Wild Thang

“It was different than I thought it would be.”

We have just spent the afternoon with his fifth grade class, taking in the movie Where the Wild Things Are.

Now Jeffrey is trying to articulate his thoughts about the film.

“I didn’t like it when he ran away from home. And, he didn’t leave the island at the best time, did he? Nothing really worked out right.”

He thinks for a moment and then adds:

“It was kind of sad, wasn’t it?”

I dab my eyes and nod, sniff back tears that have shed down my throat and into sinuses.

Yes, it was sad. Made sadder by memories of my own--memories I thought left far behind, scabbed over now. But this stark cinematography and sparse script captured perfectly the feelings of alienation and loneliness I felt as a child of divorce. The shattered world left behind for Max whispered ghost-pictures of upheaval and loss that I still grieve at times.

I think I effectively hid my tears from Jeffrey’s classmates… concealed my face by resting cheek in hand. Glancing around, I realized few of them grasped the deeper tones of the story. They eyed the screen expectantly waiting for something…anything exciting to happen.

But, as Jeffrey says, nothing really worked out right, did it?

We talk about the differences between the book and the movie. Jeffrey, sharp eye that he is, did not miss the message that Max’s parents were divorced (or separated).

“That’s not in the book,” he states flatly.

We talk about the gift of imagination the book gives, and how this story is just one possible way of reading between the lines. We talk about how Max expressed his emotions and how these things were mirrored in his imaginary “wild” world--how he figured out through the Wild Things that the way he was acting with his mother was not helping things…How a story sometimes helps us make sense of our worlds.

No, it wasn’t how I expected it to be either. This book that has captured the imaginations of generations--has awakened the wild imagination in so many--it was given a different face for me today. As one reviewer said, this isn’t really a movie for kids; it’s more about being a kid.

Maybe so.

But this big kid enjoyed talking about it with her little today.

If you want a movie to feel good about, a story complete with happy endings that ties up all loose ends, don’t go see this movie.

But if you want more…if you want a launch pad for talking about some deep stuff with your kids…this film might just be for you.

It's pretty wild.

Making Memories

A re-post from last October...Shall we explore the issue a bit more?

Some people don’t.

But we do.

We embrace the traditions of Halloween.

Because it is fun.

I have been reading about the history of Halloween.

History.com says:

“Halloween's origins date back to the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain (pronounced sow-in).The Celts, who lived 2,000 years ago in the area that is now Ireland, the United Kingdom, and northern France, celebrated their new year on November 1. This day marked the end of summer and the harvest and the beginning of the dark, cold winter, a time of year that was often associated with human death. Celts believed that on the night before the new year, the boundary between the worlds of the living and the dead became blurred. On the night of October 31, they celebrated Samhain, when it was believed that the ghosts of the dead returned to earth. In addition to causing trouble and damaging crops, Celts thought that the presence of the otherworldly spirits made it easier for the Druids, or Celtic priests, to make predictions about the future. For a people entirely dependent on the volatile natural world, these prophecies were an important source of comfort and direction during the long, dark winter.”

Yes, its beginnings are troublesome.

But, as my sweet friend Janine recently said, “Christians have a wonderful tradition of taking pagan holidays and giving them new meaning of faith.”

Of this, History.com goes on to say:

“By the 800s, the influence of Christianity had spread into Celtic lands. In the seventh century, Pope Boniface IV designated November 1 All Saints' Day, a time to honor saints and martyrs. It is widely believed today that the pope was attempting to replace the Celtic festival of the dead with a related, but church-sanctioned holiday. The celebration was also called All-hallows or All-hallowmas (from Middle English Alholowmesse meaning All Saints' Day) and the night before it, the night of Samhain, began to be called All-hallows Eve and, eventually, Halloween. Even later, in A.D. 1000, the church would make November 2 All Souls' Day, a day to honor the dead. It was celebrated similarly to Samhain, with big bonfires, parades, and dressing up in costumes as saints, angels, and devils. Together, the three celebrations, the eve of All Saints', All Saints', and All Souls', were called Hallowmas.”

Friends, Christians have held these traditions since the 800s!

That said, I celebrate Halloween with my children because it is just plain fun. This tradition gets children exited like no other. There is just something magical about playing dress up. Oh, and getting a lot of candy.

We have our own traditions that make it special.

Carving our punkins’.

Lights.

Roasting punkin’ seeds.

Sharing the fun with our church friends.

Yes. The mummy is yours truly. They had so much fun wrapping me in T-paper!

Aren't they beautiful?

I was really a pirate. Not a gypsy, as my husband insisted on calling me.

My dears, I grew up in a home that did not celebrate many holidays. Of any type. The one time my parents decided to let my siblings and I dress for Halloween was a disaster. What I take away from that these years later is: it is what you make it.

We try to make it about fun. And family.

And chocolate, of course.

Happy Halloween, Dear Ones. And to those who’d rather not, Happy All Saint’s Day.

Love to you all.

In Praise of Tradition

“We couldn’t read My Haunted House in school because there is a girl who doesn’t celebrate Halloween in our class.”

Jeffrey had excitedly taken one of our holiday reads to school to share with his class, but this child was now deflated.

Without thinking, I immediately responded.

“I was that girl.”

This quieted my boy, and I could see the wheels spinning in his head. My children know that I grew up in the Jehovah’s Witness faith. They know that I did not celebrate holidays as a child. But whenever reminded of this, they are like ones stricken…struggling to understand.

“Did you not…was your class not allowed to have a party because of you?”

He was trying to figure out what he wanted to know. I could sense it was about more than a party.

“No, they always had a party. Even dressed up to go to school. The teachers sent my brothers and sister and I to the library while the others ate their treats and played games.”

This produced more silence. Then:

“I’m sorry, mommy.”

He wrapped his little arms around me and buried his face in my chest, truly grieving for the young me.

“It’s okay, honey. We actually had fun in the library. There was no one there to supervise us (can you imagine?), so we made up our own games.”

I remembered a time when a very large boa constrictor was visiting our school for Halloween. We, as the exiled ones, had the privilege of spending the afternoon with the slimy guy. We even got to see him eat a mouse.

That was one of my most memorable experiences as a child. Holed up in the library with my older brother and sister (younger brother must not have been in school yet…that would have placed me in the first grade), standing around that terrarium in awe.

I don’t have a lot of memories from my childhood. I have only recently realized the role our faith played in this lack. There were no birthday cakes, no late night Christmas church services, no large family gatherings for Thanksgiving.

Our family held no traditions.

When I look back, there is a smattering of special memories. But it is difficult to put a time on these mind-movies because they took place in reference to little.

Perhaps that is why I enjoy the celebrations so much now. I have tried to create rich traditions for my children. I rejoice in their joy at tiny milestones, knowing one day they will say, “Remember when?”

One piece of advice I would give to all new parents is to develop special family traditions. It brings the family closer now, and always. Traditions create a glue for our memories.

We have a stack of books like this for every holiday. About mid-October these come out and delight us every year. Some beloved scripts are memorized. All the better for sharing.

Every year each boy picks his own pumpkin from our local farmer's market.

They draw their design for me and their daddy to carve.

Mucking out. A task worth sharing. No fun unless you get goopy.

Picking out the seeds.

Even Lucy Mae loves roasted pumpkin seeds. A little butter, garlic, salt...yummm.

Our haunted house. Complete with pig and tiger sculpture (a class project).

The front porch welcomes our neighborhood spooks on Trick-or-Treat night.

Shedding

The streets are littered with leaf-confetti and I watch as earth readies herself for this shedding.

This slow peeling away reveals the beauty underneath--until all that is left is naked vulnerability. We shed our lives this way--layer after layer, year by year.

I am reminded of this by a chance encounter with a neighbor. He is there, in those last days of shrugging off the years.

I found him on his front porch on my way to the bus stop. He likes to sit there, just take in the day. I knew his health has been declining--have chatted with him about strokes and doctors and such. This day, he had more news.

He approached me, unsteady on his feet but determined to close this gap between us. I held Lucy Mae firm on her leash, holding breath as he traversed uneven ground.

We exchanged greetings and he made over my girl, who tried to jump up to kiss him despite shortened leash.

Then he got to it.

“The doctors tell me I have a blood disorder. There’s nothing they can do about it. My blood makes too many red blood cells and thickens up so much that it can’t get to my brain.”

This 91 year old war veteran’s jaw quivered as he made this bold statement. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the movement in the air around us-- leaves drifting from the oak in his yard, floating leisurely to the ground.

Shedding.

“Did they put you on blood thinner? Isn’t there something they can do?”

He shook his head and responded as if talking about the weather.

“There’s nothing they can do.”

I looked into his eyes and saw no fear there. Saw the beauty in this naked vulnerability.

“So,” I whispered, “You are just waiting for the end.”

He held my gaze.

“Listen, I’m ready for the end. My wife died six years ago and life hasn’t been the same since. I’m ready to be with her again.”

I swallowed, held Lucy Mae’s leash tighter.

“Well…that will be nice then…”

“My daughter’s coming from Kansas this week. We’ll talk about what we’re going to do.”

He gestured to his house and yard, moved his hand as if wiping it all away.

Shedding.

I heard the school bus arrive at the mouth of our neighborhood…squeaking brakes and protesting metal. Soon, the children were abreast, young voices everywhere. Jeffrey came alongside and Lucy Mae let him know how much she missed him.

I just stood there. Rooted. Lost for words.

He did too.

Then he smiled.

“One good thing,” his smile takes on an ornery twist. “My niece runs a mortuary. I won’t have to worry about that.”

With that, he turned his back and slowly made his way over the rough grass back to his porch. I watched, made sure he wouldn’t need me…then waved my goodbye as we took our leave.

We walk home amidst swirling leaves. The crisp fall wind carries these light bodies like kites, and I am shed of all distractions.

I am aware of the sky, so blue…of how the wind kisses my cheeks…the scent of leaves giving up chlorophyll…

I am wondering how it is to know that death is soon forthcoming.

This is the evidence of a life well-lived: When the shedding reveals beauty. When everything else is stripped away and God’s glory is laid bare for all eyes to see.

My dear neighbor is preparing to shed his earthly body and take on another form of beauty. Don’t you know that the saints are rejoicing? Don’t you know that the angels are preparing the loveliest of songs for his welcome?

The leaves blowing on the breeze carry this message today. I am grateful for these wind-whisperings, for they remind me to be present--to be here now.

For the shedding continues in me as well.

For more on contemplation, visit us over at High Calling Blogs for our latest book club discussion.

The Tale of Perry the Purple Finch

Lucy Mae and I sat on the front stoop and watched the robins maniacally soar through our airspace. My canine friend was far more interested in the process than I; that is, until one earnest flier nearly took off my head.

What’s up with these birds, anyway? I wondered. You’d think it was mating season the way they are swooping and diving around with such show. ‘Bout that time a squirrel leaped by, desperately searching the ground for any fallen nuts or berries.

Ah. Well, yes. It is that time of year again.

The creatures are frantically readying for the coming season of cold…this frenetic activity is the precursor to the inevitable slowing. Whether they need an extra bit of fat to carry them through a long migration or to enable an uninterrupted slumber, this anxious energy I witness is just part of the process.

Soon, the black-eyed juncos will return and our fair-weathered friends will head south.
Everyone except Perry, that is.

This bird has been pecking on my door at all hours of the day for months now. I have tried to scare the blasted thing away by abruptly opening the door while he is in the midst of his percussion manifesto… But he is always one step ahead of me, feeling my heavy footfalls approach the door; he flies into our rhododendron just as my fingers touch the knob.

Little pecking ghost, he is.

But he always comes back.

Peck. Peck. Peck-peck.

I was able to finally spy him by cautiously approaching the dining room bay window that provides a view of our front porch. There he was: sitting boldly on my flower pot offering up a lovely song. The rascal is a purple finch.

So we named him Perry. Perry the purple finch.

When his song was complete, he hopped back down and stared at his reflection in our brass kick plate on the bottom of our door. Then he started pecking at it.

“Why does he do that?” asked Jeffrey, the ever-curious one.

“He sees his reflection and thinks it’s another bird, I think.”

“Why would he peck another bird?”

“Oh, trying to get its attention, I suppose.”

“That’s weird.”

We both agreed that, indeed, Perry was weird.

But he is persistent too.

I’ve decided that the only thing that could inspire such persistence is love.

Perry is in love with himself.

More precisely, he’s in love with the image he sees in the brass kick plate. Puffs up at the reflection of beauty. And he thinks if he keeps pecking at this lovely vision it will finally give him the time of day. He seeks validation in vain, pouring his energies into something that will never respond.

Peck peck peck. Look at me. Peck. Hey! I said, look at me! Peck peck peckity peck.

Nothing.

I’ve seen a lot of Perrys in my day. Even been one.

Blinded so much by desire for self agenda that the efforts of others are belittled or ignored. Instead, I become self-consumed…pecking away at my own image, demanding attention in vain.

And the strange thing is, the longer I am ignored, the harder I seem to peck!

Just like Perry.

Friends, if we are all puffed up about our own ministry, service, charity, etc., etc., we will fail to see there are good things in the efforts of others as well.

We may even judge them harshly.

Now, sometimes those others are just pecking at their own image too, but we do no one a favor if we join in. Then we’re all just pecking in vain.

And no actual ministry gets done. No great commission realized.

Just feather-preening and puffing up.

Christ calls me to die to self.

I have found that I have to do this over and over and over again.

Pride is a terrible foe to be pitted against. He has beaten me many times.

As I sit here and type, Perry is at it again.

Some people--er, birds--just never learn.

I don’t want to be one of them. How ‘bout you?

Trains

We prayed together
and I
am still warm—
feel the words
inside
hum…
pass through me
like electricity.

I drive slow.

The hills
are memories
in the night;
headlights
bring them to mind.
Movement stirs
below hill-memories
and windows,
like candles,
shimmer by
mark the beginning
of incline.
Light
snakes along bottom and
I remember.

I drive slow.

We used to
chase these
long metal boxes,
from crossing
to crossing
to see the glory
of windows shimmer
by.
How long ago
was that, my sweet?
When you
were small
and love
was bliss?
When trains
and engines
spoke...

I drive slower.

Remember.
Fade into this dark
night
filled
with memories.

Poetry prompt: We’ve been celebrating ’slowing.’ Make a “word pool” of at least five slow words. Yeah, I guess molasses counts. But verbs are good too. Create a poem using a minimum of one of your slow words, but feel free to use the whole pool. Post your poem by Thursday, October 22, for links and possible feature. Drop your post link in LL’s comment box so she doesn’t miss it.

My five words were: memories, night, hum, bliss, and slow (of course.)

“You know that patch of grass that grows up in a crack in the sidewalk?”

I nodded, not sure where she was heading with this.

“Well, that’s what I feel like in my family; like, there’s all this concrete everywhere and then suddenly there’s this patch of grass in the middle and it’s like…hmmm--how did you get there?”

I didn’t say anything because I understood exactly what she was talking about and I knew how hard it is to have concrete scratching at you from all sides when you are trying to grow.


Don't forget to visit High Calling Blogs later today for more on our book discussion of Gerald May's The Wisdom of the Wilderness.

Living a Beautiful Story

I believe in the power of story.

As a young girl, I tumbled into the beauty of a good book…felt the pull like quicksand--blissfully sinking deep into the pages, becoming part of the story.

These tales of adventures and happy endings incited my imagination, transcended my small world.

I still get lost in the world of fiction from time to time--have been known to stay up all night to get to the end of a rich tale.

But last night, I was challenged to step out of the pages of the book and start living a beautiful story of my own.

A friend and I made the long trek to Cincinnati to hear Donald Miller speak yesterday.

I’m so glad we did.

I’ve admired Don’s work for several years (some of you may remember this disaster inspired by Blue Like Jazz). I’ve listened to several of his podcasts, visited his blog, and followed him on twitter. But seeing him in person was such a privilege.

The show (show? What do you call such a thing? Program?)--the program was opened up by an amazing lady named Susan Isaacs.

She presented material from her book, Angry Conversations with God. It was based on the premise that, if our relationship with God is a marriage…she thought they needed to go to marriage counseling. She was funny and provocative and shared some deeply moving stories.

Then Don came on.

He speaks much as he writes: smart, funny, insightful, challenging. I could go on and on.

It was a blast.

I felt like I was back in college and Don was my favorite professor.

He inspired me.

Don doesn’t cut Christians any slack. He called us on some of the worn-out rhetoric that has no Biblical basis. He challenged some of our tired out ways of thinking. Ways that have never worked. And maybe even hurt.

I felt my mind expanding…my world growing. Just as it did all those years ago when I buried myself in the books.

One thing he said that keeps ringing in my ears is this:

I would love to see people of faith tell beautiful stories with their lives.

Don has been pouring his energies into a new ministry: The Mentoring Project. Maybe you’ve heard of it. Maybe you haven’t. If not, read about it here. This man’s heart is truly invested in this cause. And I understand. One cannot work with middle school children today and not feel the importance of mentorship. There are so many kids in need of an adult to lead the way for them. So many kids that just need to know someone cares.

I was blessed to join with Don in supporting his ministry with the Mentoring Project. Because of this, I was in a small group of people that met briefly with him backstage. He signed our books and graciously answered questions. But I was all tongue-tied. Shaky inside. I flubbed up my chance to say something witty and impressionable. But he didn’t mind. He posed for a picture with me anyway.

What a guy.

Tammy and I left, sort of in a daze--not wanting to leave Don behind. We ran to Jungle Jim’s-- this sort of grocery store playground--grabbed a couple six packs and headed back to the hotel. (No, we weren’t going to drink that much, but we have different tastes. Tammy is a stout girl--loves her dark beers. And I must have my hops. Sierra Nevada Pale Ale please.)

Back at the Hampton, we held our little plastic cup and just looked at each other. There was no after party. No gang to hang out with. We’re too old for such things, I guess.

But we didn’t want the night to end. Didn’t want to let go of this feeling.

So we did the best we could. We both started reading Don’s new book: A Million Miles in a Thousand Years.

We read. And read.

Then we discovered that Pride and Prejudice was on the Women’s Entertainment channel (WE). Oh that Mr. Darcy. (sigh) Couldn’t pass by that story.

So we read during commercials.

All night I kept thinking.

I just wish I had said thank you. Thank you, Don, for sharing your story and your gift. You have inspired me and countless others (including my 10 and 12 year old who followed the journey through painted deserts and cackled at the adventures you fell into with Paul).

And, just this: Your story is beautiful. And you inspire others to pursue a beautiful story.

Thank you. Thank you.

And God bless you.

Singular

We are watching football tonight friends (and every night, it seems). It makes me remember an experience from last year. This is a re-post from October 25, 2008...


“I don’t know what it is about leaving and then returning home, but it makes me feel…hopeful.”

We are driving back from Morgantown, having just watched the West Virginia Mountaineers beat the Auburn Tigers. The trees are glorious in this country, and I have spent the last half hour silent, eyes filled with blushing Maples and beaming Beeches.

This is his favorite—to drive with me beside him; listening to music…just being together.

And I realize it is my favorite too.

That is when I see it.

Amongst the reds and remnants of green, peeping out from behind the browning yellow of the Poplars: a brilliant orange, standing alone.

We are driving too fast to study the tree, but I see enough to recognize its singular beauty—its unique form.

Something about this lone sentinel in this patchwork of brilliant colors touches me. Brings to mind a moment during the game last night.

At one point, I noticed how the gold of the mountaineer fans filled the stadium--a wave of color. Bodies pressing together, moving together; individuals blurring into one body.

So many people.

I am just a drop in the ocean. I begin to feel as if I might drown.

An airplane flies over head and as I look up, I wonder how we look to God looking down.

Is this wave of gold beautiful to Him? Does He think it foolish to gather in such a way? Or does He rejoice to see the folly?

Mostly I imagine Him looking down at that mass of gold and seeing me. Because He always does. I am blaze orange to Him…peeping out from behind the gold. He sees my singular beauty.

Even when I cannot.

This thought, this knowledge—like a law of nature—anchors me and buoys me at the same time. No longer am I drowning.

Sheepishly, I feel the urge to wave at Him. But I restrain myself. My brother and sister-in-law, after all, are nonbelievers, and how would I explain that I am waving to God in the midst of 60,000 people?

So I wink instead. And smile. And for a moment, we have had this amazing intimate retreat, just Him and me.

Everything is worship.

Daytrippin'

Some places never grow old. Even though the New River is thought to be second only to the Nile as the oldest river in the world...even though we've been here many times...










I felt her name.

Maybe it was just being together.

On Growing a Good Garden

They call out to me this morning.

Their greens now fading, their blooms a distant memory. The birds and the deer have gleaned the last bits of nourishment these plantings will provide. Now they call to me, beckon my fingers to sift and prune.

The soil is tender toward me, softened by the recent rains. I take advantage of her gentle nature--tug and churn. I breathe in the musty scent, feel it cling to my skin. I cut back the dead or dying, pull up weeds--ready these Beloveds for the long sleep.

I start out in garden gloves, but as the hours pass, I am soon working with bare hands…seeking with my keen fingertips what glove cannot feel. I jiggle loose the weedy roots underneath their rich blanket of soil and pull up from leggy beginnings. I must dig deep--raking fingernails on twig and vine--clawing at dirt.

Nothing else will work.

This feels right--dirt under fingernails, green staining hands, thorns pricking palms.

Every fall I do this…get rid of decay, thin out the overgrown, plant the new.

It is desolate when I finish. Bare. Three dwarf Alberta Spruces stand sentinel over this austerity.

It’s hard to imagine what will come in spring. It’s hard to remember the beauty that lies sleeping beneath the loamy surface. It would be easy to dismiss this barren patch of land. Forget to tend. Just walk away.

But I know better.

It is during this season of undress that roots grow strong. Seeds are sprouting, drinking in nourishment from soil prepared far ahead of time for bloom.

The seed planted in the darkness of this season will not remain barren forever.

I trust in this.

How do you know it’s true?
Her eyes. Oh her eyes. She held His Word in her hand and asked.
How do you know? Why do you believe?
My answer wasn’t good enough.
But it planted a seed. Oh, Lord, I pray it planted a seed.

Picking the Winners

We decided to do this thing.





Labored over the process (So many good ones!)












We ended up picking with our eyes closed!



And the winners are...

Paula from His Ways Are Not Our Ways

and

Liz from Liz's Letters!

I am so thrilled to send these two ladies a copy of my book, Brody's Story. They have been my bloggy buddies since way back in the beginning. One day we're going to meet face-to-face and that will be a happy day.

Congratulations, ladies! I'll be in touch...

Don't forget to stop by Seedlings in Stone to see who wins L.L.'s giveaway tomorrow.

Jesus Smells Like Murphy's Oil Soap

I1577 - Church Pews
Originally uploaded by rfroberts1

I don’t know why I came.

A plethora of reasons, I suppose. Obligation. Guilt. Duty. Fear.

Whatever the reason, I give up my Saturday morning for it. Meet this ragtag group to pitch in and clean up our church.

I drag the boys along too; telling Jeff something about building character, teaching them to give back…

Now, my twelve-almost-thirteen stands beside me--both arms pulled inside his t-shirt.

Mummified.

It’s cold in this sanctuary.

And no other moms have made their children come to help.

He looks glumly at me with that expression that causes my jaw to clench, blood pressure creeps up.

When does initiation kick in?

The answer appears in front of me in shape of his younger brother. The small one struggles underneath a heavy pew cushion.

It’s just his nature to help. Big brother needs more direction.

I dip the rag into the bucket of cleaning solution, try to ignore the irritation. I break it down slowly: the dipping of rag, wringing out, moving it across the wood…

He just stands there. Stares.

He doesn’t want this job. It will require him to remove his arms from his shirt.

And it’s too cold.

Someone is running the vacuum and the noise is so loud we have to shout to hear each other. It doesn’t help me to relax into this.

I excuse myself.

I stand alone, just breath…wonder why this is getting to me so much. I don’t have to dig too deep to find the answer. I have struggled to love this church in the past few years. There have been too many hurtful words, too much resistance to Jeff’s ministry, too much of what Jesus hates.
I feel little affection for these walls. I have watched my husband’s fledgling faith wings be clipped by words and actions of supposedly “mature” Christians who worship here. I have felt the weight of their judgment. They grow tired of hearing me say it, yet, they offer no apologies. Still do not try to right the wrongs.

But here we are, our entire family giving up our free morning together to do more church work. I can’t help noting that “those” people are not doing the same.

I am wondering if it is time to leave. Haven’t we tried? Three long years and still we fight. I am tired.

I feel the beginnings of bitterness begin to creep into my heart and it is like poison entering my body. Just the tiniest drop and it moves through my blood unassisted--I feel helpless to stop it.

Am I? Am I helpless to stop it?

Jesus help me.

He gives me just enough strength to go back into the sanctuary and continue wiping down the pews. The boys are removing all the hymnals and Bibles from their pockets, making the path straight for my washing. It’s a good job for them--keeps them moving. They stack the books up on the floor…sacred word-towers.

I dip, wring, wipe. I am rubbing away the dirt.

And something begins to happen.

Peace meets me there.

This scent--this oily lemony aroma--has always been a comfort to me. Gleaming wood and contented spirit go hand in hand. I start to sing under cover of vacuum. There is beauty under my hands.

I pick up some gum wrappers. Find a small plastic animal. It makes me smile. I think of the individuals who sit in these pews. Faces come to mind--faces of those I love.

This plain piece of wood, polished and dried has more beauty to me than the most intricate of carvings. It has held the Body of Christ.

I think of the wood that touched our Lord’s skin, soaked in His blood. And my wiping becomes caress. The smell envelopes me as I remember His sacrifice…remember His words.

Some would say that we put too much stock in our church homes. That, we can sometimes come to worship the building instead of our Lord. We mistake tradition for holiness, we trade intimacy for ritual.

It can be true. I have seen it with my own eyes.

But on this morning, hands dripping with Murphy’s Oil Soap, I realize this church will never be an idol for me. It is only when I see Jesus here that I am able to love these walls.

God teaches me. He is a jealous God. He desires me to worship only Him. He has taken me the long way around in this lesson. Jesus edges into my heart and spreads out His arms--nudges away the bitterness. What is left is sorrow. And love.

Salve for the wound.

I'm also over here today...starting our new book club discussion! Stop by and check it out! Here's the book if you're curious. :)

photo by rfroberts, click on photo for more information.

Reminder

I'll be over here tomorrow...starting our new book club discussion! Stop by and check it out! Here's the book if you're curious. :)

The Why

I awake to his face.

Full and round, staring in my window.

He lingers just above the horizon--hesitating to give me a chance to catch up. I pad downstairs in the dark--willing feet to land softly--push open the back door and feel the night-dew on bare soul. No matter, for there he is, shining down.

Moon-friend.

I sit and stare at this beauty--words of grace just pictures in my mind.

He sinks beneath the opaque surface of the earth’s curvature, and I sink too.

Gravity pulls. I feel the ebb and flow of life’s tides drawing at me…pulling me in with this steady inhale.

The grace-pictures remain with me, and I sit, waiting for them to swell into words and all I can think is this: why?

Why did He give us such beauty? He didn’t have to give us color, and light, and aromas that stir. He didn’t have to make the warmth of skin so inviting; didn’t have to paint the sunset with gold and scarlet. He didn’t have to arrange the earth and the sun in such a way that Moon-friend’s full face becomes a long-awaited gift--that round orb I rejoice in reuniting with each month.

Why?

I receive these delights as His gifts to me and I cannot fathom His love.

Oh, the grace there is in loving me! What is He thinking? I am dizzy with the knowledge that He gives these things to me… unabashedly He gives what is unasked for and undeserved…beauty my mind could never conceive.

Who says we should understand? It makes no sense.

He is too big.

His love is too big.

And He loves me.

That’s why all this beauty.

That’s why.

RAP

We have been pondering the real Mary. (Did I mention that L.L. Barkat is having a book giveaway here? And if you’re into that kind of thing, check out my book giveaway here…)

There is so much reality that our eyes don’t see, Beloved.

Our poetrylady challenges us to create a poem this week using the words, “The Real…”

This RAP is inspired by my morning reading: Isaiah 58.


Fast

The false one
quietly knocks
at door
sits down
offers delicacies
with
smile full
of guile
pretense
moves into
the house
next door
and invites
me in
to the comfort of
bloated
stomach
gorging
until the hunger
grows
from the
feeding

but…

the Real Hunger
wakes me up
in the deep
of night
gnaws
at my bones
with cravings
yearnings
pounding on
insides
breaking ribs
tearing heart
screaming from depths
of throat
until emptiness
is all
I am.

The Real Hunger
knows
that being emptied
is all
that fills.

Giving it all Away

How often have I wondered what I would have done in her place?

An unmarried girl--a teenager at that--risking death for faith. But in living, she possibly invited an even worse fate: abandonment, ridicule, isolation. A lifetime of sorrow because of this obedience.

What would I have done? Could I have responded with such…grace?

I am the Lord’s servant, Mary answered. May it be to me as you have said.

Such courage, such fire, such nettle in these words.

Would I have believed?

It must have taken a faith of steel. This thing--this conception--it was impossible, was it not? Yet, as Gabriel said, “Nothing is impossible with God.”

Her cousin, filled with the Holy Spirit, said it.

Blessed is she who has believed that what the Lord has said to her will be accomplished!

Mary believed.

How could she know what it would cost?

She carried the Child of God inside her, birthed him, fed him at her breast, loved him as only a mother can--never fully understanding how God’s plan would be accomplished.

Trusting in the goodness of God.

We often underestimate the courage it took to face a society with such uncompromising laws--ones that placed little value on a woman’s life.

Do we see Mary’s response as passive, submissive, meek?

Grace. Courage. Strength.

This is the Mary I see.

Who is she to you?

If you would like to have a chance to read more about Mary, head over to Seedlings in Stone for a chance to win a copy of Scot McKnight’s book The Real Mary. Her contest runs until Oct. 8 at 6pm. Also, in celebration of a brave teen, I’m giving away two copies of my book Brody’s Story. Just leave a comment here by Wednesday October 7 to be entered for a chance to win.