Playdates with God: Mopping as Spiritual Practice

In Sunday school we talk about the Spiritual Disciplines and I share a little about my recent class. I tell them the definition our teacher gave us.

The discipline is defined by its fruit, she said. A spiritual practice is anything that brings you closer to God.

Later, I’m getting ready for our small group, which meets at our house every other week. We’ve been going through the book Crazy Love by Francis Chan and I love my peeps but my house is a wreck and there is sweeping and mopping and dusting to do. When we started this thing we agreed we wouldn't go crazy on the hospitality. It's all about Jesus, we said. And they promised grace. And I know this is true, but still, Lucy is shedding like its summer and the toilets need cleaned.

It’s been a busy week with Jeff’s dad’s surgery and me trying to get ready for a trip and there are so many things that still need doing but as I make my way across the kitchen floor I realize that I don’t mind this at all. Housework is not my favorite thing but I’m listening to Matt Kearney and humming along and I find that I can’t wait to see my friends.

Mopping the floor is such a sweet, sweet thing. When Love is my help mate.

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 my button at the bottom of the page and join us:







Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also: 

What Oxygen Gives

I will always remember

you—newly retired—with

my firstborn son cradled

soft to your chest; those tiny

legs drawn up until he was

no more than a handful. What

a trio we were: the retired man,
lactating mother, and small
one of adulation. Everyday
we journeyed to the farm

and your embrace because

it gave me great joy to watch

the two of you sleep on

the couch. Funny how memories,

like rust, grow dull with time

and oxygen…until the doctor

uses words like: “mass” and

“malignant” and “tests”. The
surgery went well, though it
it was no picnic. It was the

waiting on tests that nearly did me

in. And when your son texted

me today: “All pathology is

negative…no cancer in the

lymph nodes”, I wept like a

child. Tonight, we all stood

out under the stars and thanked

God for you. I reached for the

hand of that man-child you

used to hold in one hand and

marveled at how beautiful

it is to breathe and be alive and
receive what oxygen gives.

for the tweatspeak poetry prompt and
photoplay at The High Calling. and in
celebration and giddy joy for good news.

Suddenly, Beauty

The morning is mist and I try to hold it but it slips through my fingers again. I am thinking about manna, about the Bread of Life, and how do you breathe when it's time to say goodbye? I take it to the sidewalk. I don’t think about the blue of the sky or the way the sun plays on water or the noise of traffic in my ears. My feet are pounding that rhythm that my body knows and I wait for the breath to even; I wait for the muscles to warm.  I am lost in my head—immune to that busy hum of life that breathes around me.

And suddenly there’s beauty. 

And this is Autumn: reams and reams of gold spun on green and I am rich as I gather with my eyes. It’s right there, between two lots of the ordinary. Between houses and a trophy shop…behind a photographer’s studio.  If I look close enough, I can see there used to be something else there. A house?  A barn? Are these memories of the time when this land thrummed with the riches of farm and pasture? These remnants of decay—long-forgotten—blink at me now through a pollen haze. I wonder what it was and how it must have filled this space. 

And when did beauty fill the gap?

I wonder at how the passing of time can cover so many things. How long does it take for emptiness to fill? And how does beauty move in so silently, so quiet-like and with such grace? It’s the way the world turns—that slow spin from one season to the next. The whole earth a grace story.

Let your empty be filled today. Open your arms wide for grace. Let beauty enter in. The seeds are preparing for the long sleep…waiting for light to grow. 

With Emily...

And Bonnie...

Playdates with God: On Being Formed

On Friday night we talk about the history of the word “spiritual” in the Presbyterian tradition and why it started with a bad rap. Our instructor is very tall and she has back problems, so she keeps lifting one leg up on a chair and leaning down with her elbow on that knee. She is an elegant crane but I feel bad for her the whole time. She has us open class with a full body prayer and my heart lifts with my hands as I reach up to what means the most.

We are learning about spiritual formation and I think it’s my favorite class yet in these two years of learning. She uses poetry from Wendell Berry and Mary Oliver to make her points and more than once my smile extends all the way to my heart.

We close Friday evening with an evening prayer practice and it is like a warm glass of milk. I am happy.

Saturday morning we arrive with shiny faces and the lecture begins anew. We listen about Lectio Divina, Sabbath Keeping, Discernment and Examen, among others. We do a Lectio Divina exercise on a poem by Judy Brown. “Fire” it is called. And I am burning.

John Calvin calls God the searcher of hearts, and I feel His hands smoothing out the walls of mine as I sit with my classmates in rapt attention.

O Holy Spirit…Come, we pray together.

Come.

To enlighten our minds,

Touch our hearts,

And deepen our desires…

And my desires are deepened. My life is a prayer.

Sit and be still

until in the time

of no rain you hear

beneath the dry wind's

commotion in the trees

the sound of flowing

water among the rocks,

a stream unheard before,

and you are where

breathing is prayer.  (Wendell Berry, Given: Poems)

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 my button at the bottom of the page and join us:




Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also:

Busy Bee

September has been a busy bee and Jeff tells me I have been grumpy and I know it’s all about the busy and the noise creeping in the time I keep. The words won’t come because I haven’t slowed enough for them to catch me and in the evenings I am limp with tired.

And the other night I lost it with the boys because they wouldn’t pump gas for the van, and "can’t you just show your mamma that you care in some small way?"

"But you should know," Jeffrey said. "You should know that we care about you."

"And how should I?" I felt the Spirit tug my heart; ask me to mind my tongue. I should know better. This type of whine is just the thing that shuts off their ears. But I can’t stop. "How should I know when there is no outward evidence that you care? All I ask is for a little help. You didn’t even make your beds this morning. All I have to show that you care is your dirty socks. And you don’t even turn them right side out like I’ve asked you to a million times."

It’s a long evening after that. Jeffrey cried and Teddy wouldn’t talk. But he made his bed the next morning.

"I think I need to go to the doctor," I tell Jeff. "I just haven’t been feeling well. This tightness in my chest…"

He makes the sympathetic noises but out of the corner of my eye I see him yawn and he knows.

We need to slow down.

But not yet. Because September isn’t over and the rich blessings keep pouring in.

In the morning I stand under the round eye of the moon and gape at the light coming over the horizon. It spreads out like a blanket and still the words won’t come. At night I stare up at the crowd of blinking stars and remember God’s promise to Abraham. And this waist feels too small to birth a nation—too small to carry this family. Too small to birth a difference at all.

In the late morning I gather the last of my tenderettes and I string them by myself in the kitchen. My fingers remember this work and my mind busies in the quiet of the crisp snap of beans. My dad’s birthday is coming up, I remember. And then I forget. And then I remember again, and that’s how our relationship is. I am feeling forgotten too.

Last night we sat on cold bleachers and watched our boy play in his first “marching” band performance.

Aren’t they just so cute in their own little band section? I kept saying to my friend Janet. I didn’t really watch the game because I kept my eyes on one not-so-little boy with drum sticks. And I let myself be all there. Right there. No where else.

When we left the field I looped my arm through my husband's, sinking into his warm in the cool of night.

"I like going to football games with you," I said.

And he laughed. It sounded good.

Playdates With God: Remember

We are driving home from church, just one boy and me--the radio on and the dj starts talking about the Memorial Service he had just attended in New York. I feel the eye roll. He reaches for the knob.

“Hey, mom,” he says, in that mock tone that only a teenager can effect. “Did you know today is the tenth anniversary of 9/11?”

I draw breath.

In his defense, I am weary of it too. It’s too hard to think about. It’s too hard not to. Too many people. Too much pain.

He was four years old. On that morning ten years ago, we were at his grandmother’s house. I had brought my abundance of tomatoes and my mother-in-law was going to help me do some canning—make spaghetti sauce, some salsa. We had dropped his two year-old brother off at preschool, so my red-headed boy was with me when it happened. We sat on the couch in stunned disbelief, tomatoes forgotten on the counter. He played in silence as we let grief spill over, fear move into hearts.

He was four years old.

I draw breath.

“It’s kind of a big deal, honey,” I say. And I search for words. Struggle to find the words that will open his heart to the grief of a nation. Come out of that adolescent self consumedness.

I tell him about Paul. How brilliant he was. About his quirkiness. How, when he studied at the med school library where I worked when I was in grad school, he brought his inline skates. How he would soar through the stacks every once in a while—just take a break from the books. He wanted to help people. He was doing good things.

“He was an amazing person,” I say. “And he will always be the face of 9/11 for me. Because I know he was not the only one. There were so many other amazing people that lost their life that day. And we should never forget that.”

My boy is quiet, and I worry. I don’t want to lecture. This is hard for a mature person to think about. What must be jumbling around in his fourteen year-old mind?

“It’s a very sad part of our story,” I continue. “But if we don’t learn from it, we’ve wasted so much pain. We should let this remind us that life is precious. That we don’t know when our last breath will come. We should live each moment better.”

He mumbles something about not wanting to think about it. And I understand. We are quiet the rest of the way home. And I am thinking about my words to my son.

Today, I will try to live better. I will search for God in the corner of each moment and in the open sky above. I will love with all my heart and tell it too.

I will remember. Do not let me forget.

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 my button at the bottom of the page and join us:



Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also:

It Means Everything: Poem

the sun came up like

lace—like my soul—

thousands of tiny

lights poking through

this dark plane.

the birds all clasping

to the wires like so

many clothespins and

I think I’d like to hang—

flow in the breeze and

shed the dust of my

skin. but you…when

the world darkles, you

hold me together.

some days like glue,

some like staples and

some, calico patches

that cover these gaping

pieces. God is so good,

I say to you, and one day

all these troubles will

pass us by. and when you

hold my hand, they do.

sweep up and over me

and the whole world is

refulgent once again.

Happy birthday to my sweetie, this one's for you. Sharing in community with Emily today.  

Jesus the Party Animal

For John came neither eating nor drinking, and they say, ‘He has a demon.’ The Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, ‘Here is a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and “sinners.” But wisdom is proved right by her actions. (Matt. 11:18-19)

“They thought Jesus was a party animal,” she said, after reading the scripture. “And John was a prude.”

My pastor painted a word picture of a modern day party animal pastor—one who drove a sports car, had “long flowing hair”, and pierced ears. And she said, you have to understand—this is how the religious leaders of his day saw Jesus.

And then she described John as the stodgy old pastor up the way who was a bit consumed by the following of rules. Well, he was a Nazirite, right? No wine could touch his lips and no razor used on his head.

She was speaking in extremes, of course, to make a point, but her illustration sparked my imagination. I drew a picture of the “party animal Jesus” in the margin of my bulletin. Complete with flowing hair and convertible. Jeffrey peeked over my Bible at my artwork and he added an illustrated version of Fingerface in the backseat-- glamourized with lipstick and hair that whipped around in the breeze.

The poor will always be with you, he once said. And he shattered their delicate sensibilities. (Matt. 26:10-13). He changed the way the law was perceived (he did not come to abolish it, he said, but to fulfill it.—Matt. 5:17)

He changed everything.

I can’t help but to think that he must have been a lot fun to be around. I bet he laughed a lot.

I thought about this party animal Jesus as I added earrings to my convertible-driving savior. His coming ushered in the new covenant, yes. And even John did not understand. Are you the one? He sent his disciples to ask Jesus while he waited in Herod’s prison.

The stodgy old pastor is made a bit nervous by the sweeping changes that Jesus ushered in. But he accepted them. Even gave his life.

And Jesus? He loved John. So much so, that when he learned of his cousin’s death he withdrew to a solitary place. I imagine no shortage of tears were shed during that time of grieving, shortened as it was by the needs of the people. (Matt. 14:13)

I think about these two men and their love for one another. A love demonstrated by action, sacrifice. And I wonder at the example they have given us. And I wonder why, in the face of change, we have such difficulty following it. 

Linking up with  Michelle today:

And Jen and the sisters:

Playdates with God: Praying from a Book

I do my homework outside, say the sacred words with the accompaniment of birdsong and the music of the insect choir. Our professor was specific with the assignment. I haven’t been so much.

At least 3 days each week, use the resource Daily Prayer (or the Daily Prayer section in the Book of Common Worship, which begins on pages 489) for either Morning Prayer, Evening Prayer, or Prayer at the Close of Day. Do not feel you need to include everything they suggest, but do include at least one Psalm and other biblical reading, an opening prayer, and a closing prayer.  Begin each time of prayer with a few minutes of silence.

The sun is still on the slow rise and the dew hangs from the grasses in the meadow like jewelry—glassy baubles catching the morning light.

I say the words out loud, because it seems right.

O Lord, open my lips.

And my mouth shall proclaim your praise.

I am learning to pray from a book. I’ve never done this before—except from The Book—and I am surprised by the depth of emotion I feel. The Psalm sings over the meadow and I think I see the leaves of the apple trees sway in recognition. This book has everything and the meadow hushes in response to my voice as I sing David Crowder’s version of the ancient Phos Hilaron—the Hymn to Christ the Light. 

I read all the canticles, because they are so beautiful, and wonder about them. Not only do I “include everything they suggest”, but I read further, read more—enthralled by the ancient words.

I spend an hour in worship of my Lord and the creatures think I am a mighty fine preacher and we laugh and we cry and we call out the names of the ones we love in supplication.

And when I say the parting blessing, I have felt each word. This book, I think, has been a well-kept secret. And I hug it to my breast—smooth the dew from its surface, and begin my day.

The grace of God be with us all, now and always.

Amen.

Bless the Lord.

The Lord’s name be praised.

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 my button at the bottom of the page and join us:








Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also: