Playdates: Books

It is raining. The wind hums to me down the chimney and a few errant drops plink, plink, plink on the grate in the hearth. The smell of spring comes with those metallic notes and the robins sing their robin songs outside the window as they scour the saturated earth for a soggy breakfast. The robust gusts and the lightening have passed, taking with them our electricity, so I sit here with candle lit--letting the quiet inhabit the space of me. The dogs are sleeping and the fire alarm starts chirping every so often—just to let me know: There is no backup. This could be dangerous.

No playing outside today. I am still nursing a migraine from yesterday afternoon--my head tender, my eyes heavy. I don’t want to move quickly, I want to creep slow through this day.  The rain is tender; it rocks my achy head in a steady rhythm.

I start thinking of my backup.

I remember my sister and me as girls, sitting cross-legged on the bedroom floor as sheets of rain dash against the windows.

What do you want to do?

The possibilities were endless back then, but here I sit—cannot do the laundry that needs doing, no possibility of vacuuming in the near future, no internet access…

I’m in this house all alone with no power when I feel The Power ask:

What do you want to do?

And I smile.

We curl up on the couch with that flame aflicker and read. The light from the window is all we need and we are wrapped in words and each other. It is more than following words with eyes when we are together. I think of something I read recently and it names what we do:

The method of prayer proposed for lay persons and monastics alike in the first Christian centuries was called lectio divina, literally “divine reading,” a practice that involved reading scripture, or more exactly, listening to it. Monastics would repeat the sacred words with their lips so that the body itself entered into the process. They sought to cultivate through lectio divina the capacity to listen at ever deeper levels of inward attention. Prayer was their response to the God to whom they were listening in scripture and giving praise in the liturgy. (Thomas Keating in Open Mind, Open Heart).

We do read scripture, but we don’t stop there. I have this stack of books I’m working through and I offer the words of each one up to Him. We toss them back and forth, hold them in our hands, question each other about what they might mean. This is prayer conversation.

When my son was a toddler, he loved his picture books. He would sit in the floor surrounded by stacks and stacks of stories. One by one, he would pull his favorites. He would follow the simple words with his chubby fingers, pointing to the colorful illustrations with a look of concentration on his face. He loved his books so much that sometimes he would taste them.

I bring one of my books to my lips. I press it flat against my mouth, but I don’t bite. Instead, I breathe in its paper-scent, close my eyes and let dizzy love grip me.

My friend asked me just the other day, do I sometimes feel guilty for “just sitting there reading”? She said she was feeling mildly so. Do I feel that way? Yes, I said, I do, because there is always something else that needs doing. Always something that only mom can do.

I laugh at the gift of no electricity as I remember this.

Did you do this for me? For us? So we could read together?

There is nothing but quiet in the house and I snuggle into pillows and a soft blanket and turn pages with new love in my fingers.

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 can be anything: outside, quiet time. 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 button from the sidebar!




 Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also:

**the photo of my little redbird is compliments of ELK. She works wonders with paper!

Forgiveness Feels Like a Hug

Math Whiz

The days are growing longer. I feel them stretch out beneath me and winter yawns. When I drive to work in the mornings, light comes too; I drive into the sun’s slow rise. My crocuses have poked sleepy faces through their covers; the earth awakens in her bed. I feel the deep quiver, the thaw dripping into the belly of the inner core.

I have been thinking about forgiveness.

Forgiveness—the deep sigh of the soul, that letting go of bitter, the love that opens arms wide.

I’ve thought about it all week--ever since Bonnie said to—turned it around and around in my mind, twisted it, wrung out the tears and hung it up to dry. It’s been blowing in the breeze of my thoughts, whispering a collection of memories, asking the question.

Have I?

Forgiven?

Those old particular aches blow by. I grow weary of remembering. Little girl lost, the smell of alcohol and cigarettes, the bad touching, the let down, afraid. So boring--the breaking of a family, betrayal, loss of the little bit that mattered lots. Butterscotch pudding and trees disappearing with friends and life went on and the neighbor kids in town broke into our house and ate all of our popsicles. There were wrapping papers all over the lawn. What it means to be loved came in the form of a deceiver and I relived all the same mistakes of my parents.

My son won second place in the county math field day competition tonight and I wonder how it would feel to him if I wasn’t there to see him smile his math whiz smile. But no…really I don’t-- I don’t wonder, I know. But now I also know how it feels to be here—to see this piece of me with two legs and red hair grow into something so amazing. I know how it feels to love him so much my heart might burst. I know…I know what they missed.

I feel such compassion for that loss because…because it is so close to being everything. This love teaches me what it means to be loved.

Anger used to be the fuel that kept me going. They should have known better. They should have loved me more. They should have…

I should have.

I should not have.

It is raining tonight when I let the dogs out. I stand on the porch in my pajamas and wrap around myself. As I wrap me up in these flimsy arms I remember something my youngest said when he was only small.

Mommy, did you know that when you hug yourself, you are giving God a hug? He said. We were lying on his bed in the dark. Prayers said. Waiting for sleep to take hold.

I never really thought about it like that before, I said back.

It’s true, you know, because He’s always here.

I wrap my arms around myself in the dark. The rain is soaking through to my skin but I am breathless with the thought that within this body is something holy.

He’s always here.

Yet, I walk around on these feet, unaware most moments.

The Holy Spirit lives in me. This Person of the Trinity dwells within this flesh and blood.

Is there no greater mystery than this? 

I’m hugging myself tonight, that I might touch God. And I know that forgiveness will only be complete when I am able to forgive myself. I wrap my arms around Creator-God, and I am wrapped in the arms of heaven. I am forgiven. 

And so I forgive.

I'm jamming with Bonnie today--just a wee bit late, but that's just me. Join us? 

How to Reach Across the Quiet

We love to drive together, so we do—a four hour journey of side-by-side and music and leaving things behind. Earth carries us on her hip and I watch the tops of the evergreens wave us by through miles and miles of naked trees. A hawk catches an updraft for pure joy—dark wings spread wide against pale sky. The arching arms of sycamores stand out like old bones against washed out winter oaks and maples—fair sister in midst of wrinkled rough bark and fragile leaves holding on until the last.

I am happy and I tell him all my thoughts—about this beautiful life crowned by this amazing community—these word-lovers I am longing to see.

He grows quiet.

How to touch that empty place—the tender space where two branches meet and grow up and away from each other? They begin as one—climb up from the root and push through the loam of earth together…but one leafy hand reaches for light this way and the other stretches up that way and grows away…

Away.

I sing the words to the music soft.

We arrive and I go chase words and he walks streets and stops in a pub to taste some Belgian ale. He watches people--the man who sits beside him, the people at the bus stop, two Orthodox Jews—young men, in black dress with long locks framing faces.

I text him during breaks and he is resting and the quiet in the space between grows louder.

At dinner I press my cheek against the window and look out at the streets glistening in the night—all dressed up for a night on the town. In that moment, I am held.

On Sunday, my pastor preached the story of David and Goliath.

It’s a familiar story, she said. But don’t let that keep you from listening. Don’t let that keep you from hearing.

She read the story and I listened with new ears.

The Israelite warriors looked at Goliath and quaked with fear. They looked at Goliath and saw a giant. David looked at Goliath and saw a giant target—one he couldn’t miss.

And Saul took David in his tent and dressed him in his armor. And David couldn’t move…David only needed one kind of armor to defeat Goliath…

But isn’t that what we do? She said. We put on the armor of a giant and go out to fight the big guy. When really, only one thing is needed…Oh, Lord, when we pray, you come to us and enter our lives and make us strong…

This doesn’t feel like a giant. Love bridges most any chasm. But I feel the growing pains and I know what this requires.

…come to me, Lord. Enter my life and make me strong…

The giant target I cannot miss is love. But I must take off the armor first. When I do, my heart is left bare and I feel small, frightened, vulnerable. One arrow might pierce these tender places. I reach a branchy arm across the quiet space and dig through the earth to touch the root of me, curl into him.

We grow this way—following light but always turning back to one another, braided together in love.

blogging in community,

with Emily:

and Michelle:

Playdates: Pittsburgh

It’s when the days are busy that my heart spins crazy, the ground shakes under my feet and I carry too much inside to hear the call to play. On these days I know I must try harder, listen better, and make room for the secret heart rendezvous so I don’t lose sight of the beauty. We are One but sometimes I live split in half, breath from the corner of my mouth.

I sit and listen to ten different speakers in five hours and my head is full with all the words and my hand is tired from all the notes. It’s all God-talk, so it feeds, but all this talk makes my feet want to MOVE.

And then he says, I like to think of creation as re-creation. When we create, we are really just echoing God’s creative voice.

He talks about playing in God’s sandbox and my hands are itching to build something, to hold Creator-hand and skip through sand together down to the seaside to fill our bucket in the tide. My blueprints are a lavish castle with leering turrets and a moat that hugs the looming walls. But I am just letting grainy fistfuls slip through my fingers, leaving a powdery residue on my skin.

If you want your building to last, he says, it needs to tell a story.

He should know, he worked at Disney for ten years and now he has revolutionized urban planning. His life is a story of dreaming, of wishing on that star and then stretching high to pluck it from its nesting place. He calls stained glass windows the power points of the day and I smile as I imagine their bullet points.

What am I building?

I ask it in the quiet of my heart and I wonder if my life tells a story worth reading. What would my stained glass window look like?

At six we break for hors d’ oeuvres and I mingle. Joy moves with me through the crowds and I feel his pleasure at this gathering of  image-bearers.

Your people are beautiful, I say. It’s group-play tonight.

Everyone begins to move toward the auditorium hall for evening worship and the main session. I watch the steady stream begin to thin and feel myself breathing with all of me again, feel the space of their exit. I am pulled to the window and I lean my head against the glass. The city is full of lights at night. I squint my eyes and they all mist together, blurring into a brilliant buss of light.

This is where we meet and I am lifted out of flesh into the golden streets and winking lights.

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 can be anything: outside, quiet time. 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 button--the code is on the sidebar!


 
Linking up with L.L. Barkat today for On, In, and Around Mondays...

 
Visit me over at the HighCalling today for our weekly bookclub discussion on The Spirit of Food. Some yummy conversation going on over there.

Baptism: Stone Crossings

The sky is a series of threads woven through the clouds tonight, the sun dips low and her rays crisscross in daedal strands. We drive into this gauzy gossamer and the road beneath is chatoyant silk. I am lost in folds and seams and undulating panels.

In my perfect world I would study heavenly heights all day. I would memorize the intricate colors of sunrise and sunset, get lost in pilgrim clouds, call each star by name, and laugh with gentle moon-friend. I would sleep underneath her charcoal blanket without a shiver. The sky—my wind-caress, my deep breath, my free-fall lover. Who could tire of the ever-changing canvas of her ways?

Tonight I want to dip my hand in and gather bits of her—bundle sky-pieces up in my arms. She seems so rich with substance, as if my hands can hold her. As if they would not emerge baptized in only tiny beads of moisture and air. If I try to embrace the atmosphere, my arms are left achingly…empty.

Earlier, as my boys made music--tucked into those tiny studio rooms with teachers--I read. I curled up under streetlight in the front seat of my van and imagined my head sinking under water…my long hair floating out to the sides, breath stilled for a moment, limbs buoyant and light…until I emerge—burst through the surface a new person.

St. Augustine said a sacrament was “a visible sign of an invisible reality”. In class last weekend, the professor taught me a new word: apocalyptic epistemology. This is a way of thinking, she said, that there is a heavenly realm that affects earthly happenings; there is a spiritual dimension to all things that happen here. “Apo” means “away”. “Calypto” to “take away”. And “episteme” means “knowledge”. There are things hidden that must be uncovered. They cannot be seen until God reveals them.

I think of my baptism and wonder--this washing in water here on earth—what is its mirror in the heavenlies? When Jesus told Nicodemus that he must be born again, was there an angelic delivery team waiting in heaven? And after we are born again through water, what does the journey that ensues look like through divine eyes?

Some days I am a child learning to walk again.

I only wish I’d been awake to the deeper, richer sense of baptism’s symbols on the day I stepped into tepid water, closed my eyes to chlorine and a pastor. But as Lauren Winner notes, sometimes we, like the Israelites, have to use that little phrase out of Exodus 24, Na’aseh v’nishma: We will do and we will understand. Sometimes the doing brings the understanding. Sometimes, as in my case, there’s an embarrassing time gap between the act and the illumination. (L.L. Barkat, Stone Crossings).

Sometimes, when I think of the day that I stood in front of my brothers and sisters and had my head sprinkled with holy water…sometimes I am tempted to think that day is like trying to grab hold clouds in my arms. I am left wet, but holding nothing. I feel no divine difference in my nature. I still stumble, I still crave, I still make mistakes sometimes.

But tonight, when I look at the wisps of cloud capturing the edges of the sun this way…I see that there is much more than what can be touched and seen going on up there.

I have been reborn. And like any infant, I require certain things. There are the regular feedings, the nurturing, the systematic passing through developmental stages. I am being transformed. Open my eyes to the wonder of it all, sweet Jesus. I don’t want to miss this growing part.

The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. (Psalm 19:1)

…he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus. (Philippians 1:6)

Playdates: Trampoline

There are things that cannot be explained--like the way the children’s voices called to me through the snow that evening. I was minding my own business (or, rather, the dog’s business), taking LucyMae and Maybelline for a quick jaunt around the house. The snow was falling like a blanket—in thick wet sheets that pooled on my skin, wetting my hair and making me blink.

That’s when I heard them. Their laughter echoed over to me—sliding between those big wet flakes through the neighborhood streets until it found a home in my waiting ear. I had to go see.

I followed the laughter through the yard, across the street, and found it in the house behind. I peeked. Two boys—soaked to their skin, jumping on a trampoline.

I am not a fan of the trampoline. I work with those who have suffered spinal cord injuries and brain injuries. I know the statistics. But as I watched those two boys jumping and giggling and sliding onto their backs on that trampoline in the snow…I remembered.

To be a child means not to fear. Trust is buoyed when feet leave solid ground and land safely again. I watched those boys bound up and down, laughter bubbling over with each flight.

I felt a nudge in my spirit. And I yearned.

What is it about catching that free air—that sky jump that lifts endlessly? Is it the way we leave the earth behind? Does it shake loose the bindings of this loamy existence?

I kept thinking about the trampoline.

God is inviting me to play and it makes me nervously giddy. On my next morning off, after I take the boys to school…I know where I’m going.

I take the dogs-- in case I chicken out. We’re just out for a walk on a pretty day, right? I have a good talk with Him on the way. My neighbor is sweet, Lord, I say, but she may just think I’ve lost my mind.

And then I think of something that nearly makes me turn around.

What if her husband answers the door?

I rehearse what I will say.

May I play on your trampoline?

Too weird.

I’m doing this thing, playing with God, and well, He told me to jump on your trampoline.

Just take me to the funny farm now.

With no definitive plan I approach the door. In fear and trembling, I push the doorbell.

No answer.

I peer through the side light windows. It’s all dark inside.

What now, Lord?

Slowly, I walk around the house to the backyard. I stare at the trampoline. I can’t believe I’m even thinking about this. Is it against the law to jump on someone’s trampoline without permission? I know my neighbor wouldn’t mind—she might even join me. But still…

I tie the dogs to the legs of the thing. Slip off my shoes. Two sets of canine eyes look at me, questioning.

I won’t be long, I tell them.

And I do. I jump. Slow at first, but with each landing on the heel—each pushing off with the balls of my feet—I go higher. And I am unfettered.

The earth falls below—becomes small. I leave things behind. I am flying. The laughter comes when I remember the boys and I fall in a heap of giggles, letting the strong fabric embrace my body. There is no snow, only sun and blue and I can see heaven from where I am.

We sigh together, Him and me, as we cradle in the trampoline and I ask, Should I tell my neighbor?

I am wondering if anyone else saw. Were prying eyes peeking out of windows?

Never mind, He says. Maybe next time we’ll ask her to come along.

And I walk lighter all the day long.

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 can be anything: outside, quiet time. 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!



Linking up with L.L. Barkat today for On, In, and Around Mondays...

Visit me over at the HighCalling today for our weekly bookclub discussion on The Spirit of Food. Some yummy conversation going on over there.

Playdates: For Jennifer

I don’t want to play with you today.

I say the words out loud—hear the meanness of them—and I am eight years old again, spatting with Heather Kimble up the road.

I sigh.

I’m not mad…just…I just don’t understand.

It doesn’t do any good to say these things. It doesn’t change how it is.

I drove the two hours to my hometown yesterday afternoon to say goodbye to a dear friend. One of the bright lights in this world, snuffed out too soon.  

It’s not a bad drive home, just boring. I packed the audio recordings of C.S. Lewis’s The Four Loves--but  I play memories instead.

I met Jennifer when I was in third grade. She was in high school, maybe 16 or 17—one of the big kids that rode my school bus. The big kids sat in the very back—away from the driver’s prying eyes. One day, when the bus was too crowded, our bus driver made me and my best friend go to the back and sit with the big kids. I was terrified.

I sat with Jennifer. She never stopped smiling at me.

That day sparked a special friendship. Jennifer started sending me notes, delivered by her cousin Traci, who was in my grade. After she graduated high school, the notes turned into letters. We corresponded all through my grade school days, junior high and high school, and even some while I was in college. We stayed in touch always, even if it was just a Christmas card. Her letters comforted me through my parents’ divorce, friend troubles, and just the regular stuff of life. She shared her faith with me in her letters.

I love the Lord so much, she would say. He makes me so happy! I wish you could know him like I do!

That girl changed my life because she believed in me. Because she told me over and over again that I was special.

I always wished I had a little sister. If I did, I would want her to be just like you!

I remember my first dance. Jennifer had written me about it. She was to be Miss Spelter and the Spelter Fire Department was having a parade and a dance. Could I come?

I wore my first high heels—these fawn-colored slingbacks. I was in the sixth grade. I must have looked so silly—a skinny stick on stilts. But Jennifer just smiled at me. She had on her sash and her crown. Traci was Little Miss Spelter. She had a matching set.

The DJ played disco music and we stood on that old gymnasium floor.

I can’t dance, I said to Jennifer.

In truth, I never had.

Yes you can, she said, smiling—always smiling.

She showed me. One foot out, then bring it back in. Then the other. Now add the arms. Move to the beat of the music.

The sky is pale and heavy; it falls onto the trees and masks the nearby hills in mist. The naked trees stand out like whiskers on the earth and as I drive I lose myself in their reaching—all those knotty fingers and branchy arms…just reaching. There are big black crows on the side of the road. They take wing when I pass and I look up into their belly, marvel at their wingspan.

What will this world be like without Jennifer?

I’ve always wondered why, I tell Traci at the funeral home. What did she see in me? I was just a skinny, freckle-faced kid. Nothing special.

She saw something, she says. She saw something.

Truth was, she saw something special in everyone.

I don’t want to play with you today, I tell Him. Today they bury Jennifer.

I know, He whispers. I know.

I’m standing in the kitchen, cleaning up breakfast…remembering…crying. The music is just the background but then our song comes on.

I can’t dance, I tell Him.

Yes, you can.

He’s smiling.

For Jennifer?

For Jennifer.

And He takes my hand and shows me how.

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 can be anything: outside, quiet time. 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! 

Linking up with L.L. Barkat today for On, In, and Around Mondays...

The Sky is Falling: Stone Crossings

The rain falls like shining beads; glistening drops cling to naked branches and capture light that gleams against the white sky. The jays are fighting over my feeder, chasing away the smaller sparrows with their mean cries. When they land in the plumb tree I watch the branches let go of each tiny drop—dew cascade.

The sky is falling.

She tells the story of the child Salvador Dali—how he painted with stones…intricately gluing a tiny rock-sky to his canvas and creating a still life below with cherry stems.

…His parents supported his creative efforts and hung his stone sky painting in the dining room. Every once in a while a pebble would dive to the floor with a tap. Salvador’s father assured people, “It’s nothing; it’s just another stone that has dropped from our child’s sky.” (L.L. Barkat in Stone Crossings, page 33)

We work with what we have.

All my life I have picked up stones. Tiny bits of round pebble, sharp-edged slate. I paste these jagged, broken bits together, finger paint around it, and call this art.

This is life. This is my life.

I never thought I had a choice. I’ve worked with what I’ve been given. When the stones fall from the sky, sometimes I rearrange them.

Does this look better over here? Shall I try it over here? Let’s do it this way for a time, shall we?

Greedily, I pick my stones up off the floor—hunt them down under the cupboard where they have rolled in haste, gather them from where they have scattered—and put them back together.

Isn’t this pretty?

But what would happen if…

If I opened up the fingers that wrap so tightly around the coolness of these stones? What if I let go—trusted?

Would God take these precious stones—the ones that glitter in the sun and invite my thumb to rub across their flat—would he take these and put them in his bowl? Would he grind them down with his pestle until all that is left is fine sand? Would he then moisten it with his breath, turn my stones to clay?

What if he rolled that clay between his fingers--smoothed it with gentle hand?

What if, instead of rearranging, I allowed these things to be…transformed?

My sky is falling.

And I think I like it.

RAP: Chosen

Chosen.

you did not

smile in that

first picture—just

stared at the camera

and the whites of your

eyes were red.

Middle child—

brown-eyed boy

between two blues…

I see you. I see your

lips now stretch wide—

Will I ever

cup the plumb

of your cheek? hear

the arc and lift of your

voice? do you think of

these things? do you dream

of me?

I send you

snapshots and

colored pencils, a

cow for milking, a goat,

some chickens…

I keep your

picture in my pocket,

close to my heart, you say.

Stay in school, I say. And,

Jesus loves you.

In pictures I have

seen you, chosen one.

and I watch your smile

grow.

 

 

This poem was written for this week's RAP poetry prompt from David Wheeler:  Write a poem to, or in honor of, an orphan, someone you know who has adopted one, or your own adopter. 

 

I wrote this poem for Romedan, the first child we were able to sponsor through WorldVision. I found him at a Women of Faith conference. I remember the incredible feeling of loss and overwhelming  that came with the task of choosing. So many children. So much need. Romedan is not an orphan...he has a mother and father who love him, a family he rubs shoulders with every day. But he is also an important part of our family. I have watched him grow up with my boys.  I have prayed for him and worried for him. I have loved him. 

The Idea Camp will gather on February 25-26 in NW Arkansas to focus on the issue of adoption and orphan care. Inspired by this event, we are sharing stories related to the high calling of orphan care. If you have a story of your own to share, post a link at our introduction to this series, Caring for the Little Ones.