Playdates with God

I am reading Wendell Berry and I realize something is missing.

I know for a while again

the health of self-forgetfulness,

looking out at the sky through

a notch in the valley side…

(excerpt: V, from Sabbaths 2000 in Given by Wendell Berry)

There is snow on the ground outside but the sun beams bright for the first time in days and here I am--stuck inside, staring at a computer screen. The world is melting.

I need chocolate.

The first thing I think of is the beautiful batch of dark chocolate brownies that Monica sent me all the way from Colorado. They arrived a couple days ago along with a book she wanted me to have, some homemade granola, a little bit of tea, and a smattering of her famous granola bars. I have been living high off the hog these past two days.

All because of this. This word: Sehnsucht. Because of this she says: We wander homeward together. Thank you for your companionship on the journey.

Nuke ‘em, she has written, by way of instruction, so I do and as I sink my teeth into rich yummy decadence I say a silent prayer of thanks for Monica and her friendship. It tastes good but these holes stay…I am a slice of swiss cheese--a moon made of it, orbiting my life, held by gravity.

Then I think of the tides. My mother-in-law watched a special on the moon the other day. Do you know…if it wasn’t for the moon, the earth would be covered by the sea? She tells me, among other things.

I think these things as I munch the brownie. And I know, this moon, this pock-marked satellite, must change orbit and change the tide of this day. Time to play outside.

So we go out, into the melting world. And boys discover what perfectly malleable snowballs the trickling snow makes. It’s piled on the street corners, bunched up around the edges of life. And the mom-moon becomes the target.

It’s cold on my neck and I run mad…laughing crazy, away from the snow-bullets until I make my own ammunition and this is wild joy, erupting from inside the holes of me.

I told her: maybe I should try to tame the sehnsucht…knowing what a foolish thing it was to say.

Keep it wild, girl!

That’s what she said.

So I run wild with all these God-shaped holes leaking joy out of me and an occasional snowball fills in the emptiness.

He always knows. But I don’t always listen. Maureen said it and got me thinking. Playdates with God, she said. And that’s what it is when I go outside to play.

How about you? How do you embrace the God-joy? Every Monday I’ll be sharing one of my Playdates with God. I would love to hear about yours. It doesn’t have to be outside. Maybe it’s quiet. Maybe it’s solitary. Maybe it’s loud and crowded. Just find Him. Be with Him. And come tell us about it.

Grab the Playdates with God button--the code is on the sidebar! A big thank you to L.L. Barkat for designing this fun button for me.


Sharing in community with L.L. Barkat for On, In, and Around Mondays.

 

Conversion and Shame: Stone Crossings

She says she met Jesus over a white bread sandwich. Salvation all wrapped up in peanut butter and Fluffernutter and I wonder if tasted different for the meeting. If the bread melted on her tongue and the sweet nutty flavors became like honey in her mouth.

In the first two chapters of her book Stone Crossings: Finding Grace in Hard and Hidden Places, L.L. Barkat talks about Conversion and Shame and she has me wondering how knowing Christ has changed my life.

What does it really mean when I accept His body into mine and we become one? When His blood swirls into mine and beats through this heart how am I changed?

Dictionary.com tells me that the word conversion means to change in character, form, or function. Or a change of attitude, emotion, or viewpoint from one of indifference, disbelief, or antagonism to one of acceptance, faith, or enthusiastic support, esp. such a change in a person's religion.

I remember the day I was baptized. I was 27 years old and out to here pregnant with my first child. I had known Jesus all my life but shame had kept me from committing to Him. Fear kept me from saying Yes to the Bridegroom and living happily ever after.

I thought I wasn’t good enough.

What aspects of the Christian story might seem like a fairy tale?

L.L. Barkat asks that question after sharing the tale of her own beginnings. How, after sinking teeth into that white bread sandwich, hard things came.

The first two chapters are lovely, but sad, I tell her, after re-reading. It’s been a while since I visited this story. I see parts of mine in it.

Well, there has been something of a happy ending, she says.

And I smile because, yes, she is a happy ending. And even though her story is still being written, those dark parts in her beginning seem to have made her strong.

I used to think the same about me. I thought adversity had toughened my skin…the way a tree does when it is wounded.

That’s the way a tree heals after an injury—like skin. After trauma, the tree closes itself up around the wound, compartmentalizes the damaged area--almost like a scab. Knots form on the grainy surface where the wound was—scars. By redirecting the cell growth of the bark around the injury—and successfully covering the abrasion, the tree is able to continue providing needed nutrients above and below the site of insult.

Trouble is, the wound leaves the tree susceptible to disease, insects, and decay.  

I’m glad God delights to make things right, to cover our shame so we can stop trying to cover it ourselves. (L.L. Barkat, Stone Crossings)

When I read these words, I put the book down. I walk over to the window. The night is luminescent—white below, white above…starlight has fallen into snow. I rub my hands over the gnarly bumps on my heart…feel the knotty scars.

Is this the difference? Is this what you live inside of me to do, Jesus?

I feel the swirling, flow of Spirit. Healing. Healing. Not covering the wounds, but healing.

And I know that—for me--conversion is a journey.

The Hope Journey Begins

She asked us to write down our word.

It shouldn’t be so hard. So why this lump in my throat? I know the particular battle I have been facing. Have even named it. But when I write down these words— tie letters together in loopy lines—they loom large.

How does one find hope again?

I know all the right answers. I’ve used my concordance. The NIV has 174 verses containing the root word hope.

I’ve been reading through. In turns, the verses buoy me then fill me with despair. I know what scripture says about hope. I know where my hope is. But lately…my heart doesn’t.

What I need is a heart change. And there’s no easy way to get that.

I write the prayer out and close my Bible study book. I pick up the other Book…pick up where I left off. I’ve been reading through the Bible in a year, using one of those online plans that make sure you proceed through in a sensible order. These past weeks have found me in Isaiah.

My eyes follow the passage and then drop below to read the commentary. This has been my practice—listening first with my heart and then with my mind. This day my eyes bulge as I read what the commentator wrote:

Isaiah spoke by inspiration to people who had lost hope.

A whole book written for those who felt this soul-ache of hopelessness? Did they feel this heavy burden of tired? Sorrow so deep my finger can’t find the beginning? Did they try and try in their own power to bring it back? And just grow even more tired?

That’s how it feels to give up on hope.

My eyes are hungry for Isaiah now. What does he say to these hope-less people?

He gives strength to the weary

            and increases the power of the weak.

Even youths grow tired and weary,

            and young men stumble and fall;

but those who hope in the Lord

will renew their strength.

They will soar on wings like eagles;

they will run and not grow weary,

they will walk and not be faint. (Isaiah 40)

I ponder what these words mean. Savor their strength. Grasp for it…search for a small kindling of hope.

I read on.

In Chapter 44 there is this:

One will say, “I belong to the Lord”;

            another will call himself by the name of Jacob;

still another will write on his hand, “The Lord’s”,

 and will take the name Israel.

So I do it. I write it on my hand.

Then I fix breakfast for the boys, pack their lunches and take them to school. I run six miles and come home to walk Lucy Mae another. I take a shower and run to Charleston. I shop four hours for the perfect bookshelf that I never do find. But I do find a suitcase I desperately need for an upcoming trip. I get caught in traffic on the way home. I vacuum the entire downstairs and mop the kitchen floor. I do three loads of laundry. I check over Jeffrey’s math homework and help him identify five news items each for local, regional, and world news.

At dinner, I remember.

And I look down at my hand.

The words are gone. They’ve slipped away. Somewhere between dirty mop water and a pile of clean underwear, I think. And I feel my heart sink.

Not because the words I have written on my hand have disappeared, but because I know that I must write them on my heart. And not giving them a thought all day…where IS my heart?

I only wish that if I wrote in over and over, like a punished school child writing lines on the blackboard, that it would be true.

My hope is in the Lord.

My hope is in the Lord.

My hope is in the Lord…

And He whispers in my ear I am your hope.

And He is enough.

This

is the hope

that is twice

dead;

laughter

from

barren womb.

this--

dead branch

in

my heart

sprouts anew,

manna for

shriveled soul.

resurrection comes

in

form of

words

and I

am shed of

this onus

though

it leaves a

deep lapidary

well, sharp

on edges begging

fingers to find

it’s empty

shell

and rub.

I am

carved

out;

empty.

Hazo asks,

what is left,

then, but

to live

with wounds?

yes, I say,

what?

yet,

over and over

this belly

fire returns.

hope.

I hope

still

Bonnie asked us to write about hope this week--my word for 2011. This is a re-post from my archives, with a little twist. My hope journey has begun. I lost some in 2010. There were too many nos, too many disappointments, too many dreams lost. But He whispers this to me now...I am your hope. And it gives me a strange sense of joy. And I know it is true.

Join us over at Faith Barista for more hope stories.

I am also sharing with the Imperfect Prose Community over at Emily's today. You guys bless tremendously! 

This Must Be...

this must be

how

it feels

when the hard

shell breaks wide
open and

insides become

skin—when what

was hidden strains

toward light.

this must be

how

it feels

to be a star

on fire—burn

from the inside

out and shine

for miles and

miles.

this must be

how

it feels

to be rock

hewn into form,

given a face

with edges

hammered

away, rough places

broken and blasted

off.

broken shell

star on fire

stone-hewed heart…

this is what it is like

to love.

Written for One Shot Wednesday, a community poetry project by One Stop Poetry. Drop in on some great poetry over there today.

Beauty. Treatment

The snow fell soft again this morning, embracing this frozen crust in a thin layer of down.  I study gray havens on my way to work—see misty mountains floating in swirling shards of light. This is beauty and I drive by it every day and look right through it. But today I look at it--breathe in with more of me, and feel the free of driving through a thousand scattered snowflakes dancing down. 

This winter I have found the secret to a great mystery. A fool-proof anti-aging formula: 

Go outside when the snow is falling down + Turn face upward = Instant beauty treatment. 

It works better if the arms are held open wide. And maybe a twirl around or two. 

Since the day I committed to play outside every day, I have grown younger. Each day that first week, the boys and I went down to the creek on pilgrimage. We walked on water and poked at her hard surface with strong sticks. They used the sticks to pry up the edges of the creek--jagged chunks of diamond flipped onto the muddy bank. We peered through panes of ice at the benthic bed. We looked for signs of sleeping minnows or mud-burrowing frogs. 

All was still except the silent play of light across the gossamer lid. Our cheeks grew rosy with the touch of the cool air and shivers came not from the temperature but from that deep place inside that tells me I’m alive.

And then, after the summer frolic: the winter quiescent.  The roots deep within me hear the call of the winter sleep. Dream, the wind seems to say. Rest and wait for spring, was the whisper of the blackbird. We curl up under blankets and binge on stories. And because of the beauty treatment, we are tired…but it’s a good kind of tired so we sit in front of the fire and let the warm glow thaw these frozen roots. 

All the while, we are quiescent—waiting.

Contrary to traditional belief, forest ecologists now know that tree roots do not stop growing in the winter. We’ve always been told that this is the dormant stage--that during this season of cold and frost, the tree conserves valuable energy by falling into a deep sleep.  The tree shepherds tell us different. As long as the soil remains favorable--that is, between 32 and 41° F, the trees roots will continue to grow and do their job. Even when the air is fraught and frigid, the soil frequently maintains these mitigating temperatures. An early snow is even better—a heaping scoop of snow on top will protect the soil underneath from the harsh cold and insulate the root. During these times of winter growth, fine filaments of non-woody tree hairs creep out from the mother root—seeking nourishment and quenching the thirst of the winter quiescent. 

In front of the fire with my boys I feel the slow-hum of this invisible root growth. We let those tendrils creep slow, quietly absorbing all that brings new life--intertwining, tangling up in one another until we are joined in the deepest places. Beneath the soil of life, in the dirt and mud of winter we are woven into one. We rest, but we are not dormant—senses dulled in sluggish sleep. No, just the opposite. This rest brings life…it hones sagacity and opens hearts to deeper wisdom. We grow.

And thus, one final step in the beauty treatment:

Go outside when snow is falling down + Turn face upward + winter quiescence = instant beauty.

Try it for yourself. You’ll lose ten years. Maybe more.

This is written for Peter Pollack's One Word Blog Carnival on Winter. Join the party? I'm also a little late to join up with L.L. Barkat for her On, In, and Around Mondays party.

Almost Whole

outline of the hospital where i work from  the parking lot.

with morning dawning

I take broken

bits of me, the open

gaping wound of

me—I carry pieces

up sterile stairs…

tendrils trail behind

and I pad to cabinet

to find glue, a

notebook, some keys,

and a little bit of putty.

story-collector, mind-

bender, open-heart

tinkerer…I listen to

the soul-voice.

bread crumb heart

helps me find my

way back, I sweep

them up in my dust

bin and go. a little

milk and sugar and

wa-la! I am pudding.

but…sometimes,

a few crumbs are

left behind.

She asked, What frustrations does your workplace bring? And, Can you capture your workplace through photography in order to rethink the negative aspects?

So I take my camera to work.

But how? How to give a picture—or even a word—to a place people go to be put back together?

These therapists I work with, they do God’s work—they are His hands and I have seen more miracles than I can count. But don’t I know that when I climb these steps that take me up to fix the broken people—don’t I know that they will help put me back together again?

They give me their stories. I receive them gentle—place them soft in my story basket. Some days I weep at the beauty of the gift. Others bring silent wonder with the strength they tell. Some will shine in the corners of my mind longer than others. Or maybe leave splinters on my heart. There will be those that weave tiny threads—whispers--into mine. But since these are not my stories to keep, I bless them and let them go.

I have my own story to tell.

This broken person meets these broken people and when we come together—for just a short time—we are almost whole. We rub up against each other--sometimes soft, sometimes rough—shaping and sanding sharp edges…leaving beauty.

And I think of the place of deep joy  and I know…this hard place takes me there. Life is rich and joy drips deep into these veins because we. share. stories. 

**Poem for One Shot Wednesday

**Photos to play along with PhotoPlay over at The High Calling

**Also, blogging in community with:

Emily

 and Bonnie

Love you, gals!

The Wonder-er

The sky is as white as these snow-covered fields today and the sallow tiredness of old snow bleeds the color from each moment. My every breath is a question. I cannot shake this restlessness.

I have been so hungry for God these past weeks—devouring book after book, trying on the thoughts of others and shaking off old habits. But the more I read about Him, the more He becomes a deep pool that I gaze into. I cannot fathom the bottom. If I dip my foot into the water, it disappears into a swirl of greens and browns…and what might come up out of those depths is a mystery.

The vastness of it all makes me dizzy and I want to slip my whole self under the surface—sink into this unknown beauty.

It reminds me of childhood, this feeling.

When we were kids, adventure was just a thought away. Each day opened up possibility, unfolding as a series of actions: What do you want to do now? Let’s play outside. There was always the next thing. We spent most of the day at the Black Spot. Thus named because it was what was left of a patch of strip mine. Whatever treasure was lifted out of the earth there left a stark, flat surface covered with black sand and pieces of slate. It was our favorite place to ride bikes because of the ease of pedaling on the flatness of it. There we would set up jumps with cinderblocks and old pieces of found wood and there we learned how to fly. When our legs grew weary of pedaling, we would park our bikes and tap patterns of holes into the slate flats with old rusty nails. The slate also made excellent blackboards and we would scratch words onto the grey surface with pointed stones.

Other days we would pick the milkweed pods that encroached upon the Black Spot and make intricate mud pies with feathery icing. The creek at the bottom of the hill provided the liquid to turn the black soil into batter. We would poke sticks down into the cakey mess and sprinkle delicate seeds on top. In the summer, raspberry bushes pushed up against the barren black and, rather than waste them on our inedible concoctions, we put those round bits of reddish flesh to better use.

My brother’s trailer now sits where the Black Spot was. Green grass pokes out from under the snow this time of year. Sometimes it feels like that sense of adventure in me—that wonder about the world—is buried also. Little bits of it poke out of me from time to time and I startle in recognition. I wonder if I imagined all those adventures…if they simply ceased to be because my grown-up mind has lost the ability to play this way.

Let’s play outside.

What I didn’t realize then is that those adventures were a way of tasting God. Looking back, I see His companionship in the cool, smooth surface of a piece of slate. He flew through the air underneath me when I was airborne off the bike ramp. He is the feathery softness of the milkweed.

My play looks different these days. I might take in a concert with my family, or steal a weekend away with my husband. I love to run, to paint, to create, to laugh with friends and family. But it is when I am out-of-doors that I feel Him return to me. These are the moments that color drips back into life and my breath is deep and sure.

When I bend to look through flowing water—watch light play on sinuous arcs rippling over hidden life—I feel the liquefied parts of me pulled deep into the earth, to the beginning of time when Spirit hovered over sea.

When I stir earth—dig into her musty skin—her kin in me is stirred. I feel my dusty roots.

And when I lay back on grass-bed and stare into an ocean of sky…I see the endless beauty of creation—of me, and what I was created to be.

When I play outside, I commune with God. And while book-reading is good, and it is whetting my appetite for Him, I am reminded of these words from a wise teacher:

Of making many books there is no end and much study wearies the body... (Ecc. 12:12)

Trouble is, I don’t play outside often these days. There are other ways, of course, that I commune with God. But none quite so fun. Last year, I read this book, and it reminded me how much fun God can be. I worked my way through the book here, posting once a week on what stirred inside.

Funny how I forget these things.

Today I stumbled across this post, and I remembered again. The thing is, I don’t want to forget this time. So, I’m making a commitment to play outside—even just a little—every day. I’ll try to tell you about it from time-to-time. And if you try it, I’d be honored if you tell me about your play dates with God.

Time to rediscover the wonder. See you down by the creek.

It's Not...The End of the Story

Sometimes when I’m reading a good book, I flip to the back and read the end before all the middle parts. 

Sometimes…I just have to know.

My Jeffrey must feel this way sometimes too. He must have wanted to know how it all ended last night, in fact.

When I checked on my boy after my shower, he was in bed reading his Bible. I slipped on by, whispering a prayer for the word to light a flame. The house was quiet and I was looking forward to catching up with some of my bloggy friends. I went downstairs and fired up my laptop. I stopped by to see Billy and was heading over to Maureen’s when he came down the stairs. I glanced up from my screen as he quietly sat down beside me.

What’s wrong? I asked, still looking at the screen. Why are you out of bed?

Mom? He asked. Is God perfect?

One look at his face and I knew this wasn’t going to be a short conversation. I closed the computer and looked at my son.

Why, yes, He is. He’s the only one who is.

He nodded and looked down and for the first time I realized he was fighting tears.

Why do you ask?

Well, he said, I was reading the book of Revelation (Uh-Oh) and it says that there will be a new heaven and a new earth.

Yes.

And it says that God will dwell with men and the new Jerusalem will come down from heaven.

Yes.

But it says we have to be pure to get in—that liars and murders and thieves won’t be allowed in the gate.

I nodded, waiting. His lip began to quiver.

But…sometimes I lie.

At these words, he broke down a little and leaned into my shoulder to hide his face.

Oh, honey, I put my arms around him. Oh, honey, we all make mistakes.

We’re not pure, he said, tears streaming.

Oh, honey, Someone died to make us pure. Jesus took our punishment. When we gave our lives to him, he washed us clean. As long as you are following Jesus and trying to live like him, you’re okay.

He looked up with big eyes, not sure.

Revelation is kind of scary.

Well, I struggled for the right thing to say. Maybe it’s not the best place to start. It’s a hard book to understand. A lot of scholars disagree about what some of it means. Maybe you should read that one when you are a little older. And with a teacher or something.

He started to cry again and asked me about the signs of the end of the world. How will we know, he wanted to know, how will we know when it’s the end?

We talked about knowing what the Bible says, about the signs and the antichrist and even talked about Hitler. We looked him up on Wikipedia.

But none of that made him feel better. He kept squeezing in to me the more we talked.

There’s something I want to show you, I said, getting my Bible. I turned to Romans 10.

…if you confess with your mouth, “Jesus is Lord,” and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.

You belong to Jesus, I said. As long as you follow him you will be ok.  He knows your heart.

We talked about the thief who was crucified beside Jesus—the one who told Jesus to remember him when he came into his kingdom.

He must have done bad things, I said, to be crucified. But you know what Jesus told him?

Jeffrey nodded.

You will be with me in paradise.

Because he believed that Jesus is Lord, he was saved.

Jeffrey’s eyes brightened and he knew it was past bedtime.

Do you want to snuggle?

Upstairs, I spooned into him and I could tell how tears had tendered his heart.

I love you, mommy, he kept telling me.

And then he sighed heavily and I knew he was about to give in to sleep.

God sure is powerful, he whispered to the wall. It sure would be easy to be scared of him.

But you know what else God is?

I breathed in his ear: God is love.

He nodded.

That’s one reason in infinity to love him.

The Bible says He loved us so much, he gave his one and only son for us.

He nodded again.

God does more for us than he should—more than we deserve.

That’s called grace, honey. That’s grace.

But he was quiet.

**Bonnie asks me How is God calling you to be more confident, care-free--to trust--or be bold?

One way, Bonnie, is through my children. Just when my trust is hanging by a thin thread—just when I begin to question again…he sends these divine appointments. To watch His word penetrate the heart of an 11 year old boy…to know that hey, I could seriously mess this up…and then watch as He gives the words. It is amazing. It sets me on fire for Him. Over and over again. And that’s pretty cool. Or should I say…hot?

**This is also written for Emily’s Imperfect Prose. God knows. God knows just how imperfect my words are. 

Broken Thoughts

I’ve been thinking about being broken these past few days—wanting to write about it but too busy living it to bend to the words.

And then this morning I read these words:  

If, however Adam and Eve had never been expelled from Eden, then the effort that is the basis for most human achievement, as well as both good and bad actions, would not exist. Without expulsion there would be no drive to restore the severed relationship with the Divine, no attempt to join ourselves once again with the God who created us…(Victor H. Matthews, Old Testament Turning Points: The Narratives that Shaped a Nation).

I felt a little twist inside my heart when I read these words, for isn’t the reverse just as true? There would be no need for this striving to restore relationship if it had not been severed in the first place.

But we have this thing called free will and Victor H. Matthews suggests that it is this very quality that prevents the Garden of Eden from being a habitable habitat for mankind.

If humanity is truly created in the image of God, then there is an inherent element of free thinking that is an integral part of our mental makeup. Adam and Eve could not have remained as they were forever. If they were truly human, then the curiosity that stirred the ancients to discover uses for fire, stone, and animals demanded that they be awakened to their destiny, which was not in Eden. (pp. 32)

This shook me.

Adam and Eve could not have remained as they were forever…

Is it possible that, without the first sin, we wouldn’t know the value of the relationship that was squandered? Is mankind capable of making good choices without the intimate understanding—without having knowledge of—the negative consequences of disobedience?

I want to believe that the story could have had a different ending—that it wasn’t just some kind of holy setup. But I don’t know. I’ve never lived in a world where bad things have never happened. Even now, in this fallen world, where the negative consequences of many choices are well documented all over the earth’s surface…where the bad is well-known, people make poor choices—I make bad choices—everyday.  

Nothing bad had ever happened in paradise. They had no frame of reference. And I am fooling myself if I think I would have chosen differently.

In the end, the question is this: Do I trust my Maker?

Do I trust what the Bible says--that He is good, that He has good plans for me, that His ways are higher than my ways, that I can never understand the mystery that is Him?

Because I don’t. I don’t understand why this roundabout way of watching us sin so He can send his Son to save us. Of sending God with Us in the form of a helpless babe. Of the suffering we must endure until He comes again.

I don’t understand.

It doesn’t make sense.

But what does make sense is the rush of joy that I feel at His presence…the way He can show me amazing beauty in pain and suffering…the way my heart burns within me when He speaks.

But still…

Sometimes I question His wisdom. He is the best thing I have but still, sometimes it is my first response to say, Are you sure, God?

Because I am broken, I ask this question. And because I am broken, I cannot trust my answer. And because He is God, He has made a way for me—even in my brokenness.

if…

the garden was just

a trophy case for

the exhibit of all Creation,

if we were never

able to live in utopia

from the beginning,

if free will keeps

us from belonging

to this paradise,

then, what is this

hole inside my heart?

isn’t it the longing

to return?

every day I am Eve. did

God really say…?

the serpent slithers in

to provide the catalyst for

change. And I—I

lay a place for him

at my table.

in a world where

evil is the belle of the

ball…where she dances

proud and brazen in the

dark of each day…a narrow

Light shines still.

and by grace this

cycle will be broken.

This was written for the one-word blog carnival over at Peter Pollock's (though I'm late to the party) and for Marus's Random Acts of Poetry challenge over at The High Calling.