I felt his frustration. My husband had stepped out in faith numerous times…only to face one frustration after another in his ministry.
It’s the same old story: Church loses membership. Church identifies need for change. Church implements change. Parts of the congregation resist.
My husband was part of the change. Just three years previously, he was an unbeliever. But God revealed himself to my man through music and the result was a stunning display of Glory. A new service was added to our worship. My husband became the Praise and Worship Leader. Membership began to pick up. For the first time in years the church welcomed new families into our fold.
But some were not happy about this. Suddenly, people who had prayed with me for twelve years for my husband’s salvation were praying for him to fail. Unkind words were spoken. Meetings erupted in conflict. The congregation was divided.
And we were deeply wounded.
God is jerking me around.
His words stung. Was it really God? And should we have been surprised by the storm of resistance?
In eighth grade study hall Miss Kerns asked me to tutor Mike Jones in math.
I was a straight-A student…quiet and well-behaved. Mike Jones was…not.
He wore his leather jacket all day, unapologetically, and his rough language and tough talk made for no mistaking his background. But he was nice enough, even kind of cute with his streaky blonde hair in stark contrast to the black leather he wore. He was like something straight out of West Side Story.
We got along ok. And he was pretty smart, so my efforts were rewarded. We went along several weeks just fine. Then one day Mike said something about a bar he went to. He was in eighth grade, mind you. Maybe he went with his parents. Maybe he was lying. I don’t know. I must have felt safe with him, though, because for whatever reason, I said something I would regret. Something honest. Something no one at school knew.
My dad goes there, I said.
Who’s your dad? He asked.
When I told him, I knew he wasn’t lying about the bar. The way he looked at me changed.
Laura, he said. Your dad is a lush!
And then he went to the other side of the room and sat down.
I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach.
I remember that Darren Oldaker was sitting in the seat in front of me. He looked at me and shook his head.
What? I asked.
I can’t believe he just said that to you, he said. He shouldn’t have said that.
His kindness made me want to cry, but I just bucked up.
Well, it’s true, I said. But I love my dad anyway.
I love my dad, y’all. Sure, it’s complicated. But I love him. Just as the choices I make in life affect my children, some of the choices my dad made rubbed up against me as a girl—shaping me into the person I am today.
My dad just happens to be an alcoholic.
I don’t think I need to tell you that this can complicate things for a family. Life was not exactly predictable for us.
After years of struggling, my parents divorced when I was twelve. The changes my family went through during that time were devastating for me and my siblings.
Difficult as these parts of my formative years were, they bred in me the desire to help other kids who were going through a tough time. This is why I became a psychologist. This is why I started to write. This is why the Wings of Klaio series for teens came to be.
I first heard the word klaio in a Bible study (the correct pronunciation is “klah’-yo”). We were studying Luke 19:41--Jesus weeping upon seeing Jerusalem during his triumphal entry. My Bible study teacher shared that the Greek word for wept in that passage is klaio, which can be translated as to weep, to lament, every outward expression of grief. She went on to say that Jesus’ tears in this passage were not pretty tears. Rather, the word indicates that he was wailing in sorrow, that he was overcome with emotion.
This description made an impression on me. The thought of our Lord expressing such sorrow broke my heart. Later that day, as I was out running, I found myself thinking about the word klaio. When I thought of the depth of grief the word expressed, I felt a strange longing in my heart--a recognition of sorts. It felt like something inside of me had finally been named. I realized that this was the kind of grief I had experienced as a child; klaio, gave word to the emotion I experienced in dealing with my dad's addiction and when my parents divorced--changing my family forever.
As I ran along, lost in thoughts and memories, suddenly, a little bird alighted on the path in front of me. She seemed to look at me. She seemed to be there for a reason. The thought occurred to me that there is no greater sorrow than the fall of man. And so, the bird Klaio was born.
Klaio was the inspiration for my first book, Brody’s Story—which is about a young girl coping with her parents’ divorce and her father’s alcoholism. Klaio is one of God's agents--a guardian angel, if you will--who helps Brody through. Now, the second book in theWings of Klaio series has been released. It’s called Derek’s Story, and it’s about a young boy who is dealing with his parents’ addictions and the disintegration of his family.
When I started writing the Wings of Klaio series, it was my desire that these books might speak to those experiencing difficult times and reassure them of God’s presence in their lives. Both books have Bible study questions at the end.
Will you help me reach the youth of today with this valuable message of God’s presence? I’m giving two people copies of both of my books, Brody’s Story and Derek’s Story. If this is not a ministry you are interested in, won’t you consider donating your copies to your local library? If you would like to buy a copy and then donate it, all the better :).
All you need do to win is leave a comment on this post by this Friday, Sept. 3. If you tweet about the contest, I’ll enter your name twice…just come back here and let me know. Two people will be winners! I’ll announce the winners Saturday morning. Come celebrate the release ofDerek’s Story with me!
In the morning I sit at the glass table and drink my coffee. I see a monarch butterfly drinking from the milkweed in the meadow. The vibrant orange of his wings seem to flutter hope. I feel myself pulled forward.
Lucy Mae needs a walk and I need to walk her and we stand in the back yard quiet. She smells the grass, tastes the tender green. Something moves to the butterfly bush—so quickly that I know it must be a hummingbird. But it’s not. It’s a hummingbird moth and I watch, fascinated by the unfolding of the tongue that dips into narrow flower flute and the hum of wings…so unlike anything.
I’ve never seen one before.
But I know that it has to be. What else could it?
The moth is not afraid of me and it continues to drink nectar, flitting from one flower to the next, reaching with that long proboscis.
I close my eyes and listen to the whir of strange wings. When I open them he is gone.
Back inside, there is laundry and all the stuff of life. I’m back at the glass table trying to breathe when I look out at the bird feeder and see the sparrow. He is stuck—jammed between the square of lard and berries with his head through the suet holder, neck strangely bent and he is still. Too still.
I hurry.
I grab a stick and dig at the suet and I talk to him the whole of the time.
How did you get here? I ask. What in the world were you thinking?
And then:
Please don’t be dead.
He doesn’t move when I wrap my hands around his body, cup wings soft and gently pull his head out of the wire—out of danger. My heart is heavy.
I’m afraid to think of what to do with a dead sparrow and doesn’t the Lord know when each one falls?
His body is limp but I see his foot twitch.
I set him on the wooden deck above me and immediately he flies. The relief is so sudden that I cry.
He didn’t even say thank you.
I can’t stop thinking about this one patient—the young one—and his mother and everything about his story. It weighs me down so that moving slow is all I can do. I make a list of everything I need to do and slowly start checking them off—move from one to the next with my proboscis pen checking and rechecking.
The other day, one of my patients told me, Yesterday is history. Today is a mystery. And tomorrow is a gift.
What do you mean? I asked. Explain.
Her ebony skin shined in the sunlight coming through the window.
We can’t change what happened yesterday, she said. And today is not over yet…so anything can happen. And if we live to see tomorrow, what a gift that will be.
I laughed when she said it, but she was right. I think about her as I strain eyes for the sparrow, try to make sure he really is ok. She is unwrapping the gift. She is ok.
And me?
I’m trying not to hurry through the mystery of today. If I did I might miss monarch butterflies feasting on milkweed, hummingbird moths in all their glory, and a sparrow in need.
I try not to hurry. But sometimes I do. I grieve what I must miss on those days. What gifts do I overlook?
Will you slow down with me? Tell me what you see. I’d love to hear. Let’s unwrap the gifts together.
In June, I sent a copy ofGod in the Yardoff to Gretchen. The plan was to share this lovely book with as many women as were willing to wait in line. Gretchen is not a blogger, so I asked if I could post a little about her time with the book here at the Wellspring.
She was gracious enough to send along some of her thoughts...
The time has come for this paperback traveler to go on its way. Neatly packaged with flowers from Laura’s yard, it began its journey in West Virginia--then to me to Illinois. Now it is finding its way to Susan in northern Minnesota.
When I first received God in the Yard, the first thing I read was:You’ll be given options likefree writing, writing response, physical and mental play, blogging (or alternatives).
I said to myself: OH, NO! Then in a brief peruse through the pages I saw: Sabbath on the page (stream-of-consciousness writing)...Blog it to process and share...etc.
I immediately said, NOT FOR ME!
Despite this trepidation, I started to read...
Really, I was not very familiar with spiritual practice or spiritual disciplines. Worship and prayer were terms with which I was familiar, but spiritual disciplines were something I had to look up. After reading about them, I wondered: overall, was there much variation in my approach to making a place for God in my life and did I do so in a purposeful manner?
During the time I was reading this portion of the book, I came across a sign on the greenway: DO NOT FEED THE WATERFOWL. It was non-descript (it did not say “do not feed the ducks” or “do not feed the geese”). No...it was less personal.
I know that if you choose to feed the geese it can bring on a whole host of negative consequences--including delayed migration, overcrowding, unnatural and aggressive behavior, devaluation of the species, etc. They become used to the feeding, come to expect further feeding, and just don’t migrate or delay migration. They just stick around waiting to be fed.
The sign made me wonder…In my observance of my sacred relationships have I become habituated to merely that of conventional modes of worship and traditions with God? Am I waiting to be fed? Does this make me less open to God and would exercising spiritual practices (such as simplicity, fellowship, hospitality, confession, gratitude, solitude, etc) bring a more heartfelt experience and response?
Perhaps my feeding the geese kind of spiritual life has been merely convenient and has lead to a spiritual pattern with far less potential and....with vestiges of what could have been far more.
Change is scary. Am I a hissy mood-swinging waterfowl when encountering change?
This is where I am after God in the Yard. Still thinking…considering how playing toward God might enhance my relationship with him.
So now comes the part where we send a part of our yard along with the book…
After determining this journey was my own, my life quite different.--no sitting out in nature for an hour a day as described in the book...my yard, I decided was really the landscape of my life.
Everyone comes to this book from their own yard. So to Susan I determined to send a recipe that I use to help keep my life simple. A soup recipe you can freeze and bring out when you just can barely keep up with the pace of life. Recipes can be like books. It may appear as mere scribbles and words unless there is a conscious process to experience it. Unless a book is read, it really does not come to life. It becomes the experience.
.So.....yes... the pages are finally read. This slender bound parchment has been sent off to Susan who will give this print a warm embrace.
Though the heat lingers, morning light comes later each day—reminding us of this revolution we are on…the way time tilts us forward. My family and I try to freeze the last moments of summer by traveling to the edge of the world. We leave our everyday behind and holiday at the seashore.
I feel time slow while we are here, but it never stops the onward march. Vacation is a deep inhalation in the respiration of life. I let my lungs expand, feel my diaphragm lift tall.
The days are filled with the scent of sunscreen and a kaleidoscope of blues and deep greens. We jump waves until our legs are unsteady. We build sandcastles and collect sea shells. We manage to still time in photographs and video…but the moments that remain most vivid are the ones impressed upon our hearts.
I believe her, though I am not the artist she is and the thought makes me shy. Her paintings shout with emotion--she paints life onto white. I get lost in the bold swirls and rich colors. Mine...well, they tremble and blush--hide in this house.
Do I dare show? Come out of this hiding?
Maybe just a little.
alizarin crimson cerulean blue scarlet lake…
chunky metal vessel rolled up on end like my tube of toothpaste
yellow ochre burnt sienna viridian…
life hidden inside fragile walls
give to me your color.
ultramarine sap green permanent rose…
stagnant dormant soul waiting to be squeezed out
give to me Your water and see me flow-- rivulets of color.
A few years ago I did a series on flowers as the fruit of the Spirit
A Sampling:
Buttercup: Goodness
Forsythia: Joy
Daisy: Kindness
And here's one just for fun:
Jeffy and I painted Lucy Mae for his room
The poem was originally written for a Randam Acts of Poetry prompt, but Emily invited me to share these other parts of my heart here. Thank you, Emily, for giving permission (courage) to share my joy as Imperfect Prose on Thursdays.
The mornings are dark when I slip outside now, reminding me that the days are folding in on themselves and my world is starting to lean her tilt away from the sun—turning her cheek demurely from its warmth. But one would never know this by what the thermometer tells; the mercury climbs high as I step into darkness. The air is dense and etches the windows with heavy spoors, clings to my hair in weighty drops.
I ghost through this mist, past the water reservoir where the nitid fog gathers in the low and the geese are silhouettes gliding on shimmer. I imagine the long-legged heron is Ezra on his high wooden platform and we have gathered by the Water Gate to hear. The geese are restless and their honking echoes across the water. The heron rises out of the pool when I draw near and trails his ballerina legs behind him as he flies away. Was Ezra ever so beautiful in his priestly garments?
These geese have no respect. They honk until daybreak and seem like Eutychus to me. No wonder Ezra was skittish. But I’m no better. I trudge on by, up the hill and ascend out of the white mist. But I am thinking about hospitality and the Festival of Booths and saying goodbye.
It is week twelve. When I began this journey I had no idea where it would take me. I am well-traveled now, though feeling sorrowed to say goodbye to the book. It has been a good friend.
Ah, but Nehemiah says, this day is sacred to the Lord your God. Do not mourn or weep.
So I shall not. I shall celebrate instead.
But hospitality demands I think of home and what it means and in the end it’s something totally different than it seems.
What is the nature of home? Partly it’s a place where we feel we have something in common with people—in other words where we experience communion. (L.L. Barkat, God in the Yard).
Our home was rent in two. Into three, really, because home was at mom’s sometimes. At dad’s others. But mostly home was wherever we were when my siblings and I were back together again.
Yet this place did not have a sense of place.
In the tall crawlspace under mom’s decrepit house in town. Up the Indian Road at dad’s. Walking the streets of the city at night. On the log of a fat fallen tree in the woods.
Wherever we were together, it felt like home. At least until we were hardly ever together. And then, with a mother and father who were emotionally unavailable, and a herd of kids who were trying to take care of themselves…then we were homeless.
So I let my mind settle as the stars give way to the dawn spilling over the horizon. And I remember the simple one level home we had, with the in-floor furnace in the hall between the boys’ bedroom and ours (how many times did we all get branded with grill marks in failed attempts to jump that metal grate?) and I remember the apple tree in the field and the garter snakes we used to catch and keep in shoeboxes and the amazing buried marble treasure we found when we dug in the dirt up by the chicken coop (where did those things come from? We found enough to fill a Quaker Oatmeal cylinder…shooters and all) and riding our neighbor’s ponies on hot summer days and…
and I know that was home.
Any sense of hospitality I have is rooted in my memory of how it felt to be held and loved in those few short years before we fell into disarray. The place where every part of me belonged—the good and the not-so-good.
I like how the ancient biblical festivals build a communion-based hospitality into their structures—especially the trilogy of harvest festivals, which invite everything to the table: suffering, triumph, sorrow, joy, struggle, comfort, ugliness, beauty, emptiness, plenty, separation, community, death, and life. (L.L. Barkat, God in the Yard).
See, these are the things I bring to the table. And God says, bring it all. And He invites me in to this divine relationship He has with Himself and He says, hey, I want to stay here with you, ok?
And this is home.
Wherever He is—this is home.
And I understand why this deliberate approach to spending time noticing Him--an hour a day for a year, in His Creation—in this world He made for us—would drive the point of His gracious hospitality home.
All this for me, Lord? For us?
And it models for us how we should be with each other.
When I started feeling more like God’s Beloved throughout my year of daily solitude, existence seemed to become a kind of festival, welcoming all manner of emotions, the light and the heavy. Strange things started to happen. I found myself feeling more connected to people…I began to want to know strangers’ names—I bought a silver bracelet one day and had to know that Tonya had sold it to me; it was important that Jose was my driver to the airport. I had the urge to embrace people and forgive things. (L.L. Barkat, God in the Yard).
True hospitality means inviting people into our lives.
The sun is creeping and I’m nearing the end and part of me doesn’t want to stop. So I think of Ezra. I remember how the people celebrated that first Sukkot in Jerusalem after Babylonian captivity.
…From the days of Joshua son of Nun until that day, the Israelites had not celebrated it like this. And their joy was great. (Neh. 8:17b)
i care less
about this today
than i
did yesterday.
for, when i
looked in my
rear-view mirror
and he was
gone, the world
tipped a little.
after i turned
around and went
around the bend
and saw him walking
on the side of
the road and
breathing--with
bits of his car
on the blacktop--
i knew there were
certain possibilities
that would cause me
to want to trade
everything i have
for the way things
are now. i hold today
tighter. and cherish
how we are in this
moment.
I'm talking about poetry today over at HighCallingBlogs. Come on over and share your poetry journey!
And I saw her there--above sun-dappled water, head thrown back, hair glistening. And I felt homesick for the water. Just hold on, I thought I heard her say. Your turn is coming soon.
Hey, friend, enjoy the lake. You made me think of this song this week.
Enjoy...
Also in honor of Emily's Imperfect Prose on Thursdays. Empty of prose today, so sharing a bit of Mindy. She's one of my favorites.
The morning runs are going well. The heat requires that we go early--just as soon as the boys awaken. We run out, and then walk back. The walks are always entertaining. I think I do enjoy them most. One morning as we walked by the steep bank of the golf course, Teddy called my attention.
Look, mom.
I turned. Almost level with my eye was…perfection. Each pert blade of grass topped with a circle of moisture, perfectly balanced. Hundreds of tiny dew drops atop choppy green spikes. The water droplets prismed the morning sun until the entire lawn was winking sunshine. I stared long, wanting to fall into that beauty.
I wish I had my camera, I whispered.
I knew you were going to say that.
He smiled. I smiled. Because he knew me. This quiet one—the one I have to remind to look at people when he is spoken to—he knows what his mamma loves. And to be known this way is the way of love.
…Something inside me feels like fire, a sure melting, a merging with Spirit I sense in beauty…(L.L. Barkat, God in the Yard).
This is how I begin week eleven. Submission, she speaks of. But all I can think is beauty. How it arrests, how it mends, how it touches deep. And I know this is God. Beauty brings me to my knees.
This is submission to me.
It’s another difficult chapter as I re-live my making.
…It’s a skill that kids of divorce pick up along the way, as they pay close attention to the different rules in their respective parent’s homes. In order to keep from seeming too much like mom (for dad) and too much like dad (for mom), kids mimic each parent closely and adjust themselves on the spot, shaping and reshaping beliefs and habits on demand. For this reason, Marquardt notes, kids of divorce often feel like different people with each of their parents. (L.L. Barkat, God in the Yard).
I woke up one morning and I was married. I was married to a man who ran six miles a day and ten on the weekend. He played rhythm guitar in a band and was the lead singer. He had his Ph.D. in clinical psychology and he was so very smart. He had a family who loved him--was kind, showed their care in being with him, talking with him, wanting his time. The day after we returned from our honeymoon he decided to become a homebrewer. He read books, took classes, experimented. He ended up taking a national exam and becoming certified as a national homebrew judge. We traveled all over so he could enter and judge homebrew competitions. He won a few medals. And made some really good beer.
I followed him.
The first year of my marriage I began to suffer crying jags and provoke my beloved into heated arguments. I was unhappy.
I didn’t know who I was. I spent my life bending to the will of others. Being what I thought they wanted me to be.
If there’s one thing I like about Jesus, it’s his cool-as-a-cucumber demeanor…He always seemed to know exactly who he was and what he wanted. He knew when to submit and when to walk away…Adele Calhoun says, “Sometimes submission means giving. Sometimes it means receiving. Sometimes submission means leading and at other times it means following. But in each case there is an element of self-giving.” (L.L. Barkat, God in the Yard).
How does one give of self when one does not know who self is?
All of the moments of my life rise like steam in the air and drift with the breeze. I can bend, I can float, I can change into rain if the circumstances require it.
I can become something else.
It doesn’t frighten me anymore.
There was a time when I became what others demanded or desired. Now, most days, I choose. Knowingly. Not always happily, but with love at the root. I choose to see the beauty.
And it brings me to my knees.
Chameleon
don and doff these bits of me; close my eyes to remembering when I thought love meant only giving up self, not… giving of self…give up; give of—such a tiny difference, it seems. but not. wax and wane like the moon—what ever the mood called for that day…I can’t shed the past— these broken bits of me. shards become the way I smile and jagged edges are smoothed by Love.
