Or under her pillow.
It seemed to penetrate deeper this way--stayed better when she was dream-reading.
What’s a girl whose mother is gone to do?
No soft hands to hold hers at night. No soft voice to pray with.
His Word did not keep loneliness from seeping in…it came. But still, the girl held tightly, not really knowing why. Only that the Words kept her from feeling completely alone.
She carried it with her everywhere.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said older friend, tipping the book in the girl’s hands. “Is that what I think it is?”
Blushing, she hugged It tighter.
How could they understand?
The Words kept company in the reading journal that year. Mrs. Johnson put a red check mark on the top of the page at the end of the week. They could write anything they wanted--she never read the words.
But this one time, with red pen poised, hand froze in air. She turned to the girl.
“This is the Bible.” She said, in amazement.
Blushing, the girl nodded and turned away, ashamed to garner this attention.
And so it was, through the years, the Book kept her company.
She learned to make friends. She laughed and fell in love. She had children, even a dog. She learned to do the laundry with a sigh and clean the floors of the house she lives in without a thought to those early days.
Only one thing stays the same.
She never let go.
Clutches It tightly even still.
It is all that anchors her. These living, breathing Words—breathing life into her.
This post is inspired by Ann's Walk With HIm Wednesday series. Visit Holy Experience for more...
Anakin is still in the hospital, and I am at loose ends. His little lungs are still too “wet” to work on their own and my brother and his wife find themselves traveling about 100 miles round trip each day to be with their infant. To make matters worse, my sister-in-law has also developed an infection and is not feeling well.
A rough start for little Anakin and his family.
So, later today I will make a trip of my own—purchase some gas gift cards and other plastic monies that I can slip in the mail in hopes that it will bring some small measure of stress relief to these worn-out parents.
Because this is what we do when we are in community with one another. We give gifts out of love and concern for one another.
If we lived closer, I would make them food…watch their other children…offer hugs.
These gifts of the heart bring us together, bond our kinship community.
In this week’s chapter of The Gift: Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World, Lewis Hyde talks about this very thing.
“If we take the synthetic power of gifts, which establish and maintain the bonds of affection between friends, lovers, and comrades, and if we add to these a circulation wider than a binary give-and-take, we shall soon derive society, or at least those societies—family, guild, fraternity, sorority, band, community--that cohere through faithfulness and gratitude.”
Hyde says that gift exchange gives our community “equilibrium and coherence, a kind of anarchist stability”. He also asserts that when gifts become commodities the opposite will occur—the group will become fragmented or may disappear altogether.
This reminds me of some research I learned about in Psych 101. Results of this particular experiment showed that if an action is done because it gives intrinsic value, when an external reinforcer (like money) is given for doing it, it ceases to be internally rewarding.
(I remind myself of this study whenever I am tempted to give my boys an allowance J)
Hyde would say that the freedom we feel in making a choice when to give our gifts, helps promote the gift economy. “…the rewards of community lose some of their luster when they are not a matter of choice,” he says.
I have been the “far-hearted” one. Our family has gone through seasons of estrangement in which, to emerge emotionally healthy, separation was necessary. It was not so much a deliberate turning-of-the-back as it was an emptiness.
We had nothing to give each other.
There was nothing to tie us together.
Yet, as I age; as I watch my children grow, I come to recognize the invisible ties that bond family. And so, I extend my hand. The heart tenders with age, and memories become forgiving. I remember happier times, times when we were bound by more than blood.
Perhaps this is my year of jubilee, and, as the Lord commanded the Israelites (Lev. 25), I will cancel all debts owed. I am free to give and forgive because my spirit has become richer. I am enjoying this shared relationship with my family, in its infancy though it is.
I am discovering, as Hyde says, “…that it is not when a part of the self is inhibited and restrained, but when a part of the self is given away, that community appears.”
I find that, bless me, I want this community. I am free to make this choice. I give, not because I have to, but because my heart compels me.
So much has been given for me. I cannot help but to think of the One who gave Himself when I read Hyde’s words: “The man who has emptied himself with giving has the highest name.”
And so it is in emptying ourselves that we become vessels to be filled with Him.
Visit HCB for more thoughts from Sam.
This predatory creature always seems to know just when dinner time is. It summons children like the pied piper. Doors are recklessly flung ajar as soda pop music is piped into the air, cajoling them into a trancelike state. The children with less astute hearing are soon enlightened by their friends, and it doesn’t take long for the streets to come alive with young voices.
Last night as I sat on the front porch with my eight-year-old, he began to plead his case for a tasty frozen treat. I reminded him that we have a whole box of perfectly good popsicles in our freezer. They’re just not packaged as nicely. They’re not wrapped up in his favorite cartoon character, and they certainly don’t come with a song.
As I lectured, my ears pricked up. What was that? It sounded like the carousal music from a fair long past. My heart skipped a beat. I wanted to run down the street in pursuit of that joy on wheels. Instead, I gave my boy five dollars and contented myself to live through him in the next moments.
As I watched the doors flapping and the legs flying, I was caught up in the excitement of it all. In the midst of the fun, a thought occurred to me: Maybe we sometimes don’t put Jesus in the right packaging. We wrap Him up in Sunday mornings and hymns that are hundreds of years old; in pious looks and judgmental glares; or legalism and rituals that mean nothing to those who have never been to church.
Where is the fun in that?
We should be living, breathing ice cream trucks for Jesus, but instead, we’re more like the mail truck. We deliver the message with little excitement. No song. No treat. Just a plain old box.
Anyone who really knows Jesus knows the joy there is in knowing Him. Yet, we greedily hoard away this delight, concealing it from the very ones who need to see. Philippians 4:4-5 tells us, “Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near.”
Evident to all. Not just to our brothers and sisters in Christ. Our entire lives should reflect the joy of the Lord. As we run after him, we should be enlightening our friends, calling joyfully to them to follow. When they see our happiness, they will surely check this thing out. When they hear the music of our hearts, their hearts will begin to beat in time.
Oh, if only it were so simple! But remaining joyful from day to day is no easy task. Even my eight-year-old would grow bored with the ice cream truck if it came every day. We get caught up and bogged down. We grow tired. We get discouraged.
But the great thing about Jesus is that He doesn’t come around only when it’s convenient. He doesn’t just go down the streets with the most customers. He’s everywhere. He will encourage us. He is every flavor. He is the song. He is the joy.
So, go ahead. Chase the truck. Rejoice in the Lord. Let your gentleness be evident to all.
This is a repost from a couple of years ago. My little one, of course, is now ten...but he still chases the ice cream truck.
And I do too.
It’s.
Still.
White.
Ever since this day—almost a full year ago--when I loaded up boys in a panic of optimism and flew to Michaels.
Because I had to have it.
Had to paint.
Because I was dreaming of Michelangelo.
And I have painted since. Two lovelies that were gifted to appreciative walls.
But this--this wallflower--remains bare.
Because I wanted it to be special.
Needed it to be special.
And I just haven’t had the time.
But I wonder…am I afraid?
I know that fear; the paralyzing terror of making first stroke, reaching first touch, writing first word, leaping into thin air…
And this leads me to wonder: where else is an empty place waiting? What else does fear leave pale and wanting?
The question carries me to my paintbox.
These lifeless tubes of paint hold power over me that I cannot give word to. I tremble when I take them out of their hiding place. My heart thrills.
And the setting up of the palette becomes this prayer…
This prayer-poem responds to L.L. Barkat’s weekly poetry challenge. Visit her here to learn more about it.
this morning
eyes start open
at steady thrumming
on rooftop—
I rise
and go
to the place
where we meet
press face to cool floor
and wait.
But words do not come.
so I listen
to sounds
of this love shower.
faint music
patter words
so sweet
this quenching language
and…
When it is time
I throw open
door
just to hear
the pinging
droplets on leaves
and steady hush
of dancing branches
rub against each other
in this morning breeze
then
I
step out
into this baptismal font
and go for a run
in the rain.
