we broke our Lenten fasts today. jeffrey was so excited to enjoy dessert after a week without. we made a fancy trifle...and it was so yummy. he enjoyed it so much, and i cherished him even more. and then i was a little girl again--feeling sorry for myself. so i determined to find a happy memory. and this was it: my mother's music box. the song was Lara's theme. the hinges broken. i don't know the story of where the box came from. but she treasured it so. and i treasure the memory.
Jeffrey is in front of me--catching airy snowflakes on tongue. Lucy Mae and I tag along behind, basking in feather kisses as each flake finds skin-home. I turn cheeks up and grow dizzy as the sky spirals down like soft manna.
And in the midst of this bliss I spy the brown cardboard box propped up against the garage door.
Could it be?
I squeal with delight and skate past a surprised snowflake catcher. In my joy-frenzy, I forget how old I am. I forget about the slick surface of sky-road. One day I will break a hip and some young psychologist on the rehab unit will want me to talk about how I feel.
No matter. Today I arrive safely.
Pick up the brown box. Cradle it in arms.
My Kindle is here!
I love the pull tab to open the box: Once upon a time...
Did I mention that I won a Kindle? I’m still glowing from the joy of it all. But--just in case you missed it--you can read about it here (thank you thank you thank you, Mary), and read my winning essay here (over one hundred entries!).
In the mean time, I am having so much fun! I rarely get new toys. Kathleen said, “Tell me if you miss turning pages and smelling ink and holding paper, glorious paper.”
This from a woman who, on her blogger profile under the heading favorite books simply lists: All. With a period.
Not yet, Kathleen! But just let it be known that I consider my Kindle a nice addition to my weighty, page-turny books. You’re talking to a girl who once smelled a book in front of an entire first grade class during read aloud. The look my son gave me made me realize I had lost myself and become Mary Katherine Gallagher--of SNL fame--smelling her underarms.
The Kindle will be very convenient when traveling. I can do away with the laundry basked of books when we go to the beach this year. :)
Besides keeping read aloud interesting, here is another reason not to abandon my olfactory (and tactile) fixation:
Feast.
Isn’t it lovely?
This, another expected surprise that came to me in the mail this week. My friend Sarah mailed her book of poems, Otherwise, to me all the way from New Zealand. I tremble with awe when I think of the journey this gem traveled to get to me.
And may I share one of its pearls? Please? Sarah?
dictation
feed me sweet wickedness
just a little
under my tongue
unravel my thoughts
ever so slowly
one by one
and then lay me down tangled
in the roots of the moon
so I may offer my body
as a slate for your poems.
Isn’t it delicious?
And, good news! Sarah has a new book of poetry available, only just. Imagine the miles it could fly to rest in your hands.
Happy reading, my friends--whichever mode you choose.
A few frail flurries fall and I sit, in this warm place…wondering.
My New Testament reading this morning is on the Year of Jubilee and I am thinking of freedom. I am thinking of a broken figure in a hospital bed, held prisoner by a body that once was taken for granted--a vehicle at will.
I think of brave words uttered from cracked lips, of a story telling long torment in an able body…and what it takes to realize the gifts we are given each day of our life.
Do you feel like giving up?
It is something I have to ask.
Do you want to live?
I stare out my window and I ask myself this question.
What does it mean to truly live?
To feel each passing moment in my marrow, detect the pull of gravity on my spirit--measure each turn of the earth with outstretched arms? How can I hear a moment call for calm solitude or clamor in wait of raucous celebration? How to be present in each heartbeat and feel each wisp of breath travel through my nose--move through my body as it is carries life into my unknown places?
Today, I need a map. I am lost--all turned about in this thing I call living.
Yesterday, I asked the boys, “What if today is the best day of your life and you miss it? What if you miss it because you are thinking about tomorrow? Or the next day?”
We were taking LucyMae on her Lenten walk--our constitutional these forty holy days. We missed our promise earlier, so we walked in the dark--light from neighbors’ windows peeking out at us.
Their moon-faces and shadow-mouths laughed and under cover of night the tide of their laughter sweeps over me and I know. I know they never would miss the best day of their life.
Children have a way of catching joy and carrying it out into their lives.
Why don’t we?
What if everything you knew and understood was pulled out from under you in a single instant?
The Year of Jubiliee came after seven years of Sabbaths. Seven times seven years. In the fiftieth year, liberty is proclaimed. Debts are cancelled; land returned to its original owner, countrymen who are slaves are freed…
I know that Jesus is our Jubilee. He came to set the captives free.
But there are no answers for lost days here. Only questions.
These empty eyes, these silent muscles do not know about the arcana of Jubilee.
So I bring it.
I come alongside. There are words. But presence is all that is necessary.
And the Name, unsaid, fills the room.
I feel each passing moment in my marrow; detect the pull of gravity on my spirit--stretch arms to feel the earth turning. I hear this moment call to me--it whispers all that is required. Each heartbeat ticks the seconds, each wisp of breath breathes life.
Do you want to live?
The Jubilee is inside of me. Sometimes I give it away.
from the archives, my friends. I cannot say my love any better as I hold ashes in my hands tonight...
I have Jesus’ fingerprints on my head.
We’ve just returned from Ash Wednesday service, and I have been touched by His hand. We are entering the Lenten season. As with every year, I am giddy with gratitude.
As much as I love Contemporary Worship, the keeping of the traditions of the Church move me in unspeakable ways. The heaviness of hundreds of years of hearts and minds standing in the same place that I am settles deeply within me. Such kinship. And my heart longs for those deep reaching roots.
Tonight I stood in line with my brothers and sisters and waited for my Pastor to make a cross of ashes on my head. My two children stood in front of me, and when I heard her speak the words over Jeffrey, a lump formed in my throat
“Jeffrey, you are dust and to dust you will return.”
It made me shudder to hear these words spoken to my baby. And in that moment I was keenly aware of the sacrifice that has been made on my behalf.
As I took my place to receive the ashes, my pastor ceased to be my friend. Instead, she became the hands of Jesus. She called me by name, because He loves me.
“Laura, you are dust and to dust you will return.”
The intimacy of the moment took my breath away, and I felt His breath on my cheek. The ashes fell onto the front of my shirt as I walked back to the pew. A cascade of sorrow, of guilt and shame. And I wondered if His blood fell in such a pattern. When it struck the earth, did the soil moan with sorrow? Or did it rejoice at the prophecy fulfilled? Somehow, I have such difficulty finding joy in that moment. Only shame. Because I am unworthy. Oh, my God, I am unworthy.
“Tamar put ashes on her head and tore the ornamented robe she was wearing. She put her hand on her head and went away, weeping aloud as she went.”— (2 Samuel 13:19)
This is the sorrow I feel as I enter into Lent. The sorrow of shame. But mingled with this...something else. I ask God over and over: Why did you have to do it this way? Wasn’t there a better way? And then I am flooded with gratitude and I understand.
Lent is a time of contemplation and self-denial. It is a time to shelter under His wings and experience His might and His goodness. To me, all of earth seems to pause and breathe more deeply.
We are gliding back and forth on the porch swing when the air becomes thick with memories--makes me catch my breath.
It is the spring of 1998 and I can hear the faint laughter of baby voices float around the house. My sister is in the backyard with our children, teaching sky-dreams; pushing them on long swings until feet reach for heavens and forget what it means to be earth-bound.
Blue sky laughs down and breeze chases cool night to come. But something on the wind stirs awareness of his journey. And in the midst of this perfect moment, my grandpa starts to cry.
He would live to see one hundred and one springs but at the time of this porch-sitting he is in his ninety-ninth. He holds my hand, leans against my shoulder. My clay-body--the DNA deep within--remembers his and we feel the connection wrought of being formed from the same dirt.
I lean closer, squeeze this hand that farmed this land…this once strong hand now withered …this hand that held my father when he was a babe. I kiss this gnarled hand with onion skin, translucent under my freckled one. I hold this hand to my cheek and wait.
Sometimes I feel so lonely, he says.
He has few tears, as if this wrinkled body cannot spare them--as if they have been all used up. The ones spared flow over the landscape of his face, creating rivers in the valleys of his skin, cascading down cheek canyons.
He misses my grandmother.
I was five when she died at the ripe age of 76--the victim of cancer. I barely remember the stern-faced woman whose dining table stretched for miles and miles. My grandfather would live another 25 years without his bride. They had been married for 53 years at the time of her death--had worked side by side on the farm that entire time, raised nine children, waited for one son to return from war.
I thought about remarrying, grandpa says. He sounds surprised at the thought even now. There was a woman, he says. He tells me about a widow he met out west when visiting his brother. She really wanted to marry me, he says. He smiles a little as he remembers the wild days of his late seventies and early eighties.
Then his voice chokes up again.
I never wanted anybody but my old woman, he says.
My father is the youngest of my grandfather’s nine children. He came along later--was mothered by five older sisters.
Grandpa has been old my entire life.
But on this day--this day of porch-sitting--he becomes spring to me. I see the young groom he once was; alight with the glow of love. I see what true love endures.
And it amazes me.
I marvel at a love that lasts 78 years--25 of which are spent alone. I wonder about a love that hard living did not extinguish…that death cannot quench.
My own parents divorced when I was twelve. At the time of the porch-sitting, I have been married for five scant years.
This transcendent love is beyond my experience--I have nothing to which to compare it. In my life, love doesn’t last like that.
Could it be possible? Is there a chance? Could I have a love like that?
I look at the frail hand in mine and I have no words for my grandfather. I wrap my arms around him and feel his still large frame--bones wrapped with loose skin. He is old once again, diminished.
But his heart remains young and strong.
On that day of porch-sitting, my grandfather gave me a gift that I have never released.
He gave me the gift of hope.
He gave me the hope that all the dysfunction that has touched my life does not have to define what love is for me. That I can have a marriage that not only lasts, but is rich with desire and dream-living.
These years later, I still remember his hand in mine. That same blood runs through my veins.
And I love. Oh, how I love.
Time only deepens the glow of my love story. The years have given a rich patina--a sheen brought by pounding rains and the glare of hot sun.
Whatever reason, I give up my Saturday for it. Meet this ragtag group to clean the church.
I dip rag into bucket of cleaning solution, ignore irritation. I begin: dip rag, wring out, move across wood…
The vacuum hums. Noise so loud we shout to hear. It doesn’t help me relax into this.
I excuse myself.
I stand alone, breath… wonder--why feel this way? The answer looms. I struggle to love this church. Too many hurtful words, too much hypocrisy. Much of what Jesus hates.
I feel little affection for these walls. I have watched my husband’s fledgling faith wings clipped by those who worship here.
The beginnings of bitterness begin to creep in. Like poison entering my body, it moves slowly through my blood.
Jesus help me.
I wipe more pews.
Dip, wring, wipe. Rub away dirt.
Something happens.
He comes.
This oily lemony aroma comforts me. Gleaming wood sings. I sing too.
This plain piece of wood has more beauty than the most intricate of carvings. It cradles the Body of Christ.
I think of the wood that touched our Lord’s skin, soaked in His blood. Wiping becomes caress. The smell envelopes me and I remember.
Some worship the building instead of our Lord.
I have seen it.
But on this morning, hands dripping with Murphy’s Oil Soap, I realize it is only when I see Jesus here that I can to love these walls.
Jesus edges into my heart and nudges away the bitterness.
He leaves only love.
**********************************************************************************
I first met Jesus as a young girl, falling asleep in the dark alone--forgotten by parents and a world I did not understand. A girl lost…now found. When I became aware of Him, the scent of my world changed. From cold empty smell of winter, to life-giving spring. I could smell His breath hot against my cheek--moisture mixing with tears. Ever since, it is always the smell that alerts me to His presence when I forget myself and Him.
Just as He revealed Himself to me through difficult places with my family of origin then, now He speaks through my church family. He wrestles me down in the midst of these people I love…these people who bruise me with words and actions. I am at the ford of Jabbok with them when He touches my hip--changes the way I forever walk. It is in these family squabbles, bruised hearts, and humbled forgiveness that He breaks through that thin wall that separates eternity from my world.
After years of hard work and politicking, I’ve finally clawed my way to the Executive Suite, and guess what? IT’S GREAT! Except that after a while I started thinking, hmm…. What does God really think about all this? Does He mind about the money I’m making? Is He disappointed that I’m building profits and share value instead of disciples? Does He get worried if I question scripture every now and then? So,the writing in this Blog is my attempt to work it all out. Hopefully. But without all the religious pretense and presumptions.
These are the words of Bradley J. Moore, our Work Content Editor at High Calling Blogs. For a few weeks I’ve been introducing you to my fellow travelers over there, and today I would like you to meet the man we affectionately term, “The Camel”.
This has nothing to do with Bradley’s physique--as far as I know he does not have a hump on his back (I’ve never met him face-to-face so I can’t be quite sure about that)--but refers to our shortened version of the name of Bradley’s blog, Shrinking the Camel.
Why Shrinking the Camel?
Bradley explains on his blog:
Remember the scripture In Matthew 19, where Jesus tells his crowd of disciples that it’s easier for a camel to get through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to get into heaven? Sure you do. Everyone knows that one. After he says this, the disciples are bewildered (as usual) and they say, “All right Jesus, enough drama. Really, how do you expect anyone to get into heaven, then?” This is one time I appreciate the dumb questions that those disciples asked. I lean in a little closer, to hear the answer. Jesus tells them, “You’re right, boys. Lucky for you, with God all things are possible. I’m just telling you to be careful not to get too caught up with money.” (My interpretation, of course.) Jesus makes it very clear that the truth is, God can shrink that camel like magic, and it’ll slip right through the needle, no problem! Everyone always forgets that part of the story.
Bradley is a corporate executive who also happens to be a Christian. In his own words Bradley writes about “the challenges of integrating my career, family and spirituality — without censoring the messy, ridiculous, cynical and irreverent thoughts that happen to tag along with my current outlook on life.”
Aside from his day job as a Senior Vice President and his position as our Work Content Editor at the High Calling Blogs, Bradley is a regular contributor to several online magazines including HighCalling, InsideWork, SalesGravy and BlogCritics. His writing has also been featured in the The Conference Board Review magazine and The Chicago Sun Times.
Bradley Moore is a man who understands the high calling in our work, whether that is as a corporate executive of chief diaper changer. His thoughts on what goes on in the boardroom frequently apply to our most noble work: the work of living.
Head on over to Shrinking the Camel and say hello to Bradley. You won’t have to pass through the eye of a needle to do so!
And, hey! Don't forget to make a comment on my last post for a chance to win a copy of Mary DeMuth's book Thin Places!
The Celts define a thin place as a place where heaven and the physical world collide, one of those serendipitous territories where eternity and the mundane meet. Thin describes the membrane between the two worlds, like a piece of vellum, where we see a holy glimpse of the eternal--not in digital clarity, but clear enough to discern what lies beyond.
At her grandmother’s burial in an Ohio graveyard.
On Father’s day--and in every lost father-moment.
In the scent of marijuana--reminder of hiding in her room during her parents’ drug parties.
The memory of being raped repeatedly at the tender age of five--in the healing of that memory, rather.
These are some of Mary DeMuth’s thin places--places where Jesus holds her, changes her forever with His love. She shares her story in her book by that name: Thin Places: a memoir.
It’s not an easy book to read, Thin Places. I’ve heard pieces of Mary’s story before--read Watching the Tree Limbs and Building the Christian Family You Never Had. Both books, one fiction, one not, give the reader a privileged glimpse into Mary’s painful past. But Thin Places brings a voice to the grief of a painful childhood; Thin Places paints an intimate picture of the broken little girl who endured far too much.
It is only through looking back in faith that Mary is able to step onto the path of healing. That part of her story is here too...the hard-fought battle for her life that Jesus refused to give up on.
Surely God is in the nooks and crannies of my life, stooping to earth to woo me. Sometimes I recognize Him, but usually I continue on the mundane path, not realizing a breath of a veil exists between the Almighty and myself…
…I live in the midst of holy moments, yet only in retrospect do I really see them. I claw at the seams of life, questioning God’s ways, seldom realizing that if I’d stop clawing, I would capture new glimpses of Him through the thing places. God woos me from behind the veil through the tragedies, beauties, surprises, simplicities, and snatches of my life I might overlook.
Mary has learned--is learning--that lesson we all strive for. Through pain and brokenness she has come to the place that the Celtic people celebrate. That place where the seen and the unseen meet. The place where Jesus breaks through the gauzy membrane between our world and the eternal. He bursts through and pursues our very happiness, longs to give us joy. When we live with this knowledge, the thin places become transparent--every moment Christ-soaked.
When Mary speaks of painful memories now, they are held in a different frame.
The memory is a thin place where I have the painful privilege of extending forgiveness again, to walk with Jesus through the memory with grace-filled eyes. Any time I’m wronged (or, in this case, perceive I am wronged), I have a window to see Jesus clearer by the way I react. If I forgive, I get to experience Him. If I growl bitterness, He seems farther away. Forgiving is the deepest kinship I’ve experienced with Jesus so far…
Bravo, Mary. Your story ushers in healing, makes the path straighter. Your life brings Him glory.
You bless.
I'd love to share this beautiful story. Leave a comment on this post by Saturday, February 13, and I'll mail one lucky person my copy of Thin Places. It's a little thumbed over, as any good book should be, but it still speaks!
And BTW, did you know Mary is a member of High Calling Blogs? Why don't you drop by and check us out? It's where all the smart writers are :) We're starting a really awesome book club tomorrow...
To find out about how you can enter the Thin Places Win A Kindle contest visit Mary's blogtour site here.
Which is to say, I stink at it. I just can’t seem to master this life skill.
I used to blame my lack of role model during my cleaning formative years. Although I know I’ve outgrown that excuse, it’s still inviting.
When I was wee small, my mother kept our home neat and tidy. We had very little but it was always clean. I still remember the round-bottomed sweeper she would use to devour the dirt of four children and a husband. It was one of those that used a water filtration system. The earth-smell of that dirty water when she was done vacuuming was evidence that life’s loam --the dirt that stuck to us every day--was all swallowed up.
But my parents divorced when I was 12, sending my mother into the work force and away from us for the first time. Our home became chaos. Those were the years of the perpetual sink of dirty dishes and the endless mountain of laundry. It’s hard to focus on chores that need doing when getting through each day is a chore in itself. When other young girls were baking cakes with their mothers and learning the talent of being a domestic goddess, I was struggling with my life being pulled out from under me.
Then, I lived with my father and older brother for a while. Not much organizing of the household going on there. We didn’t even have running water in the bathroom. Cleaning my 13 year old body meant a 50 pound girl dragging a heavy bucket of water down the hallway to the tub.
I emerged from adolescence with a jaded view of keeping house. It never happened until the task was so monumental that one was doomed for failure before beginning.
Cleaning makes me anxious. Household projects lead to panic attacks.
Somehow, I always screw it up. Strange things happen when I feel a domestic pull.
Case in point: I spent the better part of the last two afternoons and evenings on my hands and knees scrubbing my wood floors with a mixture of ammonia and dish detergent. Long story, but suffice it to say, if you ever see a product that promises to “rejuvenate” your wood floors…run away as fast as you can. The stuff won’t stay put but it won’t come off either.
I’ll just say that I was long overdue for a domestic disaster. We hadn’t had a crisis of cleaning since I painted the chandelier blue a couple years ago (and left a fine blue mist over the white tile floor in the adjoining room). Well, there was that gallon of paint that was spilled on the white carpet upstairs a few months back…but that wasn’t my fault. So it doesn’t count.
We’ve repainted rooms, patched holes, and rearranged furniture to cover up some of the more memorable mishaps I’ve blundered into. And yesterday afternoon as I crawled around my dining room floor inhaling ammonia and feeling the myelin of my cells disintegrating bit by precious bit--I recounted each and every failure I have ever made as a homemaker…as a wife…as a mother.
I’ve read all the Christian women’s articles about “creating a sanctuary” for my family. Seen the books on how the home should be a place of comfort and rest. And how it is my job as the woman to make sure this happens. It’s part of my duty as a godly wife, right?
So, I’ve gone through seasons where I set up a cleaning schedule. Bathrooms on Monday. The living room gets a thorough going over on Wednesdays. It’s time for the bedrooms on Fridays. And the weekend is for the kitchen, dining room, and forgotten hallways. Then, we start all over again on Monday.
Such a schedule left my soul open and bleeding on my unswept front porch.
So I would give up in misery, wallowing on my dirty kitchen floor. Then I received that chain email that made me feel better--well, a little anyway--you know, the one about a grace-filled home being one that is filled with dust. The implication being that the mom spends more time in meaningful activities than in cleaning her house.
This outlook worked for a while. But then one friend asked, “If we are not supposed to obsess about a clean house, then why does it feel so good when everything is all neat and tidy?”
Good question.
Back to wallowing in failure again.
This isn’t the first time the devil has used this particular brand of failings to send me into despair.
Not One to be one-upped, God sent his own brand of ammunition. He sent me my husband.
Jeff understands there is much more to being a godly wife and mother than keeping a super-neat house.
In the early days, when I would become consumed with my inadequacies, my dear husband would always say, “You just take care of those boys. That’s the most important thing.”
Later, when I would be up to my elbows in craft paints, little bits of scissored paper, and a toy-strewn floor, he would say, “Laura, how many mothers do you know who paint with their children? How many moms read their children to sleep every night? How many mothers take walks with their kids every day and wonder over nature? Not the mother’s with the cleanest homes. You are doing the important work.”
Later, well--now, as I struggle with balancing career, housework, writing, and time with my boys, Jeff remains my biggest encourager. He has helped me redefine what balance means. He loves me for all my quirky cleaning deficits and, thank God, never seems to see the dust bunnies that lurk under the hutch.
I’m learning to overlook them too. At least for a little while. Because life is too short to spend it scrubbing floors.
In the meantime, I comfort myself with the knowledge that one day this house will be oh, so much quieter. When I scrub the floor, it will remain clean much longer. There will be less laundry to do. Fewer projects.
Sounds pretty boring to me.
Maybe, just maybe, there will be some grandchildren to keep me away from cleaning in those years.
I sure hope so. I guess it’s just not my thing. But I am learning that it is manageable when I don’t make an idol out of it. A clean home is nice. But a home filled with love and grace is better. I hope my boys look back and remember that kind of home one day.
And I hope they learn how to do their own laundry very soon.
Today the rain falls and I am filled with expectation.
There is talk of snow on the way.
This quiet hope, this swelling joy reminds me of something Matthew Kelty writes:
When rain turns to ice and snow I declare a holiday. I could as easily resist as stay at a desk with a parade going by in the street below. I cannot hide the delight that then possesses my heart. Only God could have surprised rain with such a change of dress as ice and snow…
Most people love rain, water. Snow charms all young hearts. Only when you get older and bones begin to feel dampness, when snow becomes a traffic problem and a burden in the driveway, when wet means dirt--then the poetry takes flight and God’s love play is not noted.
But I am still a child and have no desire to take on the ways of death. I shall continue to heed water’s invitation, the call of the rain. We are in love and lovers are a little mad. The season of love is soon over; one is young but once…
I’m declaring a holiday today, friends.
Rejoice!
There is evidence of His presence all around. God leaves footprints in the snow. He walks among us.
And I am transformed from child to lover…waiting by the window for my Beloved. Yes, lovers are a little mad.
We sat face to face, two friends meeting over morsels of food--bonded by shared days and broken expectations. Trust opened mouth and heart. And I handed you these word-stones; placed them one by one into your hands, shedding burden of what happened the previous night…sharing this parent-woe.
You received these things with open palms, wrapped slender fingers tight arount them, clutched them close to your breast--faithful in the receiving. But you grew more silent with the addition of each onus.
I saw fear.
I said much. But what I did not say weighs heavily. This is the unfettering. So here goes.
What I did not say was, yes--being a mother has been my greatest burden…my greatest sacrifice. But also my greatest joy. How to describe the way the heart moves when gazing on my sleeping child? I thought I knew what love was once, but my understanding grew deeper--my world stretched tremendously--when they came into my life. It is bigger than I could ever have imagined; indescribable.
What I did not say was, yes--I have given up many things that gave me satisfaction; my life no longer is only mine. There are times when I cannot catch my breath for the demands placed on me. But all these things fall away when tiny hand wraps around my heart…when I smell the sweetness of boy-flesh freshly washed. And all my hopes and dreams soar--wrapped up in tiny person-package. And I realize, my life is no longer only mine…how sweet it is.
How can I explain the beauty in watching understanding light up small face? In hearing words from tiny mouth speak wisdom as they grow? To know that my every word is heard, my every action is watched, mimicked. It makes me a better person. It makes me the person I want to be.
What I did not say was how deeply satisfying it is to teach the greatest truths of life--to pass knowledge into the world through them…such a privilege, such an honor. And I know this old world is changed for this...The very foundations shaken as their lives shatter the atmosphere of sameness. Their lives…just a drop in eternity--drops that fill to overflow.
How do I explain the gift of wrecked schedules, sleepless nights, worry over the tiniest of things? Oh, how lavish is the gift! The gift that makes me step outside myself, rely on faith--on things unseen--and trust in God in ways I never dreamed required.
This gift--the gift of a servant heart--teaches me endlessly. I never would have known this servant love--the tenderness of washing feet--if I had continued on living only for me. I was never given this gift as a child. I only knew self-preservation, self--self. No one else took care of me but me. What I did not learn through example is taught to me through the care of my children. There is marrow-deep love in serving. It invades my every cell, creeps into my blood, oozes out into my world, seeps into the details of life. Because there is nothing for it. It is a contagion. And once caught, there is no cure.
In putting another’s needs before my own I learn--in some small way--the gift of what was given to me over two thousand years ago.
This crazy-love should invoke fear, yes…but oh, to move past that place. To embrace the fear, and the love and the messiness of the gifts that life gives…this is living to the full.
These are the things I did not say. But there is so much more. Some things cannot be given word.
When I am feeling like life is moving at the speed of light, I usually hop on over to my friend Ann Kroeker’s blog.
Ann is the Content Editor for our Family posts at HighCallingBlogs.com. (Check out her latest post on “The Lecture” right here). Ann is a lady who takes slowing down seriously. She has to…this busy woman not only balances writing, speaking, and homeschooling four children--she is the author of Not So Fast: Slow-Down Solutions for Frenzied Families (August 2009, David C. Cook). If you visit her blog for the book, you’ll see why I frequent the place. She has many good, practical suggestions for slowing down and enjoying life.
Slowing down is not the only area of life Ann has useful tips for. Whether it’s looking for a new recipe in her Food on Fridays food carnival posts, or finding tips to help memorize scripture--I always leave Ann’s place filled with valuable tools to help me tackle a variety of challenges in life.
Ann is a prolific writer and has been published in several magazines, including Decision magazine, The Student, Christian Home & School, Indianapolis Woman, and The Lookout. She has also contributed to several books including the award-winning Experiencing the Passion of Jesus, by Lee Strobel and Garry Poole.
Her first book, The Contemplative Mom: Restoring Rich Relationship with God in the Midst of Motherhood was released in 2000 (Shaw Books) and is filled with simple truths Ann desires to pass on to other moms to help them stay close to God in the midst of chaos.
Of her background, Ann says:
I was born into a print-loving home: my journalist-parents provided a rich literary environment, surrounding me with the printed word quite literally by lining nearly every inch of wall space with books of all types, including a big dose of classics. They taught me to read at a very young age and encouraged my ability to read newspaper headlines upside down (a skill that consistently amazed their friends). To this day the smell of bookstores and libraries, newsprint and fresh ink makes me feel very much at home.
I think her roots show in her writing. You’ll feel right at home at Ann’s place. Her words are inviting and warm, informative and smart. Why don’t you head on over there and say “hi”? And if you find any good recipes, be sure and let me know!
And if you are interested in participating in a titillating book club discussion, head on over to HighCallingBlogs.com to read about the book we will start discussing next Monday!
