Holy Wednesday

It’s Tuesday evening of Holy Week before I remember.

We haven’t dyed our eggs yet.

We are on our way home from music lessons, and I glance in the mirror at my boys as I realize. It’s almost Easter. Do I really want to go there this late in the game? Waste all those eggs for a few moments of fun?

This is the first year they haven’t asked.

Are they too old for such things now?

The thought makes me a little sad as I remember our traditions. The cousins used to hide the plastic eggs for them after Easter dinner. Chubby legs would toddle from bush to bush, peeking in secret places for hidden treasure.

Now their cousins are off to college. And there are no more small ones in the family.

Perhaps it’s time to start new traditions.

The thought is lost in traffic and chores and all the beauty that goes into keeping this household.

But she peeks at me from behind the trees this morning.

I grab my camera and stand on the back deck in the blue light of dawn. So beautiful. At first my head is full of aperture and shutter speed and ISO. How best to capture?

I am staring at her through this viewfinder when the beauty penetrates my heart. I lower the camera. See with my eyes.

And I remember.

I remember this conversation with Jeffrey a couple years ago. I remember feeling this way. I close my eyes and see more.

His bent head in the garden. Broken heart, bent knees.

In the shadow of the nearly full moon this morning, as my breath escaped in tendrils released to the atmosphere…The sorrow of Holy Week struck me.

And I longed for Sunday.

It is for joy that He gave up His life. That we may live to the full.

Light begins to creep and her silver face grows dim. But my heart is imprinted with all she has seen.

I slip back inside. Put up the camera. Look in the fridge.

I’m going to have to buy more eggs.

Driving Lessons

As we enter Holy week, I am taking stock of my Lenten promises. This is the season that I shine up my servant-heart. I have been practicing humility.

At first glance, inventory doesn’t look too bad. I’ve been doing great at church, at work, even at home. This ministry of foot washing has been extremely fulfilling. But there is one place I still need to do a little work.

In the driver’s seat.

[click to read the rest of this post over at High Calling blogs…]

Shimmer

My new friend Jennifer wanted to know about the surprise package I received on my birthday. It’s just a small thing. But oh, how it made me smile…


She was who I ran to.

When the craziness in my house was too much, or the emptiness too loud…her heart was always open. I would run down the hill, she would swing the door wide and gesture dramatically.

The mission is always open, she would say. And we would laugh. And I would stay all day.

Her mom put out bologna and cheese for lunch. We would write the names of our latest crushes on the bread with mustard. We cried and giggled over boys. In the summer we swam in her pool and lazed in the sun and dreamed.

She introduced me to cheesecake and Chinese food.

Later, we would double date. I stood in her wedding and she in mine.

We grew together.

We don’t talk much these days--separated by geography and life. But when we do, it’s like we haven’t missed a beat. Like I’m lounging in her room seeking refuge from the world.

We don’t do birthday presents. Just cards usually. Maybe a phone call. So when a small package arrived last week-- just in time for my birthday--I knew it was going to be good.

I saw “your present” one day when I was out shopping, the card said. And I couldn’t believe it.

Funny how you forget a thing until you hold it in your hand.

It was a lip gloss compact in the shape of kiss. The original was red, but this one is pretty close. We loved the shimmery stuff inside. It was hers, but she always shared.

It made me grin from ear to ear.

Thank you, my precious friend. I treasure this memory you have given to me.

Plus, my lips are much shinier now.

Do you have a friend that time will not lose? That special one that fits like a glove, the one you can still talk to about everything and anything that matters…no matter what? I would love to hear your story.

Palm Sunday

Sunday Sermon Notes

I Am the Way, the Truth, and the Life

John 14:1-7

the palm’s leafy fingers
rest on my lap and
music stills
as faith
and grace
wait

expectantly.

water cupped
and released mats
shiny curls, drips
translucent rivulets
down cherubic cheeks

baptized.

already His…
now, ours also.

it was a busy week,
she said. again.
and spoke of
donkey and treacherous
fingers dipped in
bowl
and preparing rooms

for the bride.

words vivified by
the leafy hand on
my knees
but…

i am
distrait.

because faith and
grace wear white
dresses and
i am swept
up in this
Great Romance.

The Song of the Wind

A day with fifth graders reminds me how precious my littlest is. From the archives, alive in my heart today...


Yesterday, the winds blew through, causing the trees to dance and crusty leaves to drop from bending branches.

I see him standing in the bay, this child of mine whose heart has been churning these past few days.

Eyes fixed on swaying leaves.

And then he is out there, face lifted to the wind. I see his heart soar up to the top of the pear tree, and sway down to kiss the earth.

He sits on the porch, alone, for a time; brow pensive…as if listening.

I restrain myself from joining him, for he is hearing what I heard as a young girl. This is for his ears alone.

He returns to my arms and we watch the dance of the trees together.

“Sometimes…”

He pauses.

“Yes?”

“Sometimes, the wind sounds like…music.”

Oh, how my heart smiles.

“Yes, it does. I wonder what song it is singing?”

He ponders this but does not respond. And then he is off.

I watch the dance of the trees alone. Branches sway, bodies bend. I hear the music…it plays my song.

For how often do I feel this way, bending and waving in the winds of life? I’ve never seen the beauty of this dance until this very moment, too often I am afraid of breaking.

I am this tree. The winds lift me high and swing me down low. I ride this breeze, fearfully, joyfully…

Oh, the beauty of it all! The beauty of a life that hears the music of the wind.

The Birds and the Bees

My mother taught me the finer points of human anatomy from a nursing book with black and white illustrations that used to be her mother’s. The front cover was ripped off, the pages dog-eared and frayed. She consulted that book for every childhood ailment we ever had.

And she used it as a visual aide when she gave my sister and me The Talk. 

I remember the day she took us into her bedroom and pulled the dusty volume off the shelf. I just don’t remember what she said. We learned the facts of life with all the proper terms and anatomically correct illustrations.

And the entire time I was thinking; I have no idea what you are talking about.

But I nodded my head and pretended.

I don’t know how old I was, but it wasn’t old enough. My sister is two years older than I, so that talk was probably more for her benefit than mine. Two for one? I don’t know. But there never was a repeat. Not even a review. I had my chance to learn about the birds and the bees and I missed it for lack of understanding.

I’m not sure what kind of deep-seeded personality flaws this lack created in my psyche, but I’ve always been a little sensitive about it. So much so, that two years ago I was blindsided by my neglect.

We were on the fifth grade field trip. After a couple hours of walking and herding, we settled in to the Imax theatre for our viewing pleasure. Unbeknownst to me, the movie? The Human Body. My poor little fifth grader sat next to his mother in the dark as the narrator discussed how a baby is made.

It was the first time he ever heard it.

I thought I would faint.

The kids were mostly freaked out by the information. I think I was more so.

And it got worse.

I learned on the bus trip home that most of my son’s friends had already had The Talk.

I was mortified.

Fifth grade? Really?

Apparently, kids these days develop earlier than we did. That’s what they told me. I looked at my red-headed, freckle-faced boy and thought No way.

A few days later I broached the subject with my baby.

And was surprised by his open curiosity. He was ready to hear. The Talk.

I ordered a couple books and a movie that one of the mom’s had recommended. All in all, it went very well. My eyes were opened.

But I adjusted.

Guess where I’m going tomorrow? With my youngest? With my baby?

On that very same fifth grade field trip that I was so traumatized by two years ago. Same city. Same stops.

Different movie. (whew!)

But as the date of the trip quickly approached, I began to feel a tightness in my chest. Could my baby of babies really be ready for The Talk?

I sucked it up and broached the subject two nights ago.

We watched the movie.

All in all it went very well.

But I’m still glad that our movie tomorrow is Under the Sea.

Will you share your stories about The Talk with me? I'm ever so curious...

Resources:

The Movie:
Where Did I Come From? Narrated by Howie Mandel

The Book (for me):
Everything you Never wanted your kids to know about SEX (but were afraid they’d ask) by Justin Richardson, M.D., and Mark A. Schuster, M.D., Ph.D.


The Book (for him):

The American Medical Association’s Boys Guide to Becoming a Teen by Kate Gruenwald Pfeifer

Springify

What you see when you come through my front door:

It's time to springify!

My friend Melissa tells me that March is National Crafting Month, or some such business, so I thought I'd throw my hat in the ring.

Here's a fun little craft I've done in the past to bring a bit of the outside in...with lasting effects!

I love forsythia. Nothing says spring like forsythia. It speaks joy in a bright yellow package. But when I bring the real stuff in the house, the vibrant yellow blossoms turn brown in no time!

I found these inexpensive forsythia garlands at the dollar store.

The boys helped me collect some stray branches. All different sizes make it wonderful.

Then, we pop the artificial blossoms off and glue-gun them onto the real branches.

Wala! You have a vase full of joy all spring!

The Beauty of Grass

When I tickled Teddy’s feet to wake him up this morning, he opened his eyes, blinked, and said, “Happy birthday, Mom.”

It was so sweet.

I am having a perfectly lovely birthday.

The sun is shining, I just returned from a long (slow) run, and there was a surprise waiting for me on the doorstep. I just love surprises.

My mother even called me, which is unusual for her. She usually calls the week before, or the day after, but because of her faith, she will never utter those two words that have been showered on me today. But she called. And it made me happy. We talked about birthing days and when she couldn’t remember what time of day I was born it didn’t even matter. So when we finished our conversation I ran to get the boys’ baby books and to make sure I never forget. It’s not the most important thing, I know.

But I don’t want to ever forget. 

It’s wonderful to have a birthday in the spring, when all the earth is waking up. With each year I celebrate I am reminded that I am re-made—I am reminded of resurrection.

On this day last year I was in New Orleans on a surprise birthday trip. Have I said how much I love surprises? My husband knows this well. The memories of that trip I will savor my lifetime over. And last night, he surprised me again.

I was having a terribly self-pitying evening in which I made Jeffrey cry with ugly words. But he swallowed his tears and went to his drum lesson, leaving me ashamed and empty. So I walked. I walked around the bricked streets of the square and up on the Adena burial mound. I looked out over the city and felt like I was on Mt. Nebo, staring into the Promised Land but forbidden to enter. When I slowly descended a splash of yellow caught my eye. It was a lonely little daffodil, hanging its head in a sea of grass.

When the boys were done with lessons, I took them to the base of the Mound and showed them the flower.

“Sometimes God puts a flower in the middle of a bunch of grass,” I said. “It might seem a little bit lonely, but it shows off the flower’s beauty all the more.”

I was half-joking/half-apologizing for my moodiness earlier. But I was a little bit serious too. I was telling myself more than them. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Laura. Look at this lovely grass around here.

They understood. Sometimes it’s hard being the only female in the house. They don’t always get me.Sometimes I just need too much.

Fingerface said, “I’m a flower, see how beautiful I am?” And we laughed and all was forgiven. But I still felt ashamed.

And when we returned home...this surprise waited for me. A perfectly overindulgent, amazingly wonderful, terribly generous gift.

All I wanted was a new bird feeder.

Today I am feeling very spoiled. And very loved.

It still amazes me how God will bend over backwards to reveal that to me. I know that He has been there all along--that He has seen the entire making of the wreck of me. I know He held me when I was a wee one and He caught my tears in His wineskin. He knows why I say ugly things sometimes and He sees the scars on my heart. He knows why I doubt myself and am filled with self-loathing at times.

But He sees me the way He wants me to be too. He believes in me. And as I let go of those wounds from the past, I feel the freedom there is in loving myself…in seeing myself as He does.

It allows me to let others love me too; to be the grass—the solid ground I root into.

Oh, Happy Birthday to me.

The grass is beautifully green on this side of the fence.

Sunday Sermon Notes: Getaway

Columbus, Ohio

The Word did

not fall

through pulpit, or

lips today--

but sang

out from streets

of a strange

city

from stone

cathedrals that

whirred by in

window

from books

and beer

from dainty turn

of orchid

beard

light through

fatidic glass turned

by Chihuly’s

hand

and reflecting

what Your hand

turns

it whispered on

rooftop

over reaching branches

and sighed with

quiet of

cascading water on

stone

in the body of

black

dog

in the middle

of the road;

I cried,

heard Your voice

and wondered--

was he loved?

in garrulous

market

and

erudite pages

that took my

breath

in first flutter

of diaphanous wings

wriggled free

of chrysalides

you spoke in

bricked streets and

ivied trellis gates…

in art the scale

of a

building side

fresh bread

and pickles

and the scent of

popcorn.

Ah, yes

One

who speaks—

never stop

and let my

ear be always

tuned

to

your

sweet

melody.

Smiling Moon

When the Moon Smiles At Me

Sometimes the moon smiles at me.                                                     

When the Moon smiles at me  
     in the twinkling of a dark night,                      

I know the sun has gone to sleep

    far below the western horizon.

I search for old friends in the sky                                                                   

    and I see why the moon is happy.

When the moon smiles at me  
     in the quiet stillness of dawn,                          

           before the world awakens,

 I know the sun will soon peek above the hills

            and kiss the morning dew goodbye.

Then her moon smile will slip away

in the brilliance of the morning.         

I think the moon smiles because she has a secret--                                        

            one that she cannot keep to herself for long.

For the secret of the moon’s round face

            is hidden behind her smile.

But every month, out in the deepness of space                                               

            the sun shines fully on her roundness.

And her secret is revealed.     

There is no more hiding her face.                                                                  

When I see the moon smiling,

I know her secret.

                                   

Her beautiful face hides

            behind that smile.

And I smile back.

Tonight, as I drove home from a friend’s house, I looked up to see this beautiful crescent, lying on her back. It reminded me of this children’s book I wrote several years ago. I tried my hand at watercolors too…in an attempt to get a feel for what I wanted the book to look like. The result was sweet, but not very marketable (as I was told by the agent I pitched it to). Never mind, every time the moon is in this phase, it tenders my heart and makes me smile.

I hope it makes you smile too.

“…it will be established forever like the moon,

the faithful witness in the sky.”--Psalm 89:37

photo by Irargerich, flickr creative commons

Argus Update

Remember this little guy?

He stole our hearts.

Well, as the snow melted recently, and--um--evidence of his time with us was--er--uncovered, Jeffrey started missing him again.

So I sent out a plea for an update from Argus's new family.

Here is the message I received:

He is doing very well! He is such a little lover. He and our other dog Bella couldn't be happier to have each other around. They play and wrestle and play tug of war with their babies. Which they go through alot of! But whatever make em happy :) He still likes 2 chase the cats but not as much as he first did. But yeah we all adore that lil bugger. His gas is still enough 2 make an elephant cry but it's still a little giggle inducing when he has audable ones! 

And here's the picture:

He looks pretty happy, doesn't he? (sniff).

Good boy, Argus.

Remember

Every spring, I remember. And every spring, I wait.

I wait for the dark morning hours to gradually be filled with light. I wait for the symphony of the songbirds. I wait for milder temperatures to lure me out of doors. I wait for the trees to bud out in their umbrellas of blossoms.

But most of all, I wait for the flowers.

God has gifted me with a love of all growing things, but perhaps His most precious gift to me in this love, has been my mother-in-law. In her, He has given me a kindred spirit, and one with more expertise and experience than I could ever hope to attain. Over the years, she has celebrated this love with me, through the sharing of her knowledge, and of the treasures from her garden. Every year we watch and wait. Together, we rejoice at each and every shoot of green that reaches through the earth with pointed fingers. At the first glimpse of color, we exclaim at its distinctiveness and proclaim it beautiful. We wait for each flower to reveal herself, to boldly declare the beauty she envelops in her prayer-like sepals. Before each bud matures into the lovely creature it is intended to be, we picture in our minds what they will all look like together, side-by-side in their glory. The blooms come alive in our imaginations, and the garden becomes a thing of expectation, of sleeping joy.

This image is ever before us throughout the year. When the earth appears barren and cold, we hold in our hearts the secret she has hidden in her womb. We rejoice in the waiting because we know what is to come.

And so it is as we wait on God. Just as the flowers have an appointed time to lift their lovely faces to the sun, so are our lives ordered by God’s will.

Scripture tells us that His timing is different than ours. Sometimes this inconveniences us, oftentimes for years. We want our prayers answered in our time frame, according to our stipulations. But always, His solutions are wiser; His timing is perfect. We see the truth of this reflected in the change of seasons, and the way the earth revolves around the sun. We see it in the way our children grow and pass through predictable developmental stages.

Perhaps, like me, you have been blessed to also witness this truth in your personal life.

And so, we wait. And because we are human, we forget to keep the image alive in our minds. The darkness looms in the winters of our souls, and we grow weary.

This is why we must not wait alone. For, just as my mother-in-law stands at my side to share the joy of new life in each spring, the joining with others in this waiting peppers our anticipation. We are like the flowers: each beautiful and unique in our singleness, but side by side we reflect a glory that is greater than our own. We were created to stand together, complimenting and strengthening as we do so.

When the landscape of life looks bleak, remember the springtime. Remember the flowers. Underneath the stark and barren exterior lies something beautiful waiting to burst forth. We can rejoice in the waiting because we know what is to come.

I repost these words in celebration of Ada Mae's (my mother-in-law) birthday this past week. She is one of God's greatest gifts to me. Happy Birthday, Grammy.

Swing Me

  The Swing by lepiaf.geo

I’ve got a

sky-swing

8 miles high

fingers curl

‘round

rope-wings--

fly

wooden bench,

two seats

wide…

you pump,

I pump

rubbing thighs

in fullness

of kick

and clouds

comes down

toes reach

gravitas slips

away

   

hair

sweeps ground;

sky opens up

swallows me

down

until

just

the right

moment when

I jump

to the ground.

the hardest part is the landing.

I Am the Gate

Sunday Sermon Notes

John 10:7-10

The purpose

of a

door,

she said,

is to pass

through it;

not to ooh

and ahh…

whether

fiberglass or

or steel

or wood

or flesh--

you;

leaded glass

etched

beveled or

plain

I looked through

your window

but did not

walk in.

if

you are

the Gate

then why did

you let that

wolf in

on 109 Taylor

Drive?

or before?

on Lambert’s Run?

when lambs

bleated

wildly

in the night?

foolish lamb.

she

followed the

wrong voice

chose

the wrong

door

but nevermind

you poured over

the world

for me

and I am here

now

and you lay

down

your body

as gate

and I

pass

through you…

the wolves

will

never touch me

again.

join us for this week's RAP: streetwise poetry.

photo: garden gate in Shepherdstown by Laura

From glory to Glory

They do not even wait until I leave anymore. As soon as I reach the feeder with my old rusty coffee can, they come--perch in tree and bush, hover above my head--and wait. They watch as I fill the transparent tubes, scatter seed on ground for the thrush and occasional rabbit.

Sometimes they sing.

This morning, as I knelt over the can of seed, a song sparrow lighted on the leggy forsythia bush. It was raining but I didn’t care as I stopped what I was doing and gazed up at his prehistoric form. He cocked his head to one side, as if to say, “On with it, lady!”

I smiled and finished the task at hand, barely stepping away before he flitted down onto the fragile sill of the seed trough.

I studied him, fast at work, and remembered my morning reading.

“Are you waiting for me to be revealed?” I mused. A strange, tingly feeling possessed me and it was my turn to wait.

When will this glory come? Mr. Sparrow was oblivious to my plight and if there was some secret knowledge in his heart of when the sons of God will be liberated from their state of decay, he wasn’t sharing.

He was too busy being cute.

Turning away, I savored the simple joy in my heart.

Back inside, I sat at the kitchen table and watched the others come, joining my lone sparrow for feasting. And I pondered the Words.

Sitting there, with rain softly pattering against window and birdsong lifting me, I realized there is nothing I want more. To be shed of burdensome desires, to carry only luminosity…to see with the eye of eternity…

Surly this is glorious.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that I would be so much happier if I did not have this dream in my heart. Suddenly, it felt very easy to let go.

The weight that lifted was tremendous and I wondered why God puts these dreams in our hearts, anyway. I knew it was a foolish thing to ponder. I know the answer. Well, part of it anyway.

The dreams themselves are beautiful. They give me yearning, longing, desire to seek. A metaphor for the Bigger Dream. But when I lose sight of this, when I hold the smaller dream in tightly clutched fists…this is when the yearning turns to sorrow.

Unsilting the two--sorting and sifting--this is the real work.

Why is it so easy to get lost? I ask it with an earnest heart. It is not my desire to put anything before Him.

And He reminds me of the birds. How they wait for me to fill the feeder. Trusting in my hand.

He is asking me to trust Him.

Do I dare? I have before, with mixed results--at least with these temporal eyes. Is my faith so fragile as to crumble with the smaller dream? Do I not still have the Bigger?

Does any of this matter anyway?

I know it does, and yet it doesn’t. Immediately before the verses I have been pondering, Paul says, I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.

It does, and yet it doesn’t. These heartbreaks, these daily hassles…they matter. But they don’t matter the most.

So I am sifting. My goal is to keep my thoughts focused on the higher things. It doesn’t mean these other things do not matter. They just need not matter as much.

Will you please pray? I thank you most sincerely. I am, after all, a work in progress.



The creation waits in eager expectation for the sons of God to be revealed. For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage of decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God. (Rom. 8:19-21)


photo by Steve Greaves, from flickr creative commons

Jeffrey Boggess and the Daring Rescue

“I’m writing a book.”

“Another one?”

“Yes. This one is going to be a series.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s about our family, and all my friends, and this guy I don’t know. I named him Clyde.”

“Clyde?”

“Umm hmm. Clyde is given the power to take over the universe and he turns evil.”

“Oh, my.”

“And me and my friends--and Teddy-- are given the good power to fight Clyde. And LucyMae. Lucy is with us too.”

“LucyMae fights evil?”

“Umm hmm. And Clyde kidnaps you and daddy and we have to rescue you. And we have to travel all over the universe. Each book will be a different adventure on our way to rescue you.”

The lights are out and the pillow talk starts and I stare up at the ceiling in the dark and think how small his universe is.

He’s given the power to take over the universe…and he kidnaps you and daddy.

I squeeze his hand and shift Lucy with my leg--she always wedges in between us during the Tucking In--luxuriating in the white fuzzy blanket Jeffy calls home at night.

This is his universe. We are his universe.

The thought silences me and I am lost momentarily…until I am called back to this place, in this white fuzzy blanket, on this bed, with this dog between my legs, beside this boy.

“I’m calling it Jeffrey Boggess and the Daring Rescue.”

And I think about The Rescues--the big one and the Even Bigger One--in my life and I can’t breathe for a minute.

I am filled with it all anew: the wonder. That I can reach out my hand and touch Jesus in my life astounds me. He announces Himself. And I am Simon Peter, falling to my knees at the great bounty before me.

“Do you like it?”

“Hmm?”

“Jeffrey Boggess and the Daring Rescue? Do you like the title?”

Do I?

“Well, I just…I just think it’s perfect.”

Because everyone wants to be rescued.

Anam Cara

“This was a wonderful day,” he says, as he leans back into his pillow. “It was like the good old days.”

I stop fussing with the blankets and smile to myself. This is going to be good.

“Good old days?” I ask. “What do you mean the good old days?”

I turn out the light and snuggle up against his eleven-year-old-body.

“Oh, you know, before I wore glasses. And when the meadow was still the meadow. And before Kyle and Nikki moved away. You know what I mean?”

I think about his big blue eyes peering out from behind rims. And about how we used to pick apples in the meadow where a big condominium complex now stands. I think about our old neighbors and how Jeffy and Nikki used to play for hours outside on her swing set.

“I think I do,” I say, then I kiss the top of his head. “I’m glad you had a good day.”

Later, as I fold the clothes (there are always clothes to fold), I am thinking about his definition of a wonderful day.

Enjoying his senses, and the great outdoors. Spending uninterrupted time with a good friend. And being tucked in by mom.

Sounded pretty good to me.

And I began to think what a wonderful day would mean to me.

Seeing? Seeing, yes. Definitely would be beauty involved. Preferably beauty in the great outdoors.

But. A friend? Here is where it gets a little tricky for me. See, to me, wonderful day means alone.

All day long I am fighting noise. Noise outside of me, noise inside of me. To be alone, to have the quiet. Ah, that is wonderful.

And then I remember the Anam Cara.

Anam Cara means soul friend. Anam in Gaelic means soul; cara is the word for friend. I have been reading about the soul friend in John O’Donohue’s book, Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom.

Such a book makes me realize the poverty of the English language. Ah, but never mind. We are speaking of the soul friend. Of the concept, O’Donohue says:

The anam cara was a person to whom you could reveal the hidden intimacies of your life. This friendship was an act of recognition and belonging. When you had an anam cara, your friendship cut across all convention and category. You were joined in an ancient and eternal way with the friend of your soul.

And I know who my anam cara is.

O’Donahue knew too. He goes on to say, in this lovely book with lovely words:

The anam cara is God’s gift. Friendship is the nature of God. The Christian concept of god as Trinity is the most sublime articulation of otherness and intimacy, an eternal interflow of friendship…Jesus, as the son of God, is the first Other in the universe; he is the prism of all difference. He is the secret anam cara of every individual. In friendship with him, we enter the tender beauty and affection of the Trinity. In the embrace of this eternal friendship, we dare to be free…

And I realize that wonderful is not being alone so much--but being alone with my Anam Cara--my Jesus.

Yes. That is a wonderful day.

My

Anam Cara--

soul friend

lover of my

soul,

you awaken

desire…

the circle

closes

around us

I am

clay

and fire.

night becomes

the womb

where

you hold me

and day

is

Christmas morning--

I see

myself

in your mirror

reflection of

your love.

but this

love

is no

apparition

it cleaves

metes out

only justice

goodness

beauty.

Ah, Anam Cara!

You

Are beauty.

the good 'ol days

 glasses

 the good 'ol days

Cutting down the trees


poem by laura boggess, inspired by the Anam Cara, both the book and the Person 

**all quotes from Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom  © John O’Donohue. All rights reserved.

If you are interested in participating in an interesting discussion about the importance of religious freedom, head over to Bibledude.net and read my post over there. 

Our Guru: Meet Chris Cree

I was up the proverbial CREEk. I was helping out with editing of posts over at HighCallingBlogs but things weren’t going the way they were supposed to. Ann tried to help me. L.L. was out of town.

There was only one thing to do.

I called Chris Cree.

It was almost 9:30 p.m.--the time most good southern boys are heading to bed. But I was desperate…and lucky. Because Chris was still (just barely) awake when I called. Much to my relief, he was able to give me the help I needed. But Chris gave me something else that night too: Grace.

In between my feeble apologies, this kind man repeated over and over, “Don’t worry about it. This is what I’m here for.”

Isn’t that the nicest?

And when I had to call him at 8:30 the next morning because things were all wacked out again, he was just as lovely.

Grace-filled. That’s how I would describe Chris Cree.

His real title is Senior Community Manager. Marcus called him the hands of High Calling Blogs. I like to call him our Wordpress guru (to which he replied, “There really is a Wordpress guru, you know. I’m more like his…understudy.” Well, Chris, you are OUR Wordpress guru. )

You can read about Chris’ awesome business, SuccessCREEations (did you notice the foreshadowing in my opening line?), here. He has some pretty neat gifts. HighCallingBlogs is blessed in a big way by his sharing of them. Our very own guru.

Sunday Sermon Notes

I Am: The Bread of Life
(John 6:22-35)

bread
she said
is not
baked to be
contemplated,
thought about,
considered…
but to be
eaten
enjoyed;
it nourishes,
fills.

but you walk
across
the water to
me
and this
lacuna inside
roars.

if you
fill my stomach
with food
that spoils
I
will be
grateful
but I
will not follow
you
to the other
side of the sea--
to Capernaum.

but you
fill
my soul--
the quietus
for
this hunger.

I cannot help it
I grab at
you
with two fists
gorge myself
until
I am
sick--
bloated.
but the need
is not filled
and I must
purge
spew out
all that I
thought was
you
because it is
only me
all me
not you
that I
fill my
belly with.

just believe
you say.
but I ask
again and
again
for miraculous signs.

what is in my hands?

the bread
you give
transforms.

feed me
fill me
show me
how
to dine
on this
delicacy

and i
will
follow you
anywhere.

Promise

Clear blue calls and so I go--head outside to run into the sky for the first time since the snows came.

Legs protest at first long reach…my muscles have grown short and bunchy over the past months, well honed to the squat round stride of the elliptical I’ve been training on during the dark days of winter; but clumsy on this cinder-strewn sidewalk. Despite this, spirit lifts and heart soars at the first steps under sun-illumine. I am a newborn fawn--all leggy and gawky--tremulous at the discovery of this power inside of me.

I struggle for rhythm and am lost under the canopy over head. It’s so easy to lope in--leave life behind, forget all the “nos” and griefs and broken dreams.

Knees begin to ache at the unfamiliar pounding and sinuses grow thick with shaken down mucus. My nose runs and lungs sting from cold air.

But still there is this: joy. I gasp at the raw elation I feel at the caress of this truant sun.

But maybe it’s just these lungs have grown soft, lost the feel of the wild air.

Just breathe through, I tell myself.

I run by the water reservoir and watch two men drop fishing lines into ice-crusted water. They sit motionless and wait. A gaggle of geese fall into familiar formation overhead and I feel the joy of soaring…soaring into God’s blue sky.

It takes two miles to warm up, as always, and I am groping for that familiar easing up. Body hums but remains sluggish and I wonder at this life--this continual cycle of death and rebirth and constant need to shift and recondition.

To the hill now and finally, I am breaking free of the listless winter. Nimble, it’s up we go and I know I will regret this on the morrow.

A flock of Cedar Waxwings startle from a branchy cherry tree and I gawk at their rakish black masks and tawny silkiness. They don’t go far, circle back around and land again, eager to pluck the dried fruit from this otherwise naked tree.

Oh, the wonder.

Where have you been? I ask Beauty. I have missed you so.

And though my body screams I push it hard and rejoice at the freedom in my limbs until I am running down the familiar street to home. As I round the final turn, I glance up at my neighbor’s pear tree and see the silver beginnings of leaves starting to bud on her reaching branches.

The promise that a new season is coming. The promise that spring will soon be here.

And I smile.

Learning to Breathe

I remember how it felt.

Knees slightly bent, pulled up--reclining against his chest. It was almost time, but not quite. Anticipation, fear, excitement…so real I could pluck them out of the air around me.

I want you to find something in the room… she said. It can be anything. Focus on that object. What color is it? How big? What is the shape? Do not take your eyes off that focal point. Now…breathe.

And I did. Pulled air from outside in, felt invisible tendrils inhabit lungs and blood and tissue. In went fear, transforming into something altogether different as it traveled through my body and reached the exhalation point through parted lips.

Breathe through, she said.

It seemed so easy.

But when the time came, it was not so. Who could anticipate such pain? So deep, so far inside.

I wanted to hold my breath. Wanted to stop breathing at all.

Breathe through, he whispered, as I crushed his hand in mine.

Breathe through.

Birthing a dream is no less painful. A different pain, yes, but one that runs deep.

Why do we think that death comes only at the end of life? When, each time I hold my breath something dies inside?

Breathe through, He whispers.

I choose my Focal Point. It cannot be just anything.

Sometimes I forget to breathe. My eyes stray. Desire and fear flood lungs…threaten to break open fleshy confines and gush forth.

Breathe through, He whispers.

So I do. It’s not that easy. But, one breath at a time, I go on.

Learning to breathe again.

When the Answer is No

Life goes on.

I storm and rage and weep into my pillow. I ask “why”, shed tears of loss, flail about in confusion. Grief breathes through my nostrils, slips down my cheeks at unexpected moments, colors days gray.

But love still lives.

Shattered heart still beats and blood pumps through these veins. I still cook the dinner, keep the appointments, fold the laundry…go to work in the morning.

Life goes on.

Night doesn’t turn into day, seasons fade from one into another, the earth continues its same well-worn path.

God is still God.

That never changes and what good will it do me to be angry at Him?

I am small. Wounded. Alone.

But not. Really.

The question screams at me in the dead of night: What will I do with this sorrow?

What now?

I can pretend a while. Wear this mask of courtesy.

In this brokenness, I feel Him soft. I pull away.

Leave me be, I say. But He never does.

I’m tired of you, my heart cries. Have mercy on who you want. Why is it never me?

And I know it’s not true but it feels true enough…right now…in this moment…when the answer is “no”.

I am Elijah, under his broom tree. I have had enough, Lord, I say.

When the angels come, they have no wings. Only gentle hands, gentle words, love.

These hands that feed and water--nourish my soul--these hands are flesh and blood. But they are holy. God rests in these palms. They hold Him out to me. I shy away at first. But I see Him there. Waiting. Filled with love.

He cares for me. That’s why He says “no” sometimes. I do this with my own children. I am a parent after all.

And this sorrow? What of it?

They say the recent earthquake in Chile may have shortened the length of a day by 1.26 microseconds. The rotation of the earth is forever changed.

When world’s shake, life is never the same again. Bodies move differently around Axis. Sorrow shifts balance. Grief changes views.

Seeing beauty in the shift sometimes requires I see with God's eyes. Beauty has many different faces. I believe sorrow may be one of the loveliest. God sees the heart. And a sorrowed heart carries much love.

When the answer is no…

Life goes on.
Love still lives.
God is still God.

And sorrow changes my view.

If I am not careful, I may miss the beauty. I may miss the best day of my life.

May your “nos” lead you to beauty, Beloved. May they lead you deeper into His embrace.