.  I think it's probably true -- at least regarding the good parts.

Once she asked why I never wrote a poem about her.  Grumpily, I assured her that I would, some day; these things aren't supposed to be requested.  Ever practical, she assured me that if I waited until she died she wouldn't get to read it.

I've often squirmed under her affinity for schedules and plans and the minutiae of details.  Her careful record-keeping is so at odds with the careless manner of winging it I inherited from my father.  Exuberance is greeted with wariness, more often than not.  But as I think of my father, I imagine the years of trying to pick up and pull together all the fragments he left lying about.  She gave the best of herself to him, and our lives had security and stability because of it. 
That is the kind of love that certainly deserves a poem -- of epic proportions. 
Or perhaps, at the very least, an essay...
xo