The Lives of the Saints

I never read about saints before now. At best the idea of a saint evoked a picture of someone’s grandmother singing in the pews. At worst, a saint was graven image dominating a sanctuary taking glory away from God. Now I see that the saints provide stories that help us see God in places we might not otherwise see God.

This revelation came about as part of a lovely gift I was given on Tuesday.  Tuesday I went to a meeting at Brite Divinity School. It was my second visit and I was not terribly excited, after all I had been there once already. What an amazing day it turned out to be! I was able to attend a lecture about paradise and repentance using ancient Christian art to support the points. Then, I heard the stories of the saints.

The stories of men and women who had faithfully followed the call of God on their lives were told by their children. Intimate stories of Saturday nights spent rehearsing sermons and kitchens caught on fire when parishioners needed help.  Underneath the stories told you could almost hear the untold stories; stories of nights when personal children were neglected in favor of helping another, stories of spouses left to amuse themselves for hours while emergencies unfolded, stories of saints and their families sacrificing in an effort to show the world God’s love.

Then I read the stories of Saint Scholastica and her brother St. Benedict.  Scholastica and Benedict were twins who were fully devoted to God. They lived out there lives in seclusion following strict rules of conduct and discipline. One night just before her death, Scholastica and Benedict met for their annual night away together. He wanted to leave to keep the requirements of his monastery. She wanted him to stay and fellowship with her. She prayed and cried and God sent a rain storm that prevented his leaving. The next morning, he left after they had spent the hours of the night in discussion about God and servings. She died a few days later. He buried her in the tomb prepared for him at the monastery.

Her story illustrates that even though discipline is an important part of our life with God, a greater part is the relationships we are entrusted to maintain.

The lives of the saints serve to illustrate. I think of other saints I know and the stories of their lives. I think of my friend who daily strives to serve God with all of her being. I think of her struggles to know God intimately and bring others to a similar relationship. She does all of this while sacrificing time with her children, all of this while supporting others to do the same. My other friend teaches and daily inspires others to become all that they can. She does not get to talk about Jesus to her students but her daily presence is a testimony worth many books.

“Do whatever he tells you” Mary said this to the servants at the wedding feast in Cana. Whatever he tells you is sometimes as simple as filling a jug with water.  Sometimes whatever he tells you is to use your gifts to serve others.

The lives of the saints are not always told in statues and story books; most of the time the stories of saints are told over kitchen tables to grandchildren and friends. 

Limits

Then Jesus told his disciples, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it” (Matt 16:24-25)

It is hard to imagine that it has come to this. It is hard to imagine that life is radically changing yet again. On Saturday, “the German” is headed home.  Festivities have been planned and in the midst of the festivities there is packing. With packing comes decision making. There is a set weight limit over which she cannot go. The limit, once reached, is the limit.

Limits are part of life. Boundaries are necessary.  One of my favorite things about God though is that God is boundless. God’s abilities are limitless. God’s love is without measure.

My love is full of measures. I can love this much but no more.  I can accept this but I cannot accept more than this. I am finite.

How easy it would be to take Jesus’ death on the cross and create a boundary. God would have loved us all but the Jews crucified Jesus so God cannot love them. God would have loved us all but the Native Americans never knew Jesus so they are not granted salvation. God would have loved us all but…

Having a qualifier denotes a limit. God is love. There is no qualifier on that statement.

In my Lenten devotional today’s lesson is called “Our own crosses”.   Accepting these crosses in our lives, the author says, is the key to happiness.  When we refuse to carry our cross, when we sit in angry denial of an uncomfortable or unpleasant situation in our life, we cut ourselves off from full experience of God’s amazing love.

I do not like my crosses. I do love my God and trust that in God there is strength to carry my cross.  I trust that through God’s amazing redemptive power there is hope that my cross will be transformed.

Our German daughter is leaving on Saturday. She is packing her bags and working to stay within the limits. I am working to live in the limitless grace of my Lord and Savior.

Dream

Anxiety rises up in my throat. I want to escape. My heart is racing erratically and tears threaten to overtake me.

In the dream last night, he ran up to me. His little eyes twinkling like they did right before he did something he knew he was not supposed to. I knelt down there in the crowded aisle and opened my arms. He wrapped his little body around me.  His little hands, never chubby little hands on that one, wrapped around my neck. I could feel his breath as he told me “I miss you”.

I held him and cried and tried to figure out how I could get him back. My mind in its dream state went through a million problem solving scenarios. There was no way though. There was no way I could get him back. He was gone.

He was gone. He is gone. There is no sacrifice that can be made that will bring him back.  In waking, music begins to play in my mind. “I won’t give up on you” are the words sung over and over. I cannot make myself move from the bed but in my mind I stretch out in dance. I won’t give up on him and God won’t give up on me and there is hope and there is life and that more abundant but for now I am not moving.

The bed is safe and the anxiety that threatens to overwhelm me keeps me from moving from this safe place.

A million unanswered disappointments from yesterday are waiting to be dealt with today.  A million places where the wrong words were said and the wrong action chosen have my stomach tied in knots. If I could hide here in this bed I would. I would hide here for years.

But.  But staying in bed is not an option.  There are four girls downstairs who need my presence. There are four girls who are living and breathing and fighting through the anxieties of life. I am to walk with them even if my stomach is hurting and my mind is screaming. I am to walk with them because I know in a little while the fog of this memory will lift. The fog will lift and I will dance again but this time I will dance in joy, in reality.

There is a hope in the reality of pain. There is hope because there is a season for all things.  After a time of pain, there is a place for healing. After digging up the grass, seeds can be planted that will grow strong and beautiful.  After a time of beauty, there will be a time of pain. The flower must die in order for the seeds to be free. 

Now is the time to begin the day. Now is the time to face the anxiety. Now I will rise up and say “I miss you” and “I love you”. And somewhere, somewhere out in the big wide world, he will know that he is loved and missed and treasured.

Thank God for Jesus, Roses, and Facebook

“He said to them, ‘where is your faith’?  They were afraid and amazed, and said to one another, “Who then is this, that he commands even the winds and the water, and they obey him?” (Luke 8:25)

I’m drying roses for the prayer room. The children will take the rose petals, eucalyptus and mint leaves and tie them together in a sachet in remembrance of Jesus praying in the garden of Gethsemane.  My house smells like cake from the roses drying in the oven.  I never would have thought that drying roses would smell like cake.

I also never that giving up Facebook would turn into a spiritual exercise. The hardest time to not use Facebook is when I have those moments of down time, like last night at Althea’s game. It would have been nice to check in on the rest of the world while I was sitting in the gym. Then, as I remembered not to use it, I was forced to talk to the people beside me to pass the time.  I talked with the mother of one of Althea’s friends and I visited with the parents of another teammate. I texted my friends to check on babies and sick children. I interacted with specific people regarding specific concerns.  I even watched more of the game.

Things are not always what we assume they are. We are reading through the Gospels in Disciple class and I keep thinking about these guys who walked with Jesus. So far in Luke their most frequent comment is “who is this guy?”

This was a man they had traveled with and lived with. They knew all of his habits. They knew which foods he liked. They had left their careers and families to follow him. They studied his words and actions every day all the time and yet. And yet, they still asked “Who is this?”

I would have expected the drying roses to smell like roses.  I would have expected giving up Facebook to be a time saver.  I would have expected that following Jesus would result in material blessings and comfort. But, the drying roses smell like cake and giving up Facebook is more like a spiritual exercise and following Jesus is costing me material blessings.

Thank God for the loss of these material blessings! Thank God that my life is not what I had planned it to be. Thank God that while I fumble and question and fail, God is revealing mercy and compassion and salvation.  Thank God!

Lent Day 2

“And the child’s father and mother were amazed at what was being said about him. Then Simeon blessed them and said to his mother Mary, “This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed-and a sword will pierce your own soul too.” (Luke 2:33-35)

My friend challenged me saying “Really?  Checking Facebook one time a day doesn’t count as giving something up”. Now, she is an expert at Lent. This is my first excursion into Lent. Last night, I went to my first ever Ash Wednesday service.  The service was amazing, moving, and life changing. As the people went to the front to confess their sins and receive the imposition of the ashes, I watched the hands of the pastors become covered in the filth of the ashes.  I thought of our Jesus becoming covered in the filth of death and then rising triumphantly. Then we left the sanctuary with an external and visible symbol of an internal and invisible change in our lives, reminiscent of the believer’s baptism received in other churches.

So my Lenten decision is called into question at the same time that I participate in an extremely moving ceremony of repentance and commitment.  God never seems to work on just one level or just on one area.  Today is also the day when my friend is delivering her second miracle baby and I happen to be reading through Luke. Can you imagine your beautiful new child being held by the respected priest and the priest looks right at you and says “a sword will pierce your own soul too”?   As parents we all have a small inkling that our children create in us a vulnerability to being pierced. As new parents though we have no idea that piercing is guaranteed.

Mary had been told that her son would be great and that he would reign over the house of Jacob. But understanding Jesus is never simple. The one who would reign over the house of Jacob would also be a sign that will be opposed. How would Mary hold these thoughts together in one mind? Would she forget pieces of them from time to time as she and Joseph lived their lives busy with daily tasks? How would living with Jesus change their perspective?

Living with Jesus changes perspective. To try to hold on to just one facet of Jesus is impossible. We see different images as the days move on. Some days we see the kindness of our Savior. Some days the focus is on our Savior’s call to do and be salt and light. Some days all we can do is hold on to the comfort that we find in the arms of one who has triumphed over death and pain and sadness. My favorite days though are the days we feel, if even briefly, what it means to have life and have it more abundantly. Those days when we know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the God of the Universe love us, those are the best days.

What then do I do with the thought that my Lent sacrifice is not sacrifice enough? What do I do with my friend’s miracle? What do I do with a multifaceted Savior who interacts with us as both Lord and friend? I think I’m supposed to do what John the Baptist said to do-share with others and be satisfied with what I have.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Giving Up Facebook for Lent

     This is Ash Wednesday and I am embarking on my first ever Lent experience. For weeks I have pondered just what I could give up that would be meaningful.
     Walking through the process with the girls helped to cement the choices. Zoe wanted to know what it meant to give something up. She was all on board with giving some of her toys away to kids who didn't have enough. But, we talked a little more. We talked about finding something that was more important in our lives than God. She looked up, brown eyes wide and said "Nothing's more important to me than God!" I said "Yes, but sometimes things sneak in and take up the space and time we should save for God". She looked puzzled for a minute.
   I told her I plan to give up Facebook. Her eyes opened to the widest possible position and she took a step back. "You're giving up Facebook!" The full impact of that decision played across her face in the most amusing way. Then she said, "Well, I guess I can give up candy."
  If I had any doubt about my resolve to give up Facebook, it was banished in that conversation.  Zoe is 8 and has never experienced a life without frequent status updates. I hate to admit it but I spend a great deal of time watching for my friends' posts. (I have some very witty friends). I troll around keeping an eye on my youth group and watch out for the church families. I monitor my own kids and their friends. I keep up with my friends scattered out among the world. All very decent things to be doing but the time taken from my family and my God is perhaps more than it should be.
  So, I have decided that for the 40 days of Lent, I will only check Facebook once a day. Zoe and I will work together on a blog about our Lent journey. Just to keep me honest, since I've already tried to justify sneaking onto Twitter as a means to get my social media fix, I will also commit to only checking my Twitter and Pinterest once a day.
   The devotional this morning was titled "A New Direction".  I am looking forward to journeying in this new direction.

The Flames

I see her and I feel like it will be ok. She is beautiful. Her hair flies out in soft black bunches and little curling tendrils and I wish my hair would just once make a statement like that.  When you first just see her you don't really think much. She is a little bit quiet and you can tell there is a slight bit of apprehension about what she is about to do.
She begins to speak and you hear this authority come out of her heart. This authority that she speaks the truth she knows and she speaks it in love. I find myself captured by her ever increasing beauty. Then, she dances. The dance though is no ordinary performance completed in ordinary time. Her dance is a sermon. She speaks of a God who is above all other Gods. She speaks of the love this God has for all the people.She speaks of laying down the burdens we all carry. She speaks of God and of love and she says not one word.
Her hands move with the authority of one who knows for sure the movements of the dance. Her motions are poetry. My heart leaps in my chest and even though her song is not one that I sing my heart leaps because across all these boundaries we are sisters, beloved of the same God.
Behind me there is another woman. This woman is the past and her feet are standing in defiance. Her hair is cut tight to her head and her skin is soft in color and in texture. She stands in defiance. She stands to serve those who are not singing her song. She stands testiment to the ways we have walked before and hope never to walk again.
I stand with head bowed and heart leaping. This is my future and I am walking toward it. I am walking toward a place I have never dared to know. I am walking to a place I thought reserved for those wholly other than myself.
If we could take a picture, the three of us, you would not see anything to striking. You would not see anything too striking unless you could imagine. Imagining the flames burning above our heads. These flames that dance in strength and beauty. These flames that dance saying "I am part of this magnificient world! I am part of this creation! I am the beloved of my God!" And, if you caught the glimpse of this in us, perhaps you would see the flames burning in all of the others.

Finding Heaven

I found heaven today. I was on a treadmill. The treadmill seems a highly unlikely place to find heaven, unless of course you have a massive heart attack while running. I did not have a massive heart attack.

I had completed about 10 minutes on the elliptical and decided I just simply could not stand staring at that particular screen any longer. So I moved over to the treadmill. I set my time at 30 minutes and launched into an argument with myself. The argument went something like “I really only need to do this for 20 minutes. If I do 20 minutes then that will be 30 all together and since I can’t really stay on my plan here anyway, the whole point is simply to avoid gaining anything.” This argument was going on and on and on and I had just about bargained myself down to only staying for 10 minutes.

Then a song came on. The song was about how amazing life is. For just a minute instead of trying to trick myself I started listening. I listened to the words and melody and the rhythm. The music wrapped itself around me and I became fully involved in the moment I was living.  I could feel the tiredness in my legs. I could feel the air as it moved through nose, throat, lungs, and circled out. Following it I heard the tiny clicks of the treadmill as it went around and around and there on the wall in front of me I saw heaven.

This life lived abundantly is beautiful. What greater experience is there than to be totally in a place, totally surrounded by a moment. The words in my head changed from my frequent bargaining to a knowledge that God, the creator of the universe, is here right now with me.  That because Jesus died and rose again the walls that had separated us from our God were gone. That grace was here in this moment. Grace was personified in the movement of this body of mine that I have been given as a dwelling place for such a short time.

Heaven here and now not just heaven in some other place; there is more to life than just waiting to go on to the other world. There is heaven, life more abundantly, right here in this place.  What joy then washed over me and in the midst of my sweating, repetitive movements I caught a glimpse of the eternal.

I found heaven today, on the treadmill.

Wisdom Sings and Love Holds

Wisdom sings lyrics we don’t want to hear and Love holds dirty little hands. I am driving with my friend and wondering about where this life is going. Ten years ago I would have thought nothing would be the way it is. Ten years ago I was hanging on with my nails ground into the steering wheel. Wisdom sings lyrics we don’t want to hear but the verses get stuck in our heads and rattle around for days reminding us of the things we dare not forget.

Revisionist history allows us to look at our days and change them to fit the ways we wanted them to go. Revisionist history blurs the edges of what was into a look at how we had thought they should have been. Or maybe not. Maybe the revisionist is only looking at what was when we couldn’t see it. Let them who have ears hear and those with eyes see. As children we argue that we all have eyes and ears. As grownups we wonder how many of us use those tools as they were meant to be used.  Every once in a while I catch a glimpse of Love unclothed and fall back afraid because nothing that powerful should be. A glimpse of Love’s unclothed ankle fuels months of dreams and years of striving.

Wisdom sings that time changes. I try to hold this moment in my hand. I want to hold it and watch it become and grow. I want to call it mine and bind it to my heart with strings that will never break. Nails dug deeply into the steering wheel screaming mine, mine, mine. Wisdom sings nonchalantly “There is a time for every purpose”. She sings almost under her breath and only loud enough for me to hear. And I do not want to use these ears to hear. And I do not want to use these eyes to see. Wisdom’s song becomes a lullaby-sweet and soft. My nails lift slowly from the steering wheel. I can see the half-moon indentions they have made. “To every season-turn, turn, turn”. I turn my gaze outward and see that for this moment to have been another had to pass away. I open up my hand and the moment flies.

Looking outside of myself, I catch a glimpse of Love. He is holding the hand dry and wrinkled with filth caked deep below the nail. I watch Love hold the hand as Wisdom sings her tune.  Time is lost between them. Days weeks months and years race around them like lovers or children and Love holds her hand through each pass. This is the way the world ends, not with a whisper or a bang. This is the way the world ends, in the quiet of Communion with Wisdom singing softly and Love holding dirty hands.

In that moment, with my hand open to let go of the moment and Love’s hand closed on her tiny hand, in that moment, my heart breaks out in joyful song because now, now we are free. We are free to sing praises that flow from hearts drinking deep of Love’s heart. We are free to dance dances that inspire children to live. We are free to let go of all our moments because there is a season for everything. There is a season for a joy that lasts beyond any moment and carries us on wings we have never imagined. Let the seasons turn because Love has gone before us and made our way. Let the seasons turn and let wisdom sing because we are safe. We are loved. Time is neither for us nor against us. Time is and we are. We are loved.

Crazy Grace

I once imagined this continuum. On one extreme was “TRUTH”. This was a capital T truth. The kind of truth that stood throughout the ages as beacon of light, the kind of light that reminded you of the light shown by the state trooper as he pulls over your minivan late at night, a light that you could not look at and could not see through. This was the kind of harsh truth.  The opposite side of the continuum was grace. Grace was written in all small letters with no bold accents, just grace in its overwhelming simplicity and quietness. The true measure of love I thought was found right smack dab in the middle of the grace/truth continuum.

Then, I saw the butterfly.  There is very little as sad as a butterfly lying dead on the sidewalk with its beautiful wings perfectly still.  Like a moment of beauty frozen for all to see and examine, except it is dead. It is dead and in a few minutes the ants will come and swarm all over its tiny body taking pieces of it home to feed the others.  In just a few minutes the beauty will be destroyed. In just a few minutes, neither grace nor truth will matter much.

The TRUTH is that the butterfly was an insect. It had lived and having served its purpose it had died. The pieces of it would be reused to fuel new creatures whose bodies would be reused to fuel other new creatures.  The grace was that for a moment an enormous piece of beauty had drifted through the world bringing happiness to those who saw it, providing metaphors to those who sought them, and reminding others that there is a hope. Now this particular metaphor has left but many, many others exist to take its place.

And all of that is well and good. Truth and grace exist along a continuum and we get to choose in any given moment which side of the spectrum we will favor.

Except grace isn’t the opposite of truth. Grace is the truth. Grace is love in action. Even though I try and try to do the right thing, my attempts are as dirty as the dead butterfly. There are days when I just want to give up and quit being me because I am quite sure there isn’t enough grace along any continuum to make dealing with myself palatable. But then, I am reminded of the TRUTH. The truth is that I am beloved of God. The truth is that even in all my pitiful attempts to do and be and act like what I think it will take to be loved, I am already abundantly loved.

See, like that butterfly that died on the sidewalk, I am valuable to God. I am just as valuable to God as that person over there who never loses their keys. I am just as valuable to God as that woman who sings so beautifully or that man who creates art that makes others hearts sing. But even more important than who I am is who we all are. We are all the beloved of God.

I don’t know what your issue is. I am painfully aware of my own issues. But I do know that you are adored by God. And, if you are adored by the being that created the entire universe, you must be pretty special. If you had even the smallest hint of an idea about how wonderful you are, can you imagine how beautifully you would impact the world? Can you imagine being so aware of how much you are loved and then spreading that kind of love, wrapped in truth and grace, to everyone you encounter?  Take a minute and bask in the knowledge that you are loved. Breathe in the freedom of that truth. Now, breath out all the times you’ve messed up. There, do you feel it? That incredible joy?

This is crazy grace. This is abundant love. That while we were still dirty, empty metaphors we were loved with a love that is beyond comprehension. And, love is both grace and truth.

The love we have available to share and to impact the world is limitless. We are sons and daughters of the Most High God. The scriptures say that just like we wouldn’t give our children a snake when they ask for an egg, our God will not give bad things to us.  Remember you are beloved and those who are beloved are empowered to love.  Take joy in resting in God’s crazy grace.

The Songs

I turn the music on and the familiar but long missing notes float on the air. I remember the pain of that melody. This is the first time in many years that I've been brave enough to listen.  I listen to the songs and at first I feel nothing. Then, the days, months, years begin to fold in on one another like accordion pleats on beautiful paper. The years fold in on each other and I’m driven to my knees fighting regrets.

He was a good boy/man. I can see his eyes holding mine and I can see the hardness of my heart hiding the tender pit buried deep inside. I can see his heart breaking as my thoughts swirled madly within me trying desperately to find a solid ground. The solid ground was gone though. The solid ground had left when I fled. I had run so far and so long. All that was left there to stand on was the whirlwind.

The other was kind too but I wasn't looking for kind. I was looking for powerful. I was looking for someone powerful enough to calm the whirlwind and how could that young man even begin to understand what he was up against.

The songs play and the accordion folds open and close. Little glimpses of pain and anger and hope and dancing. The night I danced in defiance of all their eyes. The day I saw the end and the beginning wrapped up in one poor girl’s eyes.

I discovered this trick of music when I came back.  I came back and the hymns I hadn't heard in years came back. First the music then the words with all their power filled my heart/mind. I recovered the memories of those days in moments. I didn't need a hymnal. I had memory. With the hymns came the verses. All those words long hidden in my heart/mind came back to the surface. Ten years of memory verses floating to the top after ten years of flight. 

So then the lyrics of long forgotten memories came bubbling up. Could I listen to the music? Could I hear it and stay in the place I am? Is it too dangerous to walk those streets again? But memory is not a monster. Memory is only memory. I chose to listen. I chose to listen and battle the demons and the pain. I remembered more than just hurt. I remembered freedom.

Freedom is more than just knowing you are safe. Freedom is holding the accordion folded years in your hand. Holding those years in your hands and feeling the pain and shame and laughter. That is all there is.  This life where we have walked is part of who we are. The music made us. The music connects us to that place in time but that place in time is not now. That place in time is just the past. Each memory a building block that led to now and now is a beautiful place. Now is the place where even the songs that sang of failure ring with the truth that the failure led us here.

The whirlwind rages still but does not touch me. The whirlwind wraps around me and I cling to the everlasting arms, safe in the moment.  I unfold the accordion pleated years. I sing all the songs. I smile and the man I love smiles with me. Living in this moment is harder than living in any other moment but it is all well. The pain and regret of the past is only in the past. The laughter and joy of the past is only in the past. Time comes and goes folded and wrapped up in itself. The whirlwind blows. Life continues. And we sing the songs.

Wisdom Came to Visit

Wisdom came to visit today. She sat down at my table like an old friend, eyes dancing in merriment. I watched her laugh as she picked up her cup and remembered the first time I had seen her.

The first time I saw her from across the room and she seemed mysterious. Her smile reserved. Her form draped in rich colors. The light glinted off the deep brown crystal she wore at the end of a heavy gold chain. Wisdom was there and I was afraid to speak with her. I watched her from across the room. I saw how she spoke freely with others in the room. She spoke with them and their eyes danced with fire.

I began to look for her after that first encounter. The days stretched between us. I would catch glimpses of her in windows. She would laugh. I would hear little notes of happiness. How though would happiness come from such a creature as Wisdom?

Wisdom was angry and harsh. Wisdom required that one be disciplined. Wisdom was a hard master. Where did this laughter come from? Where did the fire I saw in the eyes of those she spoke to ignite?

I stayed and watched as she talked to others and laughed with them.  I saw Wisdom as she worked with people around me. I saw their eyes catch fire and their thoughts come quicker. I heard their words spark hope in others.

And then, Wisdom came to visit. We sat down at my table like old friends. She took her cup of coffee in her hands. Her fingers wrapped delicately against the brown ceramic. I saw that her hands are old but her nails are painted that perfect color, the color that speaks of safety and beauty and challenges.  Wisdom’s eyes speak love and compassion. They brim with tears at the suffering she sees. I thought there was anger and harshness in her eyes but in our quiet talk I heard none of that. There was only love in her voice. She spoke to peace to me. She spoke of comfort. She spoke and we laughed gently because even in the pain there was hope.

She whispered to me. She whispered that his purpose was not to die. His purpose was to glorify God-the same purpose we all have.  The gift of life that he gave was his gift, not his purpose.  Wisdom told me that God is good, all the time. That even when awful things happen, God is with us. She told me this and laughed, her eyes filled with tears.  We are all meant to give our gifts she said and her delicately manicured fingers wrapped tighter around the warm cup.

I breathed in the heat rising from my cup. I breathed in and watched as Wisdom stood quietly. She tilted her head and I was captivated by her beauty. Years fell away from her face and I saw her as a young woman.  I saw all the moments of exquisite delight fly across her face. I saw Wisdom in all her glory.

Wisdom is not harsh. Wisdom is not angry.  Wisdom ignites a love of discipline. Wisdom is found in laughter as often as she is found in tears. Wisdom dances through sorrow with slow measured steps. Then she turns and whirls through ecstasy.  Wisdom knows that time is fickle so she enjoys and endures as the moment requires.

Wisdom and I finished our coffee. We put the cups away. Wisdom looked back at me as she walked toward the door. I was struck again by her beauty. I remembered then her whispered words of hope and comfort. He did not come only to die. He came to live.