The Wellspring

Sunday

2012-01-28T23:07:00.000-05:00

The words of the wise are like goads, their collected sayings like firmly embedded nails--given by one Shepherd. Be warned my son, of anything in addition to them. Of making many books there is no end, and much study wearies the the body.

--Ecc. 12:11-12

Joining Deidra in quiet worship today.

What Happens When We Dream and a Tiny Correction

2012-01-28T18:13:00.000-05:00

Alice laughed. “There'sno use trying,” she said. “One can't believe impossible things.”

“I daresay you haven't had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was yourage, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed asmany as six impossible things before breakfast…” ― Lewis Carroll

I’ve been feeling just a wee bit sorry for Newt Gingrichlately. Just a wee bit, mind you. It seems he is being poked fun at for callinghimself a “visionary” after publiclysharing a dream to establish a colony on the moon.

“I come at space froma standpoint of a romantic belief that it really is part of our destiny,”Mr. Gingrich said in his speech last Wednesday.

While this proclamation may not have been his best politicalmove and it may have caused some raised eyebrows, I’m feeling a littleconflicted about joining in this particular criticism (aren’t there enoughother areas we could focus on?). After all, I try to encourage just this typeof dreaming in my children whenever I can.

The strange thing that I’ve noticed is that kids don’t seemto have a problem with this. It’s in the grown-up world that we stumble over bigdreams. I think that, maybe, dreaming is something that—rather than “growingout of”—we have lost. We stop doing it, and so that ability grows weaker andweaker. Our brains stop reinforcing the neural pathways that promotecreativity. We don’t have time for it, it’s impractical, it’s silly…the list ofreasons why we should use our minds for other things is endless. But…

I wonder if there are lists of reasons we should beusing our imaginations more?

We sometimes thinkthat imagination is cognitively easy because children can use it better thanadults. In fact, imagination is arduous and practical. People who possessimaginative talents can say, “If I were you, I would do this…” Or they canthink, “I’m doing it this way now, but if I tried to do it that way, thingsmight go faster.” These double-scope and counterfactual abilities come in quitehandy in real life.”—David Brooks in The Social Animal

This morning, my youngest son came down the stairs tying hisrobe. With sleep still in his eyes, he plopped down on the chair andproclaimed, “You are looking at anamazingly amazing magician!”

He proceeded to tell me about a dream he had had in the night about usingmagic to make a recliner chair disappear—in front of the whole school, ofcourse. And then he went back upstairs to record the dream. He’s keeping a dreamjournal.

I can’t even remember the last time I let a dream—the sleepingkind—amaze me.

Ellen Langer, in her book Mindfulness, says that adultsoften lose creativity because we are outcomeoriented and this tends to deaden aplayful approach to life.

Our tendency to focuson outcome…narrows our self-image. When we envy other people’s assets,accomplishments, or characteristics, it is often because we are making a faulty comparison. We may be looking atthe results of their efforts ratherthan at the process they wentthrough on the way…

But, what if the outcomes we see are not the ones weshould be focusing on? What would happen if we let ourselves dream? Create? Iwonder what might happen to our faith if we exercised our imaginations everyday?

... If ourimaginations are broadened enough, something that seems unbelievable to us canseem possible; and we can come to our prayers expectantly…--Luci Shaw in Breath for the Bones.

How can we respond in faith if we do not move beyond whatcan be seen with our eyes? If we let ourselves dream, what could we do? Becausewe are human, when we dream we will make mistakes. We will fall down. We will bewounded. But, just as Jacob, if we hold on for the blessing through thestruggle, we will be touched by God.

When we dream, faith can transform.

I am not packing my bags for the moon, yet, friends. But, I wantto look deeper…see beneath what I see…grab on to the Real. Some might say thatmakes me a visionary. That’s what faith-eyes can do.

*******

Because I am human, I made a wee mistake in the original scripture cards I linked up earlier this week. Seems I originally left out four verses (James 1: 23-26). Please forgive? My eyes must have been all mixed up with words and dates and my double check somehow missed it. Thank you so much for your grace. But, if you would so like, here is the PDF to printout scripture memory cards for the book of James.

I used the Avery label 5388 to make them. This should print out index card size cards withperforated edges of Avery 5388. That way you won’t have to do any cutting.

How the Word Tranforms and Scripture Cards for the Book of James

2012-01-24T22:26:00.001-05:00

I knew what the lectionary scriptures were for Sunday. Iknew because on Saturday, the pastor who taught the course I was attending readthem aloud to the class. We were talking about the church as a body thattransforms, and he read to us from Jonah about the transformation of the peopleof Nineveh. He read to us from 1 Corinthians that this world in its present form is passing away…

And when he read those words aloud in class we all lookedwide-eyed at one another and smiled and proclaimed about the timing of God. Butwhen my pastor reads them from the pulpit on Sunday—my eyes well with tears ofrecognition.

I don’t know the way to transformation without theWord.

Every week my friends and I gather to study it—this life-giving,seed-planting, world-transforming Word. We’ve done it for years, gatheredaround the teachings of Kay and Beth and Priscilla and Jennifer…too many Wordgivers to count. We started a new one a couple weeks ago, and how my heartcelebrates the way this small group of women holds together this way—the way welove each other through the stuff of life.

And today, when Dr. Henry tells me that to correct my son’svision…to correct his vision we really should have caught it before age seven…Whenhe says this, I need the anchor of all those words we’ve studied together. Hejust turned 15, for Pete’s sake, and this means he’s spent more than half hislife with this visual deficit, and how could I have missed this? How could Inot know?

Dr. Henry sees it on my face and he looks me straight in theeye, bless his beautiful heart, and he says, you are not a bad mother. He says a lot of other things too,including no depth perception and he’ll never drive a big rig and his other eye is perfect.

And I spend all evening trying to hide tears, feeling smallas a mother, small in faith, and I flee the house…just to be alone. I can’ttake the piles of laundry and paper and dog hair and everything I should bedoing and…and…and I can’t breathe.

How could I not know?

I know it’s not the end of the world but somehow it feels abit like it. And I sit in the car at K-mart and suddenly, I remember this:

For you died, and yourlife is now hidden with Christ in God. When Christ, who is your life, appears,then you also will appear with him in glory. –Colossians 3:3-4

And somehow, it calms my heart. I ponder what it means—to behidden in Christ. And just what kind of glory will we appear in? I feel thesure, slow hand of God remind me that this is not the end. This is not ourhome. And one day…one day we all will be given new eyes.

Oh, praise God for his goodness.

I would not have had that verse in my heart if it wasn’t formy sister Ann—who encouraged me to memorize the book of Colossians in 2011. Ididn’t think I could do it. But she broke it down…two verses a week. Shegenerously made scripture cards available to make it easier. And gave someideas for making the cards lovely. But I just glued them into a notebook. Well,sometimes I taped them. Mine weren’t pretty. But I stuck it out. And that oldyellow notebook has a big part of my heart in it too.

These next few weeks my Bible study sisters and I arelearning about James with Beth Moore. Beth encourages us to memorize the bookof James. Her plan is faster, but I love Ann’s two verses a week. It keeps thewords on my heart—these tiny bites feed a great hunger. There are 108 verses in James, that puts us just a couple weeks over a year to learn it, but that's not too bad. **CORRECTION: I originally left out four verses (James 1: 23-26) but the document is corrected now. My thanks to Cindy Irby for her help with this. Please forgive? My eyes must have been all mixed up with words and dates and my double check somehow missed it. Thank you so much for your grace. But, if you would so like, here is the PDF to printout scripture memory cards for the book of James.

I used the Avery label 5388 to make them. If you buy Averylabel 5388, when you print the document select the "actual size" option on the print screen. This should print out perfect for the index card size cards withperforated edges of Avery 5388. That way you won’t have to do any cutting.

**CORRECTION

Because I don’t know how to be transformed without theWord.

Or without my sisters to come along beside.

with the amazing Jen:

and dear Michelle too:

Playdates with God: Transformed

2012-01-23T10:41:00.000-05:00

I can see the steeple of a neighboring church through thewindow and I fix my gaze on the rise of it ascending from that hill of oldstone. We are talking about church administration, only in a roundabout way.

How do we become achurch that transforms lives in the land we’ve been given? Our instructorasks.

He frames the whole class in terms of this book and I amsmitten. That Henri Nouwen has a way with words. And we talk about a communitythat transforms and what that means. And how change is necessary and healthyand how, as leaders, we must learn to not only navigate change, but, to regularlyintroduce it.

And after all this talk about change and being missional andconflict and leadership he says this…

To be a church thattransforms we must first allow ourselves to be transformed…

And I am looking at that steeple through the window…wonderingabout all the transformation that has happened under its cross. And about allthat has stayed the same. And I feel it creep through my core—the slow change;the opened eyes.

How do I miss it so often? How do I close my eyes tothis?

I felt a brief momentof kairos time the other day, I recently told my pastor. I was pouring a pitcher of water in thecoffee maker and that was it. I suddenly loved that water. I loved pouring it. Andnothing else mattered except what I was doing in that moment. And God was therewith me. It was so real, so…heartbreaking.

Her eyes teared up and I received that as gift.

We must first betransformed…

And I think it’s not something that happens all at once orthat we are even aware of happening but it is that slow movement of our heartsin time with the Divine. The giving over in each moment…

I know why the steeple reaches up. And so, this morning, Ido too. I stand in a place in the rain and lift up my hands…lift it all up.

Transform me, Iplead. Transform.

And the rain falls down, melts along my cheek and flattensmy hair and I am changed.

And there is nothing for it except to go back inside and putin another load of laundry.

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.

*I'm reflecting on The Social Animal by David Brooks today as part the book club at The High Calling. Will you join us?

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

Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also:

Stepping out of the Frame

2012-01-19T18:35:00.002-05:00

I live in a small world.

I grew up in a small town, attended a small college, work asmall job, have a small family, and I keep small boundaries. But when a smallworld collides with big dreams…somebody has to change perspective.

2011 was the year my small world came alive with wonder. God started something new. First, He invited me to start looking at the world through the lens of play...and then He invited me to do the same with exercise!

Itall started with a birthday present. My husband surprised me with an iPhone formy 42^nd birthday. And then a friend--knowing I am arunner--suggested I try the RunKeeper app. I started taking my phone with me onevery run—keeping track of my mileage and pace.

Then one evening in July I saw this:

And I had to stop and take a picture. When I returned home,I shared the photo with my Facebook friends. Soon, every time I was outrunning, a little piece of beauty caught my eye. I would quickly snap a shot ofit and share it on Facebook later. It didn’t take long until I began to actively look for beauty on my runningroute. Things I had run past every day before suddenly looked different to me.

I began to see beautyeverywhere.

It changed everything.

I used the RunKeeper GPS to explore new routes, scouring mylittle valley home for new and interesting sights. I couldn’t wait to get outand hit the road.

I was excited to getout there and run. It became a great beauty hunt. With new treasure eachday.

As I stood on the doorstep of 2012, my heart began to wonder--how can I share this wonderful treasure? I wish I had the words to describe how this simple exercising of my beauty finding muscles has revitalized the exercising of my body. I asked my friend Melanie, how can we encourage others to live healthier this year? How can we encourage each other?

I admire Melanie's commitment to healthy living. She inspires me every day. Together, we decided that we would like to invite you to join usin to this great beauty hunt. Do you have a cell phone? Would you capture a bit of thebeauty in your world and share it with us on our Facebook page? It's not about traffic, or the number of "likes" we get. It's about you. About living your best life. About seeing God's beauty in the place He has planted you. You don’t have to be a runner,but our hope is that this beauty hunt will get you out there—walking, cycling,skating…just moving!

And then visit us at [un] framed on Facebook and share what you find with us.Let’s encourage each other to be healthier this year. Let’s step out of theframe of the small world into the life of wonder. Let’s live a life [un]framed.

With my sweet friend Jennifer today:

and with the amazing Emily:

A Poem for Jeffrey on the Eve of His Thirteenth Birthday

2012-01-18T19:00:00.001-05:00

the last day of twelve

was nothing special,

you said.

you didn’t dress for gym,

didn’t play four-square with

the others. only walked,

you said.

in English, you wrote

a myth…about Gusano—

it means “worm” in Spanish

you said.

this Graco-Spanish

worm-god found freedom,

you said.

but he led his people

back into the

earth to rule the Underworld

and that’s why he will

be responsible for

the zombie apocalypse.

you said.

and math was about

interest, like money and

banks, you know?

you said.

and you have homework

so you came home in

a bad mood and didn’t

want to talk about twelve

you said.

so i hushed and got out

the eggs, cracked them one-by-

one in the bowl and mixed until

those yellow eyes are gone; i

rubbed grease on the pan that is

swathed in black enamel

from years of cradling sweet

batter…and i poured more

in. you at the table building

up interest when the room

starts to smell like a birthday.

and suddenly, you are there,

beside to lick the batter from

the bowl. what time was I

born?

you said.

Listen to it!

shared with nancy and the gang.

Visionary

2012-01-17T00:06:00.001-05:00

He was a visionary,I told them. He wasn’t a perfect man, butthe world changed because of him. We need more people like him. Visionaries.

We are driving to church and I am telling them about themarch the following day. A worship service is scheduled in the morning andfollowing it, the people are marching. They are marching to the Capitol for acelebration. Commemorating the life and work of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

At church, our pastor reads us the story of Samuel—how Godspeaks to him when he is just a boy. And she mentions Dr. King and says that ifGod puts a dream in your heart…you must be listening to hear his voice. And shetells a story that I have never heard about the fears Dr. King faced and how heheard God’s voice.

And I am stuck on this:

Then the Lord came andstood there, calling as at the other times, “Samuel! Samuel!”

The Lord came. And stood there.

So I tell the boys we need to go. We need to go and march tothe Capitol.

Only, I forget that I’ve scheduled two meetings at just thewrong times and there’s no way we’ll make it. So, instead, we march down to thecreek and I climb up on the bridge, much to the horror of my children, and Iread the last part of the speech from my iPhone—that part that gives me goosebumps—I call it out over moving water, preach it to the gaping windows of myneighbor’s houses.

Ihave a dream, Isay. That one day this nation will riseup and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to beself-evident, that all men are created equal."

Ihave a dream, Isay. Thatone day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons offormer slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table ofbrotherhood.

And I’m standing high andlooking down and my boy looks up at me, alarmed. He realizes I’m going to seethis thing through. And I am not whispering.

He looks around.

Mom,come down from there,he says.

But I keep on.

Ihave a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state swelteringwith the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will betransformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

Ihave a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation wherethey will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of theircharacter.

Ihave a dream today!

And my neighbor comes outsidewith her dog. She’s still in her pajamas. It’s the same woman who saw me sittingin my van in the middle of the street at 8:00am. Because Jeffrey wanted me todrive him down to see if the creek is frozen.

But I go on.

Ihave a dream today!

Ihave a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill andmountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and thecrooked places will be made straight; "and the glory of the Lord shall berevealed and all flesh shall see it together."

My boy is looking up at meand I can see it. I can see when the shift happens.

Thisis our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to the South with.

Withthis faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone ofhope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords ofour nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we willbe able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jailtogether, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free oneday…

He is looking up and I seehim realize. That God came. And He stood beside Martin.

Andwhen this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from everyvillage and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able tospeed up that day when all ofGod's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants andCatholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negrospiritual…

And when I finish, he helpsme down. He takes my arm and his lingers on mine for a moment.

Weread that essay in English Lit. When we were studying persuasive essays, he says.

And I know that this is hisway of saying it’s pretty cool.

Well, I say. It’s very passionate.

And, he says. Very persuasive.

Indeed.

And he’s smiling, and I’mthinking, oh yes…the world needs more visionaries.

Free at last! Free at last!

Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!

with the amazing Jen:

and dear Michelle too:

Playdates with God: The First Days

2012-01-16T09:37:00.000-05:00

They have been wrapped in the warm cocoon of the first days,basking in that glow of holding a piece of living, wiggling love in their arms.That we would be invited—even welcome--into such a place is a wonder, so wetook our arms and legs and world-soiled self into that sanctuary of love.

Just to hold a baby.

I’d had a long morning with my own babies—taller than I now—butI felt that pull as soon as I walked through the door: the slow of the firstdays. She welcomed us with open arms and beaming smile and I felt my heart pacewith hers; slow in time to this peace that knows these are the importantthings.

She placed him in our arms—entrusted us with this piece ofher heart beating outside of her body. And we exclaimed over petite nose,silken hair, long fingers. I had to look at his tiny feet—run my finger alongthe sole of it.

And something about his sleeping peace opened us up and weremembered. We shared the stories of our own first days, as women do, and lovewas thick as we breathed it in and out and whispered it into the air around us.

He slept the entire time, and our love made a bed thatcradled him soft—spoke a secret lullaby.

I studied each curve of his face, drank in his little dreamsounds and I remembered this:

Some scientistscalculate that humans create 1.8 million synapses per second from their secondmonth in utero to their second birthday. The brain makes synapses to storeinformation. Each thing we know is embodied in a network of neural connections.*(David Brooks in The Social Animal)

I looked at sleepy eyes and wondered what is going on inside that beautiful brain of yours? He—storing upknowledge while we sit and remember and spread thick love all over him.

We fall in love and I hear a tiny whisper as I tuck thatbaby back in his mother’s arms: I amhere. I am here in the first days. I am here…always.

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.

*I'm reflecting on The Social Animal by David Brooks as part the book club at The High Calling.

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

Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also:

Sunday

2012-01-15T08:28:00.000-05:00

And here's another reason that we keep praying and do not lose heart. We know that this kingdom business is urgent business--we've heard it from Jesus' own lips. Kingdom is not a matter that comes up for discussion from time to time. Kingdom is what is going on all the time, whether we are aware of it or not. But it is Jesus' intent to make us aware of it. Kingdom requires a total renovation of our imagination so that we are able to see what our eyes do not see; so that we are capable of participating in what will not be reported in tomorrow morning's newspaper...

--(Eugene Peterson in Tell It Slant: A Conversation on the Language of Jesus in His Stories and Prayers)

Joining Deidra in quiet worship today.

Grace Glasses

2012-01-14T12:36:00.002-05:00

It isn’t in anything that he says.

The words are helpful, instructive, encouraging.

So why do I want to curl into a ball and weep all day?

When the snow comes, I am relieved. I watch out the windowas frail flakes bump up against each other in the white of the sky. The wind dropsinto our little valley in angry rushing sweeps, banging about bits of lifeand causing me to grip my sides firmly.

I might blow away.

I fall asleep amidst this sound of branches bending and loosebits of the world swirling in the current. But it’s not a restful sleep and I amawakened at five a.m. by a nightmare. I check on my boy, make sure it was justa dream, light a candle, and go downstairs.

I sit before the wind with no words, listen to the howlingand see glimpses of glitter blowing by—mirrored in the light of the snow.

I have no words, so I move to the couch, fall back to sleepwith my face pressed between two cushions.

I am not allowed to stay in this sorry state long. The boysare home on a long weekend and I’ve taken the chance to schedule theirwell-visits with the pediatrician. Here I learn we are behind on vaccines. And myeldest still has those big holes in the top of each eardrum. And he can barelysee out of his right eye.

The doctor shakes his head. And I feel my stomach drop. Hetells me how, if one eye is stronger than another, the brain will shut offvision to the weak eye over time.

“Better get this takencare of soon,” he says.

And then he starts talking about surgery for the boy’s ears.Six shots and two flu mists later, we leave, armed with an order for blood workand a referral to a local optometrist. The boys want to go out to lunch, pleadwith puppy dog eyes.

“We’ve just had allthese shots, mom.”

We get home in the afternoon and I do more laundry, try towrite a little, someone has stopped up the toilet, and I’ve promised a friendto stop by to hold her beautiful new baby.

These are ordinary things. The stuff of life. And I knowthat when you want to be successful at something, the ordinary gets a bit left behind--you have to work hard and worryabout branding and have a marketing strategy and sell yourself.

I know these things.

Don’t you? Don’t you know that when working on a dream youhave to put the ordinary things in a different place for a while, makesacrifices, and step up to a different side of who you are?

Don’t you know?

Don’t you know that that dream you cradle requires steppingout of the ordinary…if only for a season?

It does. It’s true.

But don’t you—not even for one minute—don’t you believethat this is what defines you.

Who you are is in the ordinary moments. The ways you breathein and out of the day. This is how they will remember you; this is your legacy.

And it’s a beautiful one. Sometimes that’seasy to forget when the dream looms large.

I want to weep when I listen to that voice—the one thatsays, “Youwill never be enough. You cannot do this thing you desire.”

Hear this, dear heart—hearthis, my heart: You are enough.

You are enough because His grace is sufficient.

So don’t fight it. Live into each moment. Because, just asthe brain needs help sometimes to steward vision best…sometimes the heart needshelp to see too.

Grace is the best lens to look through.

And there is nothing ordinary about that.

Extra Ordinary: A Poetry Rant

2012-01-12T17:49:00.001-05:00

With my sweet friend Jennifer today:

and with the amazing Emily:

and nancy at Voices and Friends.

How Folding Laundry can Baptize a Life

2012-01-11T15:03:00.002-05:00

We awaken to rain this morning. A liquid sky falls down and Ifold the laundry.

I sit on the steps and press towels into neat bundles,caress cloth that will soon caress skin, sorting as I go—the jeans on thebottom of the pile, then sweatshirts, t-shirts all together, and then underwearand socks. They are not fluffy fresh from the dryer; rather, they mingle intheir cleanness all night, tumbled together through the dark hours.

I have a “delay” setting on my dryer and I don’t hesitate touse it.

I fold while my boys eat breakfast, while my husband rushesaround getting ready for work, while the world is waking up.

This morning, as I fold, I remember how my mother used tofold our laundry at night. She would wait until we kids were in bed—after thesupper dishes were all clean and air-drying in the drainer—and fold while my dadwatched TV beside her. How many times I would get up to tell her I couldn’tsleep, I don’t know. But I have a memory of her face—intent on this task—amemory of contentedness. The folding ofthe laundry was the winding down of her day, the deep sigh at the end of allthe work, the pause to hold and savor a bit of soft in all the hardness of theday.

And as I sit on these steps and look out the French doorwindows at trees lit with raindrop diamonds framed by a white sky…I think howdifferent my life is than that of my mother’s. How her days were filled with chasingchildren and chasing the dirt away and the chasing out wrinkles and wiping andsweeping and bending to the rhythm of a family in motion. How her hands werefilled with the substance of life.

I know these things I chase are elusive. Some would say thatto chase after beauty is a fool’s game. And to fill my hands with color andwords and the lift of a bird’s wing…well, how can a person touch that?

On Sunday my Pastor preached on the baptism of Jesus. Shetalked about John the Baptist and how people came from all over to him.

“Those who had some yearning in their hearts for something new,”she said. “They came.”

And if it wasn’t beauty that made the call—that internalrecognition of the Divine—if it wasn’t beauty they were chasing, I don’t know whatelse it could have been.

And I think about how different two lives can be but theycan still be about beauty and I am astounded to realize that my life and thatof my mother’s is not so different after all.

Whatever you are chasing after, Beloved…let it take youcloser to the Fairest of All. Beauty has many faces, but there is One whoauthors it all. Whether it is folding laundry or writing poetry or takingphotos or feeding babies…it’s all divine.

It’s all Beauty.

with the amazing Jen:

and dear Michelle too:

Playdates with God: Beginnings

2012-01-09T08:45:00.001-05:00

It looks like rain.

This morning when I drove the boys to school, the morninglight played through the cloud cover like fiber optics in the sky and Imarveled as a flock of geese flew straight through all that electricity. Our mildwinter continues and I can’t help remembering last year at this time…the frostylid that covered our world and how Playdateswith God grew out of the wonder of beauty. I thought you might enjoyreading that first post again…the one where, in the comments, Maureen suggestedthat very title. Here it is, friends. Happy January…

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.

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

Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also:

Sunday

2012-01-08T07:50:00.001-05:00

See what love the Father has given us, that we should be called children of God; and that is what we are. The reason the world does not know us is that it did not know him. Beloved, we are God's children now; what we will be has not yet been revealed. What we do know is this: when he is revealed, we will be like him, for we will see him as he is. And all who have this hope in him purify themselves, just as he is pure. --1 John 3:1-3

Joining Deidra in quiet worship today.

Wise Men Still Do

2012-01-06T22:19:00.000-05:00

“I know everything that’s ever happened because I finishedreading my history book today in class.”

We are on our evening walk when he says it, and he looks atme out of the corner of his eye—crooked grin.

“Oh, you do, do you? Everything up until this very minute?”

“Well…it was a world history book, so only the thingsworld-worthy.”

Today is Epiphany and as we walk I wonder about the things thathave happened that are “world-worthy”. The things not in the history books. Just the one. The Book.

Does he really know?

Today I gather up the three wandering Magi and tuck theNativity set back up in the attic. Today we remember the journey these Gentiletravelers risked to find the Christ.

But do we really know?

Because it’s not in the history books how they followed thatstar; how it was the Star in their hearts that kept urging them on. They didn’tknow where they were going, how long it would take, or what they would find.

They traveled in the dark.

Today we remember. But do we really forget? Do we forgetthat tugging at our hearts that keeps us wander closer, closer, closer still?

Today, as I box up the last of Christmas…I know. The mostworld-worthy thing is not in the history books.

But it’s written in our hearts.

Follow The Star with me? Wise men and women still do. It’s a lifelong journey and the journeyof a lifetime.

An Epiphany: Picture for the Year

2012-01-04T10:30:00.003-05:00

The tired Christmas lights wink at us on our way out thedoor and I understand. The boys are grumpy because it’s their first day back toschool in a week and it’s 14 degrees outside. I’m a little grumpy too.

“Why does school have to be so early?” Jeffrey moans fromthe back seat. He is counting the vices of our educational system.

“It rips families apart,” he says dramatically. “It wakes usup unnaturally. And it kills trees. See? Something must be done.”

I nod sympathetically into my coffee cup as I maneuverthrough morning traffic--think again of some of the warmer advantages ofhomeschooling...

But we soldier on.

After the boys are dropped and I’m alone in the car I startto talk to God, wonder aloud about how things might have been. On mornings likethis I feel all the ache of the lost opportunities.

“I wish, Lord, I wish…”

But I don’t know what to wish for; I don’t know what to say.So I turn the music up and get lost in the local scene.

And I think about it now and I know that I have too manywishes to express. I wish I’d started out different, discovered this love forwords earlier and fostered it. I wish I’d gone to seminary or studied theology.I wish I could share faith talk with my mom and dad and brothers and sisters—wishthey knew this deep love in me. I wish my husband had been saved sooner and wehad raised the boys rooted in faith together instead of all that struggling Idid alone in the early years. I wish…I wish it felt whole to be right where Iam.

I wish…

And right in the middle of the wish-fest, from right where I’msitting, I catch sight of one of those wise men. He’s peeking out at me frombehind a berry wreath on the table and the sight of him stops me cold.

It’s a game we play with the nativity in our house and Ishared about it in my sermon on Sunday. It’s tradition in our home to hidethose wise guys from our nativity set throughout the house during our Christmaswaiting. Whoever finds one—well, it’s his or her duty to hide him again. Thetrick to the game is to find a clever spot, one in which the wise man will bediscovered in a surprising way—sort of a hiding in plain sight. Imagine thesurprise when one goes to don a shoe and finds a wise man inside. Or, whenturning in for the night, noticing there is a hard lumpy magi under the pillow.The goal, you see, is for the wise men to be found; it wouldn’t do for them tostay hidden. They’re on a journey—looking for the Christ-child.

The game goes on after Christmas—the wise men wander on forthe 12 days of Christmas—which start on Christmas day and end at Epiphany, orJanuary 6. Epiphany is the day we celebrate the Magi’s discovery and worship ofthe Christ. Last Sunday--when I delivered my first sermon--was Epiphany Sunday.So I preached on this very thing.

The point of my sermon was that this whole faith thing is along journey. We wander, just like the magi. And the long journey is part ofthe gift we give him.

So. I’m sitting here in the middle of the wish-fest and Istart to consider my journey. Which is not a bad thing to do at the start of anew year, I guess. And I start to feel a little more “at home” in my humanity.

Mine hasn’t been the prettiest of journeys. But neither wasthe journey to the Cross. And there is something oh, so beautiful—more beautifulthan my mind can conceive—in that.

In this post, Mary DeMuth opened my mind to finding a picture that might be a glimpse for me of the new year. As I ponder the journey that has brought me this far, there is no one word that names it. But a picture? Just maybe. Here is the one that has been singing into me.

It's one of the photos I took when our family was at the sea for Thanksgiving. Every morning, I was up before the sun. What a wonderful gift to celebrate the first ray of light to fall into the ocean. I've never felt such peace--such joy to be in my own skin. And yet...the sound of the wave crashing on the shore reminded me that I am not alone; that there is a Power in heaven so great and awe-inspiring. There is such freedom in that.

I'm going to be carrying this image of God with me throughout the year. And because I am on this great journey, I needn't worry if it's enough. I needn't wish a different path that brought me thus far...

I'm not there yet.

With my sweet friend Jennifer today:

and with the amazing Jen:

Playdates: Empty to Fill

2012-01-02T07:10:00.000-05:00

He didn’t want to wear the tie and in the middle of ourgetting ready my father-in-law called to ask about a computer cable and Istarted wondering: do any other pastors have to iron the shirts of theirliturgists? Suddenly it all seemed hilariously impossible that I could do thisthing.

That’s how I knew God was there.

So I slowed down and looked him in the eye and I said it.

“I’ll only have one first sermon, sweetie. I’ll rememberthis for the rest of my life. I’m so glad you are helping me.”

I watched that settle in to him and we put the tie in mypurse so his dad could help with it—he was already at the church practicingwith the praise band—and we made it there with ten minutes to spare.

God was there and so many of the people that I love were allunder one roof and staring out into a sea of love from the pulpit may just bethe most humbling experience I’ve ever had. I only got choked up once and thatwas because I saw Iva Dean sitting out there among those people. Iremembered how, as a young mother, I used to sit right in front of she andGeorge—in the back, close to the side doors…just in case they needed me to slipout and get my fussy baby from the nursery. It happened a few times. I used tocome in these doors early, before most, and go back to the nursery and nursehim to sleep. Then I would slip into the sanctuary with a heart of gratitude as the first hymn was beingsung. It was before the second child, before Jeff wassaved, before so much. One of those mornings, I slipped in and stood with therest of the congregation…singing. That’s when I felt Iva Dean’s gentle hands onme. Apparently, when I had put myself together after the nursing, I didn’trealize the entire interfacing was still hanging out the back of my dress. IvaDean quietly tucked it back in for me.

I was embarrassed and appalled, of course, but as I stood upthere on that pulpit that memory flooded back and I realized just how muchthese people have seen my stuff hanging out. I wanted to tell that story, butsomehow it didn’t seem appropriate, and now George is battling Alzheimer’s andthere has been so much water under the bridge.

So I just prayed with them, that they wouldn’t see me or anyof my stuff. That they would just hear the Word and it would work its power. And I tried to be the gift.

I think it worked, God got me through, and except for leavingout the meet and greet in the second service, it went smoothly. I was proud ofmy boy in the tie and there were shining faces afterward.

God is good.

And later that night, we took the boys to their grandparentsso we could have a night alone. Jeff’s dad needed help with that computer cableand Jeffrey forgot his contact lenses, so I drove alone back to the house topick them up. On the way back I felt a pull to drive by the church—forgo thehighway and take the old way. When I drew near that little A-frame I sawthat there were hundreds of Starlings on the lawn.

And as I passed by they all took wing and soared into thesky. The tears came then and I felt my spirit lift and soar with them…sucha strange sense of free.

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

Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also:

And with Lindsay for Messy Mondays.

Christmas Break

2011-12-29T19:41:00.002-05:00

“What was today, Wednesday?” He asked, as I tucked him inlast night.

I nodded.

“Oh, no, the week is going too fast!”

He stretched and rolled into his blanket, grieving thepassing of another day.

I know how he feels, have tried to hold on to these momentsof slow…but each time I leave the house—leave them behind—I feel it slipaway. This morning, I left all three ofthem sleeping—tiptoed out of the house and siphoned onto the freeway. Thetraffic wasn’t bad…maybe the rest of the world was still sleeping too. I poppedsome new music into the stereo. New music makes me happy. I tried to listen butsomehow, my mind kept drifting back to that place I just left. And sometimes I wonder about the things thattake us away from each other and I can get lost in how good it feels to missyou and these past few days I have been caught up in the beauty of our lifetogether.

This is the rhythm of the world—the way it keeps spinning usapart and together, apart and together. Sometimes the fustiness of it allchains me but it always spins back around into wonder...

the scent of peppercorns and

garlic are all that’s left in

this dark kitchen, after so

much merry-making last

night.

while you sleep,

I take this cold bowl

of jambalaya with me—a

sad solatium for arms and

hands and lips and…the

warm of you.

to crawl back

under covers, curl away

from hiemal outsides, sip

from love a bit longer…

it’s an ache I cannot

feed.

our best havings are

wantings, Mr. Lewis said,

and I know it’s true, for

oh, how this missing

sweetens…for the coming

back together.

these days are short and

the wine goes quickly.

let us drink deeply,

love. new wine-skins

will only burst with the

ferment of this new.

better to mend the

tatter; smooth the

worn into a glossy

patina. and we will

grow rich together.

With my sweet friend Jennifer today:

and dear Emily...

The Dancing Priest: A Reflection

2011-12-28T11:53:00.003-05:00

“I don’t know why I try. There are no more good single menleft.”

My friend put her chin in her hand as she said it, leanedheavy on the table. I wrapped both of my hands around my coffee mug and staredinto its milky contents. The clerk at the counter called orders and the hum oflife bled into our quiet.

I didn’t know what to say. Mostly, she’s glad to be single.She’s gone through varying stages of acceptance, yes, but usually she sees thefreedom of her life as a gift. But it only takes one bad date and we’re back atthe coffee shop--she doubting everything she’s learned about herself, me tryingto help her remember what an amazing gal she is.

I didn’t know what to say, so I took a sip of my café oleand said nothing. Then, a thought occurred to me.

“Well,” I said. “There is Michael Kent.”

“Who?”

She looked bored.

“Michael Kent. He’s an Olympic gold medalist. A greatdancer. And he loves God.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Well, sign me up,” she said, sarcastically.

That’s when Irealized that my friend knows me way too well. I slipped the book out of mypurse and slid it across the table to her.

“I’ve just spent three days with him. I think you’ll enjoyhis company.”

When I first picked up Dancing Priest: A Novel, I was in dire need of some soul medicine. I was working ona massive final project for the Lay Pastor program I’ve been in for twoyears—two years of nonfiction piled upon nonfiction. I was also laboring overthe next book club selection for my job at The High Calling—another nonfictionmanuscript. My brain was inundated withfacts and how-tos and why-fors and statistics and trends and I was feelingmighty heavy with the weight of it.

It felt like story would never darken mydoor again.

I needed a good anecdote and I needed it quick.

Enter my friend Glynn Young. I knew Glynn is a great writerbecause I frequent his blog. He’s also an avid reader—of all genres. When Glynnannounced his first novel was being published, I was more than excited for him.

I was excited for me.

Because I love a good story.

Have I said that?

Dancing Priest didnot disappoint.

Not only did Glynn Young write a beautiful love story (andwrite it well), he wrote a story about perseverance, the value of faith throughthe hard stuff, and the triumph of moral character. Glynn’s main character,Michael Kent (he can dance), is one of those characters a reader can’t getenough of.

Well, this reader, anyway.

Dancing Priest isthe perfect antidote for the nonfiction blues.

The next week, when I met my friend for coffee, she slid myKindle back across the table to me.

“I think I’m in love with Michael Kent,” she whispered, eyesglistening.

I smiled.

“Me too,” I said.

We bubbled over with talk about the book for half an hour.When we parted, my friend had that old sparkle. Suddenly, I recalled how, afterwatching Rocky IV back in Junior High, my girlfriends and I formed a fan clubfor Sylvester Stallone. (Did we really do that?) A small group of adolescent girls could gather and talkabout and write letters to Mr. Stallone for hours. We would recite scenes from the movie andcollapse in sighs.

Only a really good story can do that for a girl. I thinkDancing Priest took a few years off of my imagination.

And I hear there is a sequel to come. Would anyone like to join a Michael Kent fanclub?

How to Hold on to Christmas

2011-12-27T06:57:00.002-05:00

(a repost today, friends, as we jump back into work and life and carry on with the gift of it. Epiphany does not come until Jan. 6, but I have been feeling it in my heart today. I'll be holding you dear...)

I took down the mistletoe today.

No more lurking in dark corners preying upon prepubescentboys to steal kisses. (I’m talking about my sons…Who have YOU been kissing?Okay, so it was really more like a hug-tackle. Hey, they aren’t that big onsnuggling anymore, who can blame a mom?)

We are here.

We have arrived at the stable. God incarnate nestled in manger. He slid into our world through the door ofa mother’s womb.

This wonder, this…epiphany...breaks me open, drives me to myknees.

I come with my meagergifts. When I left with them in hand I rejoiced to give gifts of such value. Ifelt pride at the worth in my hands. Now, standing here…I only feel my lack. But somehow--when I stand before Him--all this melts away. Myheart rejoices, despite my diminutive status. He came for me. I know this. Ifeel it in my marrow.

While I celebrate at this knowledge (Emmanuel! God with us!),my heart is heavy. For there is the return journey home. I must leave thishumble place. I must turn my back on this holiness and step back into the everyday.

That’s what boxing up Christmas feels like to me.

I gather all my splashes of red. I take down my nativity.But as I cradle Baby Jesus in my hand, heart skips a beat.

Will he not remain with me?

Isn’t this the gift of Epiphany? The gift of the Cross?

Sorrow spins again into joy. Love’s promise weaves thisknowledge into my heart: He never leaves.

He never leaves.

We choose some tangible reminders of this truth to remain tuckedin our world. The heart remembers the weakness of the flesh--the sin offorgetting.

And as I gather the splashes of red, mind’s eye focuses on Hispresence.

And heart whispers Thank You.

with Jen:

Playdates with God: Taking Christmas with Me

2011-12-26T09:26:00.001-05:00

After Christmas dinner with the family, we return home tothe quiet. I am always sad to let her go—there’s a lonely feeling in discardedtissue paper and half-eaten platters of sweets. I put away all our leftoversand wash up the dishes littering the counter and the corners of my mind. Thenwe take Lucy Mae for her Christmas walk under Christmas stars. It’s cold, butnot as cold as it should be and I love being under the blanket of the sky withmy two growing boys. I show them The Seven Sisters and this sparks a discussionabout the seven deadly sins. We name them all--shuddering a little at gluttony.It’s a beautiful night and I feel Christmas shining bright with the starry sky.

When we get back home, the lights are on and how canChristmas shine so bright just now and be gone in a few hours? And I startthinking about saying goodbye to Christmas.

“It’s almost over,” I say to Jeff.

“Thank God,” he says, with a deep sigh. And I laugh but Istill feel a little sad.

I can carry Christmas in my heart all year but it’s not thesame if the world keeps spinning and no one notices. And just when I thinkChristmas is over, he comes down stairs and casually asks, “Hey, mom? Are youbusy right now?”

And I say no and he takes me upstairs and gets out hisguitar and he plays me some Christmas songs. I’m sitting on the floor amidstdiscarded jeans and the brown paisley comforter that was kicked off the bed inhis sleep—I’m in this tangled up place listening to Silent Night, note by note.

And I think, I don’t care if the world keeps spinning andchurning. I’m taking Christmas with me.

***

Hop on over to The High Calling to read about another one of my Playdates and learn about our new book club selection for the New Year!

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

Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also:

And with Lindsay for Messy Mondays.

Sunday

2011-12-24T22:45:00.001-05:00

So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger.--Luke 2:16

Joining Deidra in quiet worship today.

Sweet Moments

2011-12-23T09:45:00.003-05:00

Yesterdaymorning the earth rose up to meet the sky and they mingled in the dimpledplaces and above the river and I drove to work through the milk of it. Everyonekeeps saying we won’t have a white Christmas this year but there I was drivingthrough a muted world—all awash with white.

Therain came later and Jeff and I laughed as we ran through it in the parking lotafter an early evening shopping trip. As we drove home I noticed how lightmakes shine on the clinging droplets and the whole world seemed dusted inglitter.

Myheart wants to pause and linger by the tree; listen to soft music and get lostin the twinkle of lights. But there is still the busy, the obligations, thechores. Even the good takes me away from quiet contemplation. So I’m trying tobe fully present in the busy—find the sacred there.

It’snot that hard. Really.


This hand made apron arrived in the mail the other day--from the amazing Kathleen. Just to touch the beautiful fabric was a gift. I felt the love in each stitch.

Thank you, Kathleen.

For Jeffrey, it's not Christmas until we make the sugar cookies. So we put the apron to the test.


The things boys do while waiting for cookies...

May you find everything that is sweet this Christmas...

With my sweet friend Jennifer today:

and dear Emily...

A Valentine for Christmas

2011-12-21T09:19:00.001-05:00

This morning I read Luke 12:22-31—“…Consider how the lilies grow…” and so I do.

It’s unseasonably warm here for almost Christmas; the weathermansays it will get up to 65 F today. When I take Lucy Mae out for her morningbusiness, the air is wet with mist and the scent of earth fills my nostrilslike so many growing things stirred in the soup of all the seasons gone by. Itfeels like spring.

And then I read about lilies and it takes me back to a poemI read last night in this book my friend sent me for Christmas. It’s a book ofvalentine poems and it has been softening my heart for Love.

The Bluet by Ted Kooser

Of all the flowers, the bluet has

the sweetest name, two syllables

that form on the lips, then fall

with a tiny, raindrop splash

into a suddenly bluer morning.

I offer you mornings like that,

fragrant with tiny blue blossoms—

each with four petals, each with a star

at its heart. I would give you whole fields

of wild perfume if only

you could be mine, if you were not—

like the foolish bluet (also called

Innocence)—always holding your face

to the fickle, fly-by kiss

of the Clouded Sulphur Butterfly.

All this talk of lilies and of bluets and the smell ofspring makes my heart smile. It takes me back to my girl-ish days when Iwondered into fields of bluets so often. My childhood home was a place ofsecret beauty waiting for my young eyes to unveil. How the bluets could grace abed of moss—crocheted across the green. I would gather small bundles, clutchinglightly at their delicate stick-like stems, and place them in thimbles allabout my dollhouse. They were just the right size for that miniature representationand always I sought to make my pretend world more beautiful than the real. Witha little imagination I could pretty up these stacks of wooden crates andleftover scraps of our life that I carefully placed together to create a placewhere I could dream another life. One filled with beauty.

Jeff laughed when I told him the name of these simpleflowers, and when he saw a wild violet he asked, “And what are these called?Purplets?” How I do love that man.

I count this scripture about lilies and provision and trust avalentine—just as the poem—and I wonder at the simplicity of it. In this seasonof excess, remembering my simple life as a child can be a haunting. It’s afleeting ghost—a pang of empty, a twist of revulsion in the gut. The tree istoo big and there is too much red, too many lights, and all these bits ofChristmas scattered in every corner seem too much, so pointless and dumb. Imean, I have a tree in my house, for heaven’s sake. Sometimes, I want to stripall this away…it seems like such a waste of time.

On Sunday, Rev. Jan said, in her sermon, “There is one thingGod doesn’t do and that’s waste time. He uses it all.”

So, I’ve been thinking about that. Dreaming of valentines.And bluets.

with Jen:

and Michelle:

Playdates with God: Be the Gift

2011-12-19T09:10:00.000-05:00

The robe that I ordered came in the mail and I tried it onstraight from the package. It smelled funny, but I turned and looked at myselffrom all sides in the mirror. I’m giving my first real sermon on Epiphany Sundayand as I looked at those folds of white cloth covering me up, I was seized withterror.

Who am I?

I wanted to fold myself into this white, disappear, forgetabout these past two years of study and prayer and all the things that led meto this place. The thought brought me to my knees, but I threw the robe in thewasher first. Maybe I could wash it all away, remove this dirt and fear and allthat makes me unworthy in the foamy bubbles of Cheer Ultra.

And I am on my face, dissolved in tears and I am asking What in the world were You thinking? whenHe reminds me of this scripture I read just this morning. I feel it like aDivine hand on my shoulder and it brings to mind these words from the Spiritual Exercises:

Spiritual Consolation[may be defined as moments]…when we are saddened, even to the point of tears,for our infidelity to God but at the same time thankful to know God as Savior.Such consolation often comes in a deep realization of ourselves as sinnerbefore a loving and compassionate God, or in the face of Jesus’ Passion when wesee that Jesus loves and entrusts himself to God his Father and to us withoutlimit, or for any other reason which leads us to praise and thank and serve Godall the better (Spiritual Exercises 316b).

I email my mentor and she tells me: We are all unworthy, Laura. Just be thegift God made you to be.

I’ve been distracted by the sermon, by the exegesis and thefinal exam—which feels more like writing a dissertation. I’ve been missingChristmas.

You are my Christmasspirit, I tell Jeffrey before he gets out of the car for school thismorning.

Why, thank you, hesays, smiles and hops out. And on the way back home, the world is a frostedglobe, and the birds soar in flocks against a blue sky, and this song takesaway my voice to sing and I am blinded by tears.

Just be the gift.

I’m looking for Christmas everywhere. And finding it in eachpassing moment.

Hop on over to The High Calling to read about another one of my Playdates and learn about our new book club selection for the New Year!

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

Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also:

And with Lindsay for Messy Mondays.

Oh, to Empty

2011-12-15T18:46:00.002-05:00

The dark comes early and my body responds in kind. The windbegins to blow as I sit here on the couch in the early evening. I have turnedon the Christmas lights and the room twinkles with warm. There is a softblanket around my knees and a dog asleep beside me.

I don’t know what is wrong with the turning of the earth—mid-Decemberand 62 degrees outside. The birds linger in this mild. Just this morning I sawa flock of hundreds silhouetted against the burning sky—flying over thefreeway.

Where do you go? I wanted to call upward as they inked outthe sky. But they don’t hear my heart-cry. They don’t look down.

I watch the trees surrender under the wind’s soft breath. Theveriest top bends low and scrapes her branchy crown on the earth.

Sometimes He asks me to bend low too.

When he told me what they had taken from him I was angry. Somuch loss, so much. He cried and he was mad and he felt the small. Helpless tochange the way of a few who let fear make decisions for them.

He grieved, but hesurrendered it all.

And I felt my anger melt into wonder.

It reminded me of Philippians 2:5-11. It says that Jesusmade himself nothing. Being in verynature God…he made himself nothing. (NIV). The NRSV says heemptied himself. It’s the Greek verb form kenóō—“to empty”.

In Christiantheology, we call it kénōsis—the voluntary emptying of my ownwill and allowing myself to surrender to God's will.

He cannot fill me unless I am empty.

Sometimes the worldempties me when I am too weak to do it myself. Circumstances steal joy, hope issquelched and love runs out the door. And I am empty…empty.

Sometimes Christmasdoes this to me. Empties me out as I grieve lost years, yearn for differentstories, ache to let my roots tangle back into…something…else. But when I bowlow, offer it up to the One lowered himself—the One who emptied all…

Then, I am filled.

with dear Emily...

The Shepherds Kept Their Watching...

2011-12-14T10:53:00.001-05:00

“These were no ordinary shepherds,” he said. And his wordscaptured my attention, because, who wants to be ordinary?

We’ve been going through a sermon series on The Songs of Christmas and this pastSunday my pastor talked about the shepherds.

“These were noordinary shepherds,” he said. “Thesewere the shepherds who kept the flocks dedicated for the temple sacrifices.They, of all people understood what it meant to watch and wait.”

He told us that on the road to Jerusalem, close byBethlehem, was a tower, known as Migdal Eder, the "watch-tower ofthe flock." Here was the station where shepherds watched their flocksdestined for sacrifices in the Temple.

In his book Sketches of Jewish Social Life, Alfred Edersheim says:

“…It seems of deepestsignificance...that those shepherds whofirst heard tidings of the Savior’s birth, who first listened to angels'praises, were watching flocks destined to be offered as sacrifices in theTemple… It was here that those who tended the sacrificial flocks,heaven-directed, found the Divine Babe— the first to see Him, to believe, andto adore. But this is not all. It is when we remember, that presently theseshepherds would be in the Temple, and meet those who came thither to worshipand to sacrifice, that we perceive the full significance of what otherwisewould have seemed scarcely worthwhile noticing in connection with humbleshepherds…we can understand the wonderful impression made on those in thecourts of the Temple, as, while they selected their sacrifices, the shepherdstold the devout of the speedy fulfillment of all these types in what they hadthemselves seen and heard in that night of wonders; how eager, curious crowdsmight gather around to discuss, to wonder, perhaps to mock; how the heart of"just and devout" old Simeon would be gladdened within him, inexpectation of the near realisation of a life's hopes and prayers; and how agedAnna, and they who like her "looked for redemption in Israel," wouldlift up their heads, since their salvation was drawing nigh. Thus the shepherdswould be the most effectual heralds of the Messiah…”

These were no ordinary shepherds. They were watching. Andwaiting. They had been prepared.

And as I listened to my pastor’s words, I wondered, “Haven’t we been prepared too? Haven’t I?”

Will I go and seek the Christ-child?

When the magi called on Herod, he asked the chief priestsand the teachers of the law where the Christ was to be born. They knew. Hadn’tthey been prepared? And yet, they did not go and seek him. Instead, these foreignemissaries went to worship him in their place.

Will I seek Christ?

The seed cannot grow if it is eaten. My heart is hungry,yes, but hungry for the fullness of the crop. And so I am asking myself what itmeans to seek him fully.

I am following the Star. Who wants to be ordinary?

When the angels hadleft them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let’s go toBethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told usabout.”

With my sweet friend Jennifer today:

and with Jen:

And Michelle:

Playdates: Spying on Advent Traditions

2011-12-12T06:49:00.000-05:00

The morning we trim the tree, fat flakes dress the earth inthreads of white. In the boughs of the naked maple—a flash of red—a cardinal ina nest of snow. I watch from the window, my feet planted in warm. The houseglows soft with twinkling light.

It’s quiet—quiet here, quiet inside the walls of me. I touchthe moment gently—feel around inside my heart.

Is this how it feels, I wonder?

I’ve been looking for Christmas for 18 years—ever since Imarried my husband and felt free to open my heart to this beloved tradition. Igrew up in a home that did not celebrate the birth of the Christ-child, see.And every year when December 25 approaches, I feel the bindings of those roots.I want to leave a different legacy for my children—one that delves deep into themystery of Christmas. Every year I look for just the right formula, try ondifferent activities with my family in the quest for the perfect tradition.

Hop on over to The High Calling to read the rest of the article and maybe get some Advent ideas too!

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

Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also:

And with Lindsay for Messy Mondays.

Sunday

2011-12-11T07:55:00.001-05:00

You desire truth in the inward being;
     therefore teach me wisdom in my secret heart.
Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;
     wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
Let me hear joy and gladness;
     let the bones tha you have crushed rejoice.
Hide your face from my sins,
     and blot out all my iniquities.--Psalm 51:6-9

Joining Deidra in quiet worship today.

Room 118: A Poem

2011-12-08T20:11:00.001-05:00

you fell asleep so
i sit and stare out
the glass panes of
your window
at rain clinging to
the round, red
berries on the tree
outside

each one
holds the city in
it’sbulging dome—
the gray of streets
and green of tree
and flashes of traffic
serried together

two brown-
skinned girls run
up the sidewalk,
waving at the city
bus, umbrellas held
out in front like a
knight’s lance

my heart held
out in front of me;
the only weapon
against this tired.
you must have
heard me sigh
because you open

your eyes and we
talk about how
you miss your dogs
and the way the
food tastes like so
much saw dust and
you smile

i give you the
rain on the round,
red berry…i give
you the world
tucked inside a
crystal bead. and you
give me…the stars.

Listen to it...

Room 118 by Laura Boggess

Shared with Nance and friends and Emily:

Mysterious

2011-12-07T21:37:00.001-05:00

“Sometimes seeing isbelieving. And sometimes the most real things in the world are the things wecan’t see.” –The Conductor on The Polar Express

When I was in the fifth grade, Traci K. asked me if Ibelieve in Santa Claus.

I knew it was some kind of test, because everyone knew myfamily didn’t celebrate Christmas. And my mamma didn’t raise no fool. I knew itwasn’t right to go around dashing the dreams of others.

But my mamma also taught me not to lie.

At first, I just ignored the question that was whisperedacross the hall as we stood in line for the restroom. But that Traci, she was apersistent girl. I was frustrated with her determination to make me ruin her delusion.Besides, we were in the fifth grade. Didn’t she know better by now? Finally, inresponse to one of her queries, I just tossed her a wordless headshake. It wasall she needed.

“Miss Bode,” she addressed our teacher—my most-favorite-person-in-the-whole-world.“Do you believe in Santa Claus?”

Miss Bode lifted her head from whatever it was she was doingand looked straight at me.

“I sure do,” she said.

I tensed up, looked straight ahead, avoided her piercinggaze. I could tell by her tone that she thought this was all my doing…that Iwas going around dismissing people’s ideas about Santa just for fun.

Everyone knew my family didn’t celebrate Christmas.

“I sure do believe in Santa,” she went on. “I believe in themagic he brings to Christmas and the spirit of giving he stands for. SantaClaus is very, very real.”

Even then—even though I didn’t believe in that jolly oldround-bellied man with the white beard—even then I knew she was right. Sometimesthe realness of a thing is hard to touch.

The season of Advent always seems laden with mystery and unspeakables.There are things in the Christ-child story that are hard to wrap my mind around…impossibleto explain. And yet…meditating on these parts of the story awaken some sleepingpart of me—maybe that part that might have believed in Santa Claus if given thechance.

In her lovely book Amazing Grace, Kathleen Norris quotes thepoet Scott Cairns as saying, “My onlyrule: If I understand something, it’s no mystery.”

The CatholicEncyclopedia says this about the great mysteries:

The Old-Testament versions use theword mysterionas an equivalent for the Hebrew sôd, "secret" (Proverbs 20:19; Judith 2:2; Sirach 22:27; 2 Maccabees 13:21).In the New Testamentthe word mystery is applied ordinarily to the sublime revelation of the Gospel(Matthew 13:11; Colossians 2:2; 1 Timothy 3:9; 1 Corinthians 15:51),and to the Incarnation and life of the Saviour and His manifestation by thepreaching of the Apostles (Romans 16:25; Ephesians 3:4; 6:19; Colossians 1:26; 4:3).
In conformity with the usage of theinspired writers of the New Testament, theologians give the name mystery to revealedtruths that surpass the powers of natural reason. Mystery, therefore, in itsstrict theological sense is not synonymous with the incomprehensible, since allthat we know is incomprehensible, i.e., not adequately comprehensible as to itsinner being; nor with the unknowable, since many things merely natural areaccidentally unknowable, on account of their inaccessibility, e.g., things thatare future, remote, or hidden. In its strict sense a mystery is a supernatural truth,one that of its very nature lies above the finite intelligence.

My pastor has been doing a sermon series on the Songs ofAdvent. Sunday, we read the Magnificat—alsoknown as the song of Mary. It’s one of the most beautiful passages in theBible. As we contemplated the Annunciation and the Incarnation, I felt thepower of the mystery of it all touch my spirit and pull at my heart.

Can I accept all these things as truth? Can I allow that Godis capable and willing to do these things? I am reminded of a conversation Ihad with my son a couple years ago, in which he told me he was okay with nothaving all the answers. Then I have touse my imagination to wonder about things, he said. And then he said howexciting that is because, “…God can doanything.”

I wonder if we’ve lost a sense of mystery? I wonder ifbelieving in Santa might help create in a person a longing for the mysteries—a yearningfor the sacred.

I wonder.

And how else can we foster that longing? There is no end tothe possibilities. Could it be that when we ponder these things, when we ask—asMary did—How can this be?

Kathleen Norris says, “…Isuspect that Mary’s “yes” to her new identity, to the immense and wondrouspossibilities of her new and holy name , may provide an excellent means ofconveying to girls that there is something in them that no man can touch; thatbelongs only to them, and to God.”

Maybe the wrestling with the mysteries is like Jacobwrestling with God. We cannot let go until He blesses us. And maybe that it’sin this wrestling that He touches us in the most intimate of ways. We may bewounded, but we will be blessed.

It’s all over my head. So mysterious. But I think I’ll setout some milk and cookies for Santa this year.

With my sweet friend Jennifer today:

and with Jen:

And Michelle:

Playdates with God: When Miracles Happen

2011-12-05T08:33:00.001-05:00

We placed the gifts under the treeand stepped into the celebration. There were years of trying, innumerable procedures,tears, prayers and finally resignation. I remember asking God, “Why?”andhurting for my friend for the ache of the empty.

Prayers aren’t always answered thisway, and waiting is not always so richly rewarded, but when we met for coffeethat day and she glowed as she told us: Godhas truly worked a miracle…I laughed out loud with the joy of it all andmarveled at the generosity of our good God: silent for so many years, yet, everpresent in the midst—waiting for just the right time. The waiting, pale andwithered, was given new meaning.

God was silent for over 400 yearsbefore the angel Gabriel appeared to Zechariah and then to Mary. How the peoplemust have despaired. How they must have ached with the empty. Who could haveknown? Who could ever guess that He would come so soft and small and helpless?The One who gave the waiting new meaning left his heavenly throne and steppeddown among us as the desire of a mother’s heart.

For there is nothing so sweet aswaiting for a baby.

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

Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also:

And with Lindsay for Messy Mondays.

Sunday

2011-12-03T21:23:00.001-05:00

For I know that nothing good dwells within me, that is, in my flesh. I can will what is right, but I cannot do it. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do. Now if I do what I do not want, it is no longer I that do it, but sin that dwells within me. So I find it to be a law that when I want to do what is good, evil lies close at hand...Wretched man that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!--Romans 7:18-25

Joining Deidra in quiet today.

How a Photograph Can Rewrite History

2011-12-02T08:04:00.001-05:00

We’ve watched our kids grow together and agonized over theawkward parts and laughed about some of the crazy parts and we know we are noteven close to being done yet but my son’s former kindergarten teacher and Ihave a deal. When her daughter and my son are seniors in high school, we aregoing to rent us a limo and tailgate in the school parking lot with a coupleother long-suffering moms on prom night.

It was her idea.

And we haven’t told the kids.

I remember standing beside her and watching the kids playone day years and years ago. She sighed deep, leaned her head close to mine andsaid, “And to think, one day they’ll rule the world.”

I just laughed.

She’s the one who taught me how to rewrite history.

“All you need is one good photograph,” she said. “You getone good picture and you’ll never remember the bad parts. You’ll look at thatpicture years later and all you’ll remember is love.”

I think she’s right.

But maybe, just maybe…maybe it’s not rewriting history asmuch as it is shining a light on the truth of the bigger story.

My three sweeties

Maybe the photographs tell the story true.

Things got a little silly

I love this picture of Teddy

My beautiful neices

And here's the whole gang.

Playdates with God: Coming Home

2011-11-28T08:35:00.001-05:00

The sun rises over our little valley home the same as itdoes over the ocean and this morning I spent some time watching this familiarhorizon fill in with amber and violet and longing. We drove ten hours to gethome on Saturday, snarled in game traffic around Charlottesville--caught up infans and travelers alike. We unpacked a tired van and left the suitcases in thekitchen floor and closed weary eyes and woke up Sunday morning to Advent. Myneighbors have their Christmas decorations up and the mums on my front porchare brown and withered and the thick of night falls earlier each eve.

I am behind on life again.

Near the end of our holiday my husband took my hand andsaid, “Thank you for putting up with my family.”

I blinked and without thinking said, “They are my familytoo.”

There were ten of us in that beach house and it was cozy andsuffocating all at the same time and the way I was forced outside of myselfseems a fitting way to enter this waiting.

Last night we gathered at our church to decorate forChristmas—The Hanging of the Greens, we call it. The Pastor held up theChrismon ornaments and we talked about the symbols of our faith.

She prayed:

Lord, as we dress thechurch for the season, we also dress our hearts to prepare for the One iscoming—who is, who was, who always will be…

I’m dressing my heart in its finest, sweet friends. Let’swait together.

If you'd like to join in The High Calling Community's Advent Writing project, jump over here to my friend Charity's blog and read all about it!

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

Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also:

And with Lindsay for Messy Mondays.

beauty is...

2011-11-25T08:36:00.001-05:00

beauty is

a wing of white

caught on

silver arc oflight

sewn on

drift of currentstrand

held aloft

by unseen hand

beauty is

a faith inflight.

Thankful...

2011-11-24T08:15:00.001-05:00

for all of God's gifts, from our house to yours: Happy Thanksgiving. Counting you all among my blessings today.

Playdates with God: Shema Israel

2011-11-21T08:00:00.001-05:00

I heard her sing the prayer in a movie and the words openedmy heart up wide. I ask one of my friends, who is Jewish, to sing it for me andhe says at his synagogue they only speak the words.

“I was the worststudent in Hebrew class,” he says. But he tells me what the words mean. Hetells me about their tradition. I google the scene from the movie and all weeklong I sing the prayer to myself.

And when she talks to me about dying, how tired she is ofliving in an unheeding body wracked with pain, and she turns her face away fromme in shame…the prayer is all I have to give her. And she grabs my hand tightand we are silent and we sit with her pain. Because He is the God of sorrow andpain-- God of all.

And this week, when Lucy Mae and I head out to the beach inthe morning, the moon is still smiling high in the sky. The sun knows just theright time to wave her amber flag but these moments just before—they are myfavorite. Scattered sparks of light rest on lapping waves and the horizon istinged with rose. I sing the words out over the ocean and lift my arms high inthe air.

He is the God of all this.

So must trust Himwith the rest of it.

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

Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also:

And with Lindsay for Messy Mondays!

Missing Autumn: Poem

2011-11-17T22:23:00.001-05:00

the mantle of night
slides down the spine
of this mountain,
falling on blue
morning. the river
follows.

around here the
water waits to see.
the wind laps
against branches;
wave after wave of
crashing caress.

and I have missed
autumn. there are
leaves all over
the road.

listen to it:

Missing Autumn by Laura Boggess

shared with voices and friends and with emily:

The Mountains Know

2011-11-16T20:45:00.001-05:00

I search through the pages of the reading assignment for anyclue to the making of me. I find my grandfather’s story there, feel his handsmold my future with a coal pick. Between those pages I hear the song of theearth. And I wonder about this place called Appalachia—this place that beatsstrong in the heart of me.

It’s a politically defined area that includes all or partsof thirteen states. It starts at the bottom of New York and travels all the waydown to Mississippi, reaches east to the Carolinas, and points westward inparts of Kentucky and Ohio. My home state—West Virginia—is the only stateentirely within Appalachia. It’s a politically defined area, yes, but a peopledefined area too.

I read about the history, the culture, the land. I hug thewords close to me and picture my ancestors wandering in virgin forests, lovingon mountains and in valleys, wading through rivers and streams. I feel richwith these words; they name a part of me. It’s a complex heritage that makes mypeople.

Our teacher is Dr. Lon Oliver, Executive Director of AMERC,Appalachian Ministries Educational Resource Center and he comes to teach usabout pastoring small churches. Because around here…we have a lot of those. Andit seems that to pastor the church we must pastor the people. And there arethings we need to learn in order to love these people well, he says.

Dr. Oliver has a passion for the Appalachian people.

“More souls will bewon on the local bowling team than in the church,” he says. And he says itover and over all weekend long: “The churchis borne on the local culture…WhereverGod places us to really hear the voices of our parishioners…we believe theSpirit of God is with the people.”

We talk about the history—how the Iroquois were here first—aboutthe three different divisions of Appalachia (Guess what? WV is in the poorestone.), about systems and the life cycle of a church…

But it is in his stories that his love for the people ofAppalachia speaks loudest.

“I was in Hazard,Kentucky,” he says. “The only place Icould find to eat dinner was this little tavern. Word got out around the placethat a preacher was in the midst. I ended up staying there until two a.m.talking with people about life and death. At the end of the night I wasgranting absolutions of a sort.”

He laughs it off but then looks hard at all of us—all eighteencandidates for Lay Pastor certification.

“People are spiritual,”he says. “And people are hungry for theGood news of the Gospel. But if we wait until they come through the churchdoors, most will not hear the Good News.”

He talks about how the love of the land is a central idealfor the Appalachian people, how the coal and timber barons robbed us of thisgreat joy, and how this love of the land is still a pervasive part of ourculture.

“The biodiversity inAppalachia is phenomenal,” he says.

Missing the glaciersof the last ice age also means that Appalachia is one of the most diversebiological regions of North America. As the glaciers moved southward, northernspecies came to inhabit the southern areas, creating an unusually rich geneticpool. There are 690 vertebrate species and 2245 higher plant species native tothe region. The kinds of trees found today were here over fifty million yearsago… (A Handbook to Appalachia, Natural Resources and environment of Appalachiaby Rouse and Greer-Pitt)

We talk about how rapid industrialization in the late 1800sand early 1900s demoralized our people. How the natural resources wereexploited and the people left barren.

“Most of our foresthere are third or fourth generation…in an economy concerned with outcome andnot quality, most young people don’t have jobs…”

He connects the dots from the past to the present for us andI begin to grieve the death of all those trees.

…During the greattimber boom between 1890 and 1910, the region’s trees became a source ofindustrial activity when outside buyers came into the hills to purchasehundreds of thousands of acres of forest resources…The height of the timberboom in Appalachia was reached in 1910. In that year, over 50 percent of thestanding timber production in the United States came from the South, and mostof that was from the mountains. Huge areas of Appalachia had been cut over bythen, and production declined significantly thereafter. (A Handbook to Appalachia, Appalachian Historyby Richard Straw)

At night I dream about those first generation trees. Aboutthe Iroquois and Cherokee who loved them in their infancy. In my heart I hear theecho of their fallen leaves, gasp at the wide expanse of their trunks. The treesare my kin and so is anyone who loves these gracious mountains.

“These are some of theoldest mountains on our planet,” Dr. Oliver says. “That’s why they are so gentle—so welcoming of life.”

The earth whispers to me: you must become like the mountains. And I take this whisper andcarry it inside of me. The mountains know how to love a people well.

The mountains know.

With Jen today:

And Michelle:

Black Willow

2011-11-16T18:04:00.001-05:00

Peterson says: a

shrub or

tree with

narrow, or long-

pointed leaves

that are green

on both sides…

the foliage is

fine-toothed and

hairless and Williams

adds: it usually

grows near water,

holding creek banks

in place. bark on

old trees looks

shaggy and it produces

salicin, the active

ingredient in aspirin.

I only know

I have a branch

of it pressed on

page 390 from

two years ago when

the boys and I tried

to learn our trees. now

I lay beneath its

canopy, on the bank it

holds in place and

imagine Native Americans

chewing these twigs to

soothe a headache.

In response to The High Calling's Photoplay this month Random Acts of Poetry by Tweetspeak Poetry.

Playdates with God: The Sleeping Garden

2011-11-14T07:49:00.001-05:00

I spend the mornings in the flowers—cutting back, pullingup, raking out. I’m late this year—the frost already thick on the grass whenthe sun drops the diamonds of first light. My mother-in-law told me to wait;let the birds glean what they will, she said. And they did. The coneflower isdry as straw, the Black-eyed Susans blink. All the color is gone from thegarden. The brittle browns and faded rusts shush me as they rub together in thewind.

I rake leaf remains out from around tubers—their subtle redsand golds like scattered gems. The thick bands of iris greens break easily withfingers. I smooth around their fibrous heads, let them breathe. Already theleaves have started to make rich compost--the soil underneath fragrant anddark. I breathe deep its heady scent, close my eyes and dig fingers in the coolmoist.

This afternoon the robins are in a frenzy over my newlycleared soil. I watch from the window as they hastily march back and forthamongst the stubby remains of my garden. It looks so clean. The mulch around the dormant clumps of green holds suchpromise. I wrap my arms around my sides—hug close this seed that strainsagainst the dark soil of my heart.

Yesterday the first snowbirds came calling. You are too early, I said to them,through the glass of the kitchen window. I watched them pick at the ground forstray seeds, rosy beaks and slate feathers speaking the horizon of scant days.

Will you please join me over at The High Calling for the rest of this musing?

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

Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also:

And with Lindsay for Messy Mondays!

Playdates with God: Love in the Mail

2011-11-07T09:37:00.001-05:00

The frost is thick on the grass in the mornings now and I stand on the porch with Lucy Mae and watch my breath move out of me. It becomes part of the atmosphere and I imagine that it carries love and my love travels on the air over miles and miles of land and sea.

I cannot go to Ecuador—only in my prayers. I cannot travelto the far reaches of Africa. Though my heart visits those curves on the globeevery night…To the Great Horn in Ethiopia where a young son carries a pictureof me in his shirt pocket. “So I can keep you close to my heart,” he wrote meonce. And down to the Southeast in Malawi, where two young girls dance anddream. One wants to be a teacher—and she keeps good marks in school. The otherlikes to draw and she sends me pictures scratched out with pencil on smallbits of paper.

How I love these children. And each night, my boys and Ipray for them and so many like them who live in poverty and want. I cannot goand see the light that shines in their eyes. At least not now. For now I amstuck in the pew.

But I can send little pieces of my heart to them. A t-shirtwith our football team’s logo for Romedan. New sketchpads and colored pencils.Colorful hairbands for Bunaya and Evyline. Photographs of my boys—their Americanbrothers.

The packages should arrive in time for Christmas.

And love. So much love I send to Africa.

Will you please joinme in praying for my friend Ann and the other Compassion bloggers who are inEcuador this week? They carry so much love along with them.

The Gift of the River: Poem

2011-11-02T12:30:00.000-04:00

they are working on the rails this

morning and it feels like an emergency—

with flashing lights and

heavy equipment all lined up

on iron.

the crossing is closed. sepia-

toned trees gawk against

the rose of the sky’s tattered

hem and traffic slows to

wonder.

the hills peeking over remind

me of that pre-glacial sculptor—the

Teays River—that raged through

this little valley, flattening land

for road and rail and

creating the possibility of this

gift: a far off whistle blowing;

the pull into an embrace and

the voice that speaks home

all over this soil.

Listen to it:

The Gift of the River by Laura Boggess

Linking up with Bonnie today:

And Emily:

Sweeter

2011-10-31T23:11:00.001-04:00

The kids come wanting candy and I remember what the pastortold the children on Sunday morning.

Do you know howHalloween is like God? He asked.

Blank stares.

This oughtta be good,I thought.

Because, he said, God tells us that all we need to do is cometo him and he will give us good gifts. Just like getting candy!

I think about all the children who come by our doors, thinkabout grace wrapped in chocolate. How really it’s so much sweeter.

Teddy has volunteered to hand out the candy this year andhis little brother is at a friend’s house and I feel at a loss. We light thejack-o-lanterns and I put Lucy Mae’s costume on her but she soon runs it off.Jeff chops peppers and starts a jambalaya. The kitchen smells good but I canhear laughter outside. There’s nothing for it: as the jambalaya simmers we joinTeddy on the porch. We three sit on the steps and watch as princesses andsuperheroes work their way up and down our street.

I still can’t get over the plain fun of this tradition. Allthose years of Halloween I never celebrated growing up have helped me let go ofall the junk and I just hold on to this: little Sarah from down the street inher long pink ball gown and tiara. She has a matching velvet cape. There’sConnor from one street over pulling a laundry basket with wheels on it—giant stuffeddog inside. Cameron next door is running up ahead and here come those gigglingteenagers who are only in it for the candy. There are pink cheeks and brighteyes and glow sticks hanging around necks. The parents troll behind callingabsently for meandering children to slow up.

I give each child a word, and some of the grown-ups too. It’sgetting cold so I slip inside for a flannel and Lucy, tuck her under my tailsand head back out. We watch the dark fold over our little valley and the candydisappears from our bowl. I think about the Halloweens when the boys were littleand their grandparents would come over so they could hand out the candy whilewe walked little legs around these same streets. We always had a sandwichplatter and a big pot of chicken noodle soup.

Jambalaya will do fine.

Teddy was a lion that first year he could walk. He wasdetermined to make it on his own. He didn’t even eat the candy. Our neighborsexclaimed over his cuteness and brilliant manners and now he stoops beside meto drop a candy bar into an offered bag. He’s taller than I now and I wear hisold jeans around the house and buy him cologne for his birthday. Don’t tell himabout the jeans…that would probably creep him out.

We sit together until it gets too cold and the streets arealmost empty.

And I know it’s not perfect but there is a lot of gracehere.

And it’s sweeter than chocolate.

With Jen today:

And Michelle:

Playdates with God: Lonely

2011-10-31T09:02:00.000-04:00

These shortened days are full and we have been at church or with our church friends a lot lately. God is always there and He loves us throughtheir hands, with their words. We eat together and it is holy, we sing togetherand His joy takes wing, we sit and He sits with us. God is always there when wegather in His name.

But it has been in these dark and densely quiet morningsthat I have felt the Holy Hand the most this week.

When I look out the window into darkness, despair fillsmy heart and I am emptied out. The white sky dawns, masking out the winkingstars and I am hollow inside. This kenosis leaves me lonely. C.S. Lewis said our best havings are wantings and Ifeel this truth as I stand on the edge of darkness.

I miss my sister on these dark mornings. I long for the dayswhen we would whisper in the night, sharing heart-secrets and dreaming. I wantto call her but too many long years have passed since the hush of our voices gavecomfort. I think of my friend—the one who moved away. The one who loved me inall my weird, who understood my crazy. She knew the ways of a heart empty andfilled.

I stare at the phone and turn away.

I know these things won’t soothe. I know this ache cannot besated. I accept this empty for what it is. And even in this loneliness I feelthe truth.

I am not alone.

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's All Grace: Poem

2011-10-26T12:38:00.001-04:00

Practicing my "contre-jour", still. This is one of my favorite boys.

the Weaver has been at work

with loom in the night,

binding warp of hillside in

carmine and aurous strands of

weft; fringe of gossamer on

the edge of tapestry; the sky

flocked with daedal braid

of brume and beam flecked

with wing and birdsong. and

it’s all grace—this handiwork;

the lacy pattern of love.

Listen to it!:

It's All Grace by Laura Boggess

Linked up with Bonnie today:

And Emily:

And nancy too.

Name-Caller

2011-10-25T05:30:00.001-04:00

The morning clutches its mantle of dark and the moon stillpeeks—just a sliver of a smile. The grass is frosted over and I can see mybreath in front of me—long lacy tendrils that stand out against the dark. I amgrateful for this fleece robe—the one my sister-in-law bought me for Christmaswhen I was eight months pregnant with my first. He’s almost fifteen now and therobe wraps around me twice but it is warm and it is comfortable and I am muchtoo frugal to throw away something that has worked perfectly fine for all theseyears.

I wait for Lucy Mae at the edge of the yard under the smiling moon. She doesn’t like the crispy grass either and she picks her wayslowly before finding the perfect spot. Fog settles into the low places and amist begins to rise as the round earth's imagined corners begin to glisten red.

She said I was aname-caller. And I’ve been able to think of little else.

Where does that comefrom? She wanted to know.

Her words jarred me—the mirror was broken and suddenly, Isee truth. I would never dream of calling another, see, but I call myselfbad names.

The way the sky fills with light in the morning is amystery to me. I know the scientists can tell me how it happens. How the sun isrising on one side of the horizon, but the other begins to glow long before sheshows her morning face. There must be a way the light is diffused…maybe aseries of astronomical mirrors reflect and refract the rays until they push outdarkness…everywhere. Maybe these giant mirrors show truth. I don’t know, butthe moon’s warm smile is growing dim and Lucy Mae has decided she doesn’t mindthe grass stiff with cold after all.

I walk the driveway to the paper box and back to the porch;give her a whistle and a call.

Come on, girl, it’scold out here!

The light is spreading.

She had me read Ephesians 1:3-14. She told me to personalizeit.

Praise be to the Godand Father of my Lord Jesus Christ,who has blessed me in the heavenlyrealms with every spiritual blessing in Christ. For he chose me in him before the creation of theworld to be holy and blameless in his sight…he lavishes on me…I was also chosen…

The sun lifts up and steeps in the hillsides to gatherstrength. Before my eyes the night is turning into day. We go back inside towarm.

We've been talking about Stewardship at church and I know I need to take better care of what God loves.

The way the light fills the morning is a mystery to me. Theday becomes slowly, then all at once and I am shedding this robe. It doesn’t workperfectly fine anymore.

With Jen today:

And Michelle:

Image by photofarmer. Used with permission. Sourced via Flickr.

Playdates: This Moment

2011-10-23T20:51:00.001-04:00

Brother Pius is in town, though Sister Emily was unable tojoin him on the long trip from Africa this time. We all gather at Nick and Sharon’sto pray and listen and eat and hold each other in love. I want to ask him howhis family is, how their ministry is…are things safer? Do they get discouraged?How can I best pray?

His smile is just as bright but it seems somehow softer andI hear a little wheeze in his breathing. We sit in a circle around him and aspeople enter, his smile widens more. I remember what Sister Emily told us last year: “My husband, he…goes everywhere. God called him to be an evangelist,God called him to be a missionary, God called him to go…wherever he goes he isat home.”

He is home here.

The guys are teasing him about how well he hands outcompliments. They say he knows how to “play the game”. But he throws his headback and laughs. Then he turns those smiling eyes on us.

“When you meetsomeone,” he says, “you never know ifyou will see that person again. So I try my best to make an effect on thatperson. I try my best to make an effect for the Kingdom.”

His accent makes these words music and I know when he says them, he is in earnest. His dark skin glows and I realize this is thecontagious joy that he carries with him: thismoment may be the only chance.

And I wonder what it must feel like to live this way. What doesit take to feel this urgency?

What if this moment isthe only chance?

I want to hear more about his life in Africa. I want to askabout the Muslim population they reach out to every day. I want to hear his stories,feel that urgency, know there is reason to act in this moment…

And then we start to sing.

It’s easy to get lost in these voices and I close my eyesand feel the singing lift me up. It’s my favorite part, next to stories, and Iwould be happy to stay in this place all night. There is something aboutsinging together that makes a love bond strong and my heart swells for thesepeople.

“Tonight,” he says, “We are going to stand in the gap. Weare going to pray for the church.”

Something is missing, he says. A spirit of giving. Offilling needs willingly. I wonder what kind of needs his church faces.

“When we pray, we believe something is happening. Somewhere,someone is being delivered; somewhere, someone is being saved. We may never knowbut this we believe…something is happening when we pray.”

We stand in the circle and hold hands and lift our voices inprayer.

And something does. Something happens when we pray. Thismoment? It may be the only chance. And I pray with all my heart.

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

Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also:

Fortress: Poem for Growing Boys (Plus the Rumors Winners!)

2011-10-19T18:38:00.000-04:00

photo of "The Kelly Effect" taken for The High Calling's photoplay this month.

Fortress by Laura Boggess

You have left your mark on me

brushstrokes across the

evening sky

remind.

these faint white

tendrils about my midriff and

the secret places of my thighs.

how they burned their place

beneath my skin as you did braird

inside me—my body, your fortress.

the reflection of the light

posts waves on wet cement and

rain fills in the empty places at the

water’s edge. a fish jumps and the arc

reaches out—slow concentric waves

that lap over all they touch…meeting

at the edge of the ripple to close the yawn

before dying out.

I would rather be the algae that

paints the water clear blue-green

on that river bed—

that vegetation waving

soft in the current—gentle, yielding...

would rather be algae than

this awkward conversation spilling over into

our soil. you have left your mark on me,

the fortress agape, awaits the day its mark will show.

This poem was shared with nancy and her gang for voices and friends.

And my lovely assistant drew the names of two winners of L.L. Barkat's Rumors of Water tonight! The winner of the signed copy is Shaunie @ Up the Sunbeam! And the second winner is Stacy who blogs at Broken. You ladies are in for a treat! Please send me your snail and I'll get your books out to you ASAP. If you didn't win this giveaway, you might want to check Rumors of Water: Thoughts on Art and Creativity out anyway! You won't regret it.