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.

Safety and Sleeping Beauty

    I want to protect them all. I want to build a giant fence around them and them safe beside me. Not just my girls but every child every where. Teachers have this thing in them. The thing that makes us see every child we ever interact with as "ours". We want to protect them from every harmful thing they might possibly find.  After Friday, the urge to protect is almost overwhelming. I'm sure that if we enacted just the right laws everyone would be safe. I'm sure if we came up with just the right program no one would feel the need to do such awful thing. Maybe, if we got rid of all the guns, knives, fertilizer, peanuts, etc we would be safe. Maybe if my girls and I hid in our house we could avoid all the dangers outside.
  Maybe if we destroyed all the spinning wheels in the kingdom our kids would be safe.
  Sleeping Beauty was the beloved princess who was cursed from birth. Her curse was that she would die from a prick of a spinning wheel.  So her loving parents did the only thing loving parents could do. They destroyed all the spinning wheels in the kingdom.  I can see the spinners wondering why on earth all their tools were being destroyed. After all, spinning wheels don't kill people, curses do. These people though were good followers of their king and they gave up their spinning wheels.  Everyone gave up the spinning wheels except the palace spinner. She kept hers hidden in a back room in the palace. It was hidden so deeply that she thought it would be ok. Secrets though never turn out ok and some things happen no matter how diligent you are.  Sleeping Beauty went wandering around the castle one day and saw this strange machine. She reached out and touched it.
  We are all under a curse. We will all die even if we do everything in our power to avoid it.  I think of Sleeping Beauty's parents trying so hard to make everything perfect.  Then I think of my own attempts to control the uncontrollable.  Then I think of the parents whose children are gone. I think of the parents of the children who are hurt. I think of the children who are bullied.  All this innocence lying broken all around us hurts. Tears threaten to overwhelm me. Despair looms like a deep cloud. But God.
  God moves in the midst of this cloud. God is love and love is light and despair is forced to leave.  There is a joy that transcends all this mess. There is a love that allows me to put aside my need to control things I cannot control.
  We cannot legislate safety. There will always be at least one spinning wheel hidden in the castle. We can teach love. We can show light. We can hold on to the firm assurance that God is with us.  God is with us and that is enough.

Watch This!

“Watch this” he cries in delight. The newest trick he has learned is about to be shown in its entire splendor. He has worked for hours on this trick. He has perfected the takeoff and fallen a hundred times on landing but he is sure now that it will work. The trick will work and you will be amazed.

You watch because in this moment you are not paying attention to the millions of things that are grabbing at you. You watch because this is your beloved son and you want to see what he is going to make happen. The bike has become like an extension of his body. He knows it intimately. Even though it is only a machine, it has become part of him. 

You watch the near perfect execution of the trick and cheer for him. You watch. That is all you do. You watch.

“Watch this” God cries in delight. God has worked outside of time and brought together a new possibility. A new story is unfolding and you are being allowed to watch. You watch as unlikely pieces come together across space and time. You watch as forces you would never have imagined work together and create something vastly different from all that has gone before. You see the creation of beauty and you stand awed.

I was feeling low and wondering about this new story God is writing in my life. The story is strange. This story is making my heart stretch, bend in ways I would never have imagined. This story has peeled layer after layer of protective coverings off my soul. I had placed those coverings there on purpose. They were good for the time they served but now they have to come off and with the loss of each layer more and more receptors become available. These receptors capture joy and pain.   So while the good is so much better, the awful things that happen hurt more than one could imagine.

I was feeling low and wondering about this new story. I was tired of the new story and trying to figure out how to get back to the old story.  I was tired when I heard the cry “Watch this!”  I looked up from my thoughts to see God doing something beautiful.

God who rewrote the story of Ruth was not done with the story of me. God who rewrote the story of Elizabeth was not done with the story of me. God who rewrote the story of Samson was not done with the story of me. God who rewrote the story of Jesus, even though there seemed nothing left to do, was not done with the story of me.

“For I am about to create new heavens and a new earth; the former things shall not be remembered or come to mind. But be glad and rejoice forever in what I am creating.” (Isaiah 65:17-18)

So in quiet adoration, I watch. I watch and I wait and I prepare for the coming of the Lord. I wait and watch to see what this new story will be. I forget for a moment who I was and think on the possibility of who I will be. 

Family Pictures

They first caught my eye this year. I’m not sure why this is the first year I noticed them. They have been there year after year. Every Christmas you see them in the most famous family portrait. Mary is kneeling by the manger and Joseph is standing over her, together they are witnessing a miracle.

Mary was young. Joseph was older. I imagine neither of them ever thought they would be chosen to be the parents of Jesus.   Their dreams were probably simple dreams. They wanted a warm house. They wanted a prosperous life. They wanted to live a comfortable life.  They thought they had everything in place to have that comfortable, normal life. Then the angel came.

The angel just dropped in on Mary one day and told her the world was about to be changed.  Mary must have been such a faithful woman. She said “ok, let it be as you have said”. She didn’t put out a fleece. She didn’t argue. She just said ok. Then, she went and lived out the “ok”.

I can imagine Joseph’s face as Mary tells him what happened. I don’t know what kind of relationship they had prior to that conversation. Maybe they knew each other. Maybe they were in love and had those long rambling conversations of new love. Maybe they just had a passing relationship, the type where conversations were kept to the point.  I don’t know. I can see this conversation going down though.

Joseph is trying to process what Mary has said. I imagine sleep came hard for him that night. Then the angel came. The angel came and explained that Mary wasn’t crazy. So they entered together into a new type of relationship. A relationship built on faith that what God said would be.

It is easy sometimes to be faithful for a minute. To grab hold of faith and stand firm knowing that in a day or two the crisis will pass. This faith journey they were on was a lifetime journey.   As Mary’s belly grew, so did the whispers. Did they run to each other or did they drift apart, Joseph blaming Mary for this problem and Mary feeling so alone? I like to think that there were days of each, days of running to each other and days of running away from each other.  There were days when the faith jar was empty. Days when Mary’s body hurt and the girls she had grown up with were rude. There were days when Joseph’s buddy said one too many “funny” comments.

Then there was the journey to Bethlehem. Mary was ready to deliver. Joseph was worried about money and the baby and Mary.  What kind of father couldn't find a decent place for this baby to be born? What kind of a husband made his wife walk 70 miles at the end of her term? What kind of a God would send an angel to mess up a life plan like this?

The night passed and the baby came.  Mary, still weak but in awe, looks at the baby and then at Joseph.  Joseph looks down at Mary. Their faith has been made flesh. It still doesn't make any sense but they feel something different in the air. God is there. God is with them. Despite their doubts, even though they had such weak faith, God chose them and God was there wrapped in swaddling clothes.

After the family picture was made, the one where they are posed in silhouette-Mary kneeling, Jesus in the manger, Joseph looking down on them- did Joseph gather the weary Mary in his arms and hold her? Did Mary cry all the tears she had held back so long? As all the fears of new parents washed over them, did they become one flesh joined forever in the miracle of this birth?

The light of the baby Jesus, the light of love wrapped them in joy. There must have been some special delight in caring for Jesus something sweeter even than the routine sweetness of a beloved child.   One day, maybe I will ask them. I will ask Mary what her day to day life was like. I will ask Joseph if he ever fully trusted Mary and the angels.

For now, I will look at the family picture and imagine the conversations between the virgin and the carpenter as they prepared for our Emmanuel. 

Defiant and Joyous

My chest is tight and breath is hard to move but move it must.  Breath cannot stay in one place. Breath is by definition an action. Breath is an in and an out. When breath stops death comes.

So in and out the breath is forced. The breath is forced as life sometimes is forced. Sometimes life is easy. Sometimes days flow with the beauty of a spring in Idaho cascading joyfully down the mountain side framed in bright green from the trees and the grass. Some days flow with the joy of a runner meeting and exceeding her goal, feet slapping the ground in a rhythm only she can hear and see.

And then there are some days-some days when the breath must be forced. Breath must be forced first through the nose and then deep into the lungs because if it was not forced deep, the breath would stay just above the lungs and do no good.  If the breath does no good, the body dies.

My chest is tight and the breath seems to hover just above my lungs. I breathe in as deep as I can, expanding my lungs all the way into my back until I can almost hear the ribs pop. I breathe as an act of defiance. I breathe as an act of worship. I will live and I will breathe and I will take joy in the day the Lord has given me, even if the day is full of pain and my chest is tight and breath is hard to move.

On the day when Jesus died, Mary’s breath did not come easy. All hope it seemed was lost to her. Her beloved child, the child of promise, the child whose birth occasioned angel decrees and visits from afar was being killed. They didn’t even have the courtesy to kill him in private. No, this death was out loud, broadcast through the neighborhood. Just like her pregnancy with the same child, this was public and her chest hurt and breath came hard and she had no choice but to stand and to breath.  Humiliated again, she stood in the crowd. Humiliated despite knowing her son was special, was beloved, was the Lord. How then would she continue to breath? Would she rush back to her home and sink in despair? A curled mass of heartbroken woman praying between sobs with none to offer her comfort.  Where were the angels now? She saw them before he came. She spoke with them and was encouraged. Where were they now and was it all just a hideous sad mistake?

Even though her chest burned, I believed she breathed. This was the woman who when told she would bear the child of God said “So be it”. She was strong enough to walk the roads with her pregnant, unwed belly. She was strong enough to obey God’s plan. She was strong enough that even in her weakest moments when she was laid out in a crumpled mass with the vision of her beloved wrapped in death, she breathed. Some days our chest is tight and breath is hard. Some days when the spirit is floating just above seemingly unwilling to enter we have to breathe deep, breathe deep and force the breath in until our ribs pop, until the hard shell that has grown around our heart breaks open.

My chest is tight and the breath is hard to move. The breath is harder to move than even my knees. My knees that refuse to bend and seek forgiveness. My head that refuses to bow because to admit my mistakes is to be weak. Then I think of Mary’s chest and the breath she took over and over again. I breathe deeper and deeper until finally the ribs pop and my knees bend and my head bows and I beg forgiveness.  And in forgiveness my breath becomes worship, my breath becomes joy just like Mary’s breath when in that moment she became light seeing her son risen again, unscarred by death. She became light when she saw that faith had been made reality.  And I, like Mary, will breathe-defiant and joyous until that day when I see faith made reality.

Not Everyone Will Like Me

Not everyone is going to like you. Some folks are not going to like you. They just aren’t and really that is more about them than it is about you. We know this. We know that it doesn’t matter sometimes how hard you fight to love. Sometimes the other person’s heart is just…well, sometimes their heart is just hardened.

I think of Saul. Saul was king of Israel. He was the boss. When he spoke, the world trembled.  But he was unhappy and his heart was hurt. He ranted and raved and sulked. Somehow a young man became the focus of his madness. David, who sat for hours in Saul’s chambers playing music to calm the madness, was a frequent target of Saul’s spear. David showed time and time again that he held no ill will toward Saul but none of those examples of love were enough for Saul. Saul never did believe that David really really loved him.

Saul’s heart was hardened against David. That is just how it was.

Some time ago I adopted a way of being. This way of being said that if someone appeared not to like me or approve of me, I would try to love them even more. This is radically different from my normal way of responding. The normal me would run scared if someone didn’t like me. I’m not easy to like for some people. I’m a little colorful and passionate and distractible. I walk in the center of a tornado full of people and books and thoughts and rants and shoes that never find their way home.

But, I thought maybe, maybe if I can somehow show these people that I love them, maybe they will be compelled to at least respond to me. If I smile, most people will smile back at me. If I join them in laughter, most people will laugh with me. If I tell them all the wonderful things I’ve noticed about them, most people will see that I am truly in love with them.

Most people will open themselves and respond.

Not everyone though is going to like me. They won’t like me even if I pray for them day after day. They won’t like me even if I’ve seen so many beautiful pieces of their heart. They won’t like me even if I smile and laugh and play with them. Some people will not like me…and that is ok.

I am called to love like Jesus loved. Jesus loved those who despised him. Jesus loved those who ridiculed him. Jesus loved those who would not smile with him. Jesus loved those who thought him a fool.

I cannot love like that in myself. The only hope I have of coming close to that kind of love is to practice deliberate kindness through the power of the Spirit.  I will continue to smile at the ones who refuse to smile at me. I will continue to lift up in prayer those who hurt me. I will forget and mess up and say awful mean things and I will beg forgiveness and I will smile at the ones who refuse to smile at me.

And not everyone will like me and that is ok.

The beginning is at hand

The beginning is at hand. Cool air sneaks in around the door with a twinge of sadness. The fall is always a time of sadness mingled with expectation. The fall is a time of promises made and promises harvested.  Tomorrow is Halloween. With Halloween begins the season of festivities.  This season is full.

Some seasons are seasons of singleness, times of going out. This season though is one of togetherness, times of gathering in warm safe places. Times of togetherness are times to remember those who are no longer with us.

My grandfather strides along the walls of my memory. Lately, I see him frequently. He is playing his guitar with one strand of hair falling down in his eye. He is sitting in his truck, cigarette dangling, hat cocked just so. He is walking across the pasture, jeans ruffled at the tops of his boots.

My nephew’s bright eyes dance along the walls of my memory. I work to remember the feel of his warm skin in my arms. His little fingers wrapped around mine as the much too old baby rocked and drank his bottle. His sly grin as he reached for the ornaments on the “no-no” tree. His joy as he reached deep into the bags to get his presents.

My grandmother sits in her chair. She is kind and makes a million pies that stretch through her backroom like a memory of a time gone long before we came.

My red headed Ukrainian daughter, who marveled at candy canes and requested crabs for Christmas, smiles at me from pictures on the computer.

They are all no longer here where I can see them and touch them. The season of remembrance and gathering together comes and I’m forced to confront the ghosts.  I miss them. I miss them and so many others.  This next few weeks will be fast. We will run from event to event and group to group.  We will sometimes embrace the cold and other times duck quickly out of the chilly wind.  We will thank God for our blessings. Somewhere during the nights we will hear that we have not done enough. We will hear that the to-do list should have been different than we made it. We will see expectations not met.

Over all of that though, we will feel the joy of being in the embrace of the ones we love. We will see the excitement of the children leaking and filling the hearts of those who almost forgot. We will hear the songs that remind us that death is not the end. Death has lost its victory because our Christ is born.  In the deep night when memories haunt us, we will know that soon we will see those we have lost. Soon, we will hold them once again.  

What is It?

Fear sneaks in and threatens to swallow the moment. The question though is not what do I fear but “what is it?” What is it that litters the ground making my bare feet step so gingerly across the room? What is it that causes my heart to beat in an unsteady rhythm like a fragile falsetto against a deep night sky? Deep breath in and then a word in explanation.

This is the fear that drives: what if, what if my Jesus was here now in human form asking me for a drink? Would I recognize him? Would I recognize the one I claim to speak to daily, hourly even? Would I recognize my Jesus in the alarming cry of a baby? Would I recognize my Jesus in the infuriating slowness of my child? Would I see my Savior or would I see only the troubles of my own annoyance?

And, if I could answer “yes” I can see him, what then?

What does it mean to know Jesus? Does it mean that I can move about in this world of deadlines and bills and real, hard awful facts wrapped in a blanket of faith?  Some take drugs to alter the mind and reach a place where the real, hard, awful facts don’t reach them. Do I take my Savior and swallow all this sadness and not feel it?

No, the feeling of it is still there and still real. The taste of it is bitter and chalky and coats the tongue. The pain is real and the Savior is real.

Think for a moment about that pain. That one pain that wrapped you, squeezed you so tight that breathing felt like knives. Then think about the moment after it was gone. Think about how the air took on a quietness that made you realize your mind was screaming just seconds before. In the pain, you couldn’t hear the screams but in their absence you realize just how loud they were. In their absence you feel the peace but the peace is deepened by the knowledge of the pain.

My friend is hurting now. I could feel her pain from across the room. I could see in her shaking leg well hidden from the rest of the room the fight that she was not winning. In reaching out to her, I had to find my strength. I had to say “yes I know your pain and now you know my secret”. My secret is that we are all the same. We all hurt. We all know what three o’clock in the morning tears feel like, even if we pretend we don’t. We all need the love that is above all loves to come in and wrap us up.

 We need our Jesus to remind us that we are beloved, to remind us that now is not forever, to remind us we are never alone. Sometimes we entertain angels unknowingly. Sometimes we don’t recognize our dearest friends. Sometimes in the midst of our hurry we miss the chance to gaze in wonder on our Lord’s face. Sometimes we hide our eyes from the pain for fear that the pain is more than we can bear but pain is real.

Pray for me today as I pray for my friend. Pray for me that I will not miss my Savior’s face. I will pray for you blessings and strength and peace.

Bridge Between Time

Time comes and time goes. Time winds itself around our days and unravels the breaths of our lives. Sitting here on the back porch of my home in August 2012, I read the words written in 1560. They are the words closest to a man’s heart. The words that describe the most intimate relationship of a man and his God. This is more tenderly written than any love letter pinned to describe the blushing love of a young heart. These words were tenderly and carefully crafted to hold infinite mystery. Like the baby Jesus held in his virgin mother’s arms, a mystery incapable of being held swaddled in dirty rags.

I see a great chasm of years. I see the picture of John Knox. I see him bent over his task of putting into words that which is indescribable but must be described. I see him there and I see me here. I, a woman, in the Texas heat reading these words. He looks up and a moment opens between the years.  What would he make of me? What would I make of him?

My God is present here and there. My God is present before the beginning and in each moment between then and the end to come. How then do I grasp this thought? One fleeting moment and time unwinds just enough to catch a glimpse of one of the saints. One fleeting moment and through the break in the sky the cloud of witnesses is seen. One fleeting moment and the dog barks and the mosquito buzzes and there is no more bridge.

The words on the page fall back into their archaic cadence. Only the glory of the one who transcends and inhabits every moment, only that bit of glory is left at the back of my eyes, an aftershock of light.  But the memory rests on the tip of my tongue, a word searched for but not found- a memory of a speck of time that did not happen but will.

Time comes and time goes. Time twists and rolls throughout hours and days. It can be held but only for a breath and then it is gone.  Time is short and our gifts are meant to be shared across the bridges