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

From the past

How strange to see the past decorating the present. Like rediscovered diamonds, the learning from years before shines now. Some say that our God has plan A and plan B for our lives. That our decisions change our path like the “Choose Your Own Adventure” stories I loved so much in middle school. The books would have a beginning but at decisive points the reader was give options. If you chose A, then you would go to one ending. If B, your path would wind down to another ending. So many options lay out before you. Your decisions impacted everything.  Others say that God has ordered every steps and knows the choices we will make before we make them. Our lives read like a traditional novel. The author has conceived of every twist and turn and knows the ending.

I have no idea which way our God works. Some days I want to think that God, in control of every breath has ordered everything from time before beginning to time after end. That in each choice and decision I make, my God has preordained what I will choose and the outcome will be as God desires. Then, I run into my selfish, angry self and make choices that hurt me and others.  Choices that lure me far away from the loving hand of my God and in despair I cry out “Oh Lord, come to my rescue”

I do know that our God loves us. When I look at the impact of my past on my future, I see the hand of God. How else to explain a book that impacted me in a philosophy class in 1994 coming again into my life in a church service in 2012? It could be mere coincident if all the supporting details were left unexplored. But taken in the totality of experience it is easy to see that what was begun so many years ago is being redeveloped now.

All the pain and challenges that I have walked through since that first reading have added beauty and depth to the picture it paints now. All the joy that I have felt and tasted brings fullness to each thought. Who else but a God of love could take each wandering step and bring it into a delightful tapestry capable of impacting not just one but the community of believers?  The mysteries of my God are beyond my ability to comprehend. The grace/truth continuum is enough to hold my brain hostage for months. Add in the problem of love and holiness and I’m pondering for years. But in the end it comes down to the faith of a child. It is this way because it is this way. In the end we will have answers but the answers may not matter in the face of our awesome God who will wipe away our tears and restore us to our home.