Do What You Know (#SmallWonder Link-up)

I came into January with a head full of ideas - changes I wanted to make - and a vision of how I would move forward to maintain momentum on my recently published book and build audience for possible future books.  It all seemed clear and very exciting in a big-picture sort of way.  

Then, I started breaking it down into nuts and bolts and got stuck on how to move forward.  I knew a writing project I wanted to produce, but despite my showing up at the page, day after day, it wasn't coming.  I had visions of a new website and new business cards, but didn't know how to make the decisions necessary to move ahead while still keeping all of my other plates spinning.  

Added to my lack of momentum was the typical January need for a post-Christmas re-boot and a few new added time commitments.  Then the kids got sick one-by-one and now the cat too needs to go to the vet for a nasty head cold.  

In the middle of it all I've been feeling the stress of big plans and little progress building in me like a pressure cooker.  No progress I do make feels quite like enough compared to what I have yet to complete.  

This morning things came to a head, thanks to an accidental pot of decaf coffee and an extra nap after the kids hit the buses.  Suddenly I found the space to accept what I've known for some time now - I was putting off what I did know while waiting to figure out what I didn't and, in the process, I was losing steam and direction.  It was all so counter-productive.  

Do what you know, I thought, and let the rest go.    

What I do know is that I'm ready to be done hosting the #SmallWonder link-up.  I'm so grateful for those of you who've faithfully gathered and participated in this little community - thank you for journeying with me.  I've known #SmallWonder was coming to a close for some time and was hoping to make a smoother transition into some new things I have in the works, but, like I said, sometimes you have to do what you know first in order to build momentum to do the next thing and the next.  

I hope you'll all keeping coming around to say hi and I look forward to continuing to visit your blogs. I still believe, more than ever, in the power of small things to communicate the grace and love of God and that our capacity to be moved to wonder is a key to living in full humanity.  

So, here's to one last link-up - our 100th!  And if you have a word or two to share about what this community has meant in the comments, I'd really appreciate it!  Also, my plan is to continue to post here twice a week - likely on Monday and Thursday - so stop by for news, updates and to connect.  Or, sign up for my newsletter to keep on top of upcoming events and changes. 

*   *   *

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.  Thanks for being part of our community!  

Fear is a Fox (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

(This isn't the fox I drew, but rather one I found online to work from - isn't it charming delightful?)

Last week I started work on a painting I planned to give to a friend.  Standing at the old sink in the Little House (where my office is) I covered a small, square, wooden canvas with a mixture of turquoise and dark purple paint and left it to dry.  The next day I added one or two more layers of the same colors.  I liked the combination and was happy, so far, with my little project. 

(This, often, is the beginning of the problem.)   

Next I played with some tulle netting, painting over it like a stencil to add layers of texture and depth.  Now I liked the painting even more and the more I liked it, the more my progress slowed.  

Love for what was made me hesitant to move toward what might be. 

But the painting was nowhere near complete.  With the background finished, it was time to add an image and words.  I already had words in mind and thought a fox would be a fitting image, so I looked online for a few samples to work from.  With luck, I easily found a sketch I loved.  I printed it and prepped my canvas board with a glossy gel layer that would preserve and protect the background while also allowing me to ‘erase’ my drawing at any point if I made a mistake.

Then my progress stalled for several days.  I loved the background, loved the fox, but I was afraid to mess up either one.  I was afraid to start, afraid to try, even though the gel coating meant I could begin again at any time.

I hemmed and hawed, I set my work aside and did not look the sly fox in the eye.

//

Maybe it wouldn’t be worth writing about if it wasn’t such a common occurrence – the way fear creeps in, cloaked in perfectionism and I, a creature of habit and instinct, caught between fight and flight, freeze like a deer in headlights. 

Again, maybe it wouldn’t be much if it hadn’t happened also last week when it came to updating my book files, and if success updating the print files had (as it should have) given way to confidence to deal with the e-book files.  Instead, each step ran up against (and temporarily stalled out in the face of) its own wall of fear.

I see this pattern again and again in my creativity and, if I’m honest, in my life.  I prefer the known to the unknown, even when the known is not particularly good, but especially if the known is good and filled with delight. 

How much time, how much energy, do I waste in this fearful pause? 

Why do I fail to believe that the grace of one step might carry over into the next? 

Maybe I need to become like the desert monk, Abba Paul, who worked all year long weaving baskets only to burn them and begin again each year - maybe I need to learn again and again the art of detachment, the gift of faith beyond sight.

//

I talked with a college student about this the other night, one who’s currently taking a drawing class.  We trotted together across the cold, dark campus on our way to a Bible study and I confessed how fear had me frozen.

“It’s ridiculous,” I said. “What am I so afraid of?  Especially when I could just erase it, just paint over it and start the whole thing over?”

She offered no answer, but confessed to witnessing the same tendency in herself and we continued through the crisp winter night together until we reached our destination – a small house aglow with warmth and light.

//

The next day, having voiced my fears aloud into the frigid night air, I pulled the fox from its lair beneath a stack of papers on the kitchen counter and looked it in the eye.  With a white gel pen, I sketched the outline on my canvas first, then filled in the fur.  I kept a bowl of water and q-tips nearby for erasing mistakes, but truth be told, I got it on the first try and barely erased a line.  Then, emboldened by success, I added low-lights in midnight blue to bring the fox alive. 

I was happy with the drawing, happy with my success.

Yet, I stopped, again, frozen in the face of the next step - hand lettering the words.  How would I space them?  What fonts should I employ?

I set the work aside, because now I was even more invested, had even more to risk, even more to lose.  Against the purple and blue background, the white fox sparkled silver and fixed me with its shining eye.  

//

Every wall of fear has a door.  The door cracks open, for me, when I recognize fear as an invitation to examine my own intrinsic attachment and perfectionism.  

Now, when the wall rises up in front of me, I imagine stretching out my empty hand and opening the door.  On the other side stands the fox, staring.  Then, in a flash of beauty, she turns and runs off into the night. 

Every day that I create something, I bump up against fear’s wall.  And, faster now, I hear the fox's sly whisper, “Look for the door.”   

How do you experience and deal with fear in your creative life?  In your faith life?

*   *   *

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.  Thanks for being part of our community!  

A Sign (#SmallWonder Link-up)

(I am behind this week, friends.  So here is a poem I shared in my newsletter last week.  Check back last in the week for a new post and while you're here, sign up for my newsletter to receive more exclusive content during Advent and beyond.) 

. . . the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose . . . Isaiah 35:1

(also based on Matthew 11:2-6)

My office is not a desert -

though electric heat does dry the air –

and my great-grandmother’s Christmas cactus

is not a rose.  But when I pause in writing

and turn to see – lo! – pink buds prepared

to blossom, I take it as a sign.  I take, also,

the first drifting flakes of snow and the praying

mantis’ egg sack tucked inside our fresh cut fir. 

John the Baptist, smoldering in prison, sought

Jesus for a sign.  “Are you the one,” he asked.

“Or am I to await another?” Jesus gave no sign,

save for what was.  “Look, and see, and believe,”

he said, pointing to the prophet’s words.

John looked and saw and doubt

was satisfied.  So it is with those who wait

in darkness, who long to see and believe.

My office is not a desert and my great-grandmother’s

Christmas cactus is not a rose, but I will take it

as a sign.  

*   *   *

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.  Thanks for being part of our community!  

The Core: Physical Therapy & Prayer (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

It’s my second day of Physical Therapy for lower back pain.  I lay flat on my back on a green, cushioned table.  My knees are bent and I lift my pelvis in and out of bridge pose ten, twenty times.  “How does that feel?” the therapist asks.

“I feel it pull a little in my lower back,” I say.

“Are you using your core?” he asks.

I pause and listen to my body.  I hear no answer.  “What do you mean?” I ask.

“You want to be using your transverse abdominal muscles to lift,” he says, “not pushing up with your legs and back.  That’s why your back’s tweaking.  It’s not about how high you can go, it’s about using those muscles.”

I turn back to my body and try tightening my lower stomach, the soft section where my children grew.  “Hello,” my transverse abdominal muscles whisper as if waking from a long nap.

The therapist goes on to tell me that the lower abdominal muscles, commonly referred to as the "core," act as a natural girdle keeping the pelvis and spine in alignment.  I wonder, as I redo my bridges, how I can go through years of my life completely disengaged from my core?

//

A week later, I lay belly-down on the long, green cushioned table, my face pressed into an oval opening.  My shirt is lifted, my back exposed, and a therapist works slow circles in the muscles of my lower back.  Later, cool gel holds pads in strategic position and wires send electricity buzzing into tightened muscles coaxing them into surrender.  A layer of warm towels is laid on top, a timer set, and the therapist busies herself in another part of the room.

With my face in the hole, I close my eyes, I open them.  My contacts drift across my eyes and the world around me is slightly out of focus.  Conversations float through the air and I tune them in and out like radio stations. 

The electrical stimulation on my lumbar spine feels like hundreds of tiny ants dancing, their feet on fire and it’s not an altogether unpleasant sensation.  I open my eyes, I close them.  I rest and think of the woman waiting on a long-desired pregnancy.  I pray.  I think of the man who is dying and his wife.  I pray.  I wonder who I am here in this place.  At Physical Therapy, I am muscle and bone, slouching posture, weakened core.  But, beyond that, am I young?  Am I old?  Am I mother, daughter, wife?  I listen to hear what my life will say.

//

After the timer goes off, the pads are removed and I flip from stomach to back.  Knees bent, I practice “fall outs” and “ninety degree presses” counting slowly from one to thirty on each side.  My mind drifts, and thoughts go in and out of focus but I return again and again to tightening the core, attending in each moment to that inner space.   

This, I know, is what prayer is, a centering practice, a movement in which, putting aside all else, we tend to the core.

*   *   *

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.  Thanks for being part of our community!  

Pray as You Can (#SmallWonder Link-up)

Julian of Norwich, a 14th century anchoress best known for her deep belief in the love of God, is often depicted with her only companion, a cat.  Can you imagine how happy this makes me? 

"Pray as you can, not as you can't." - Dom John Chapman

In the early morning darkness, I rise from bed and descend the stairs.  The waiting cat picks up my trail and follows me into the kitchen.  Awake for some time already, he's eager to get outside. Every morning he saunters out into the frosty cold to prowl the wilted flowerbeds, the decaying garden and I catch glimpses of his progress from the window as he seeks out scent paths left the night before.  

In the kitchen, I pour coffee and cream into a clean-enough mug and the cat leaps onto a stool, hoping I’ll open the un-screened kitchen window that frequently serves as his own private door.  When I fail to comply with his implicit demands, he follows me to the wood stove room, hurrying urgently to the front door while I kneel to stoke the fire.  He expects me to open the door to gather more wood from the porch and is visibly disappointed when I settle on the couch.  His green eyes flash in my direction, impatient, then he settles on the carpet to wait for the next opportunity. 

I woke early, intending to sit in the darkness, to absorb the silence, to gently stoke the flame of desire that draws me to God.  This is why I woke, but there on the love seat I sit with my phone in hand.  I open Facebook, I scroll. 

My mind spins and whirls with thoughts, emotions.  My mind is like the cat, wide awake and eager, wanting to get out, to explore, to hunt and find satisfaction. 

This is not what I wanted.  But it's what I’m doing.

I lift my eyes from the phone and look over at the cat.  He’s waiting, as cats do, half-asleep.  

I rise again, this time from the love seat, and gather the cat in my arms.  I sit with him cradled across my lap like a baby.  He accepts my attention complacently, then with a steadily growing purr.  I stroke his back, his head; I scratch along his jawbone.  

With the cat in my arms, I feel love rise and gratitude; prayer begins.  

I realize then, gazing at his relaxed frame, that he is showing me how I'm meant to be with God - at rest, comforted, loved.  In that moment, my cat is an icon, leading me to the holy, to my own desire.  Content in my embrace, he stretches his paws out long and they come to rest on my chest where my heart resides.   

What images or actions in your daily life lead you to prayer?

*   *   *

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.  Thanks for being part of our community!  

Advent Week 1: Awake! (#SmallWonder Link-up)

I slept but my heart was awake.  Listen!  My beloved is knocking.

Song of Solomon 5:2

Besides this, you know what time it is, how it is now the moment for you to wake from sleep.  For salvation is nearer to us now when we became believers; the night is far gone, the day is near. 

Romans 13:11-12a

During Advent this year I plan to focus my weekly posts on the lectionary readings (Bible passages) assigned by the church calendar.  Vanderbilt Divinity Library offers a convenient lectionary overview online, just hover over the reading and the text appears on your screen, or click on the reading to see all of the readings for the week.  I find that following the lectionary from time to time exposes me to a wider variety of passages than I might otherwise choose to read.

Like many of my friends - online and in person - I found myself turning to the comforts of the Christmas season early this year.  JJ Heller's new album, "Unto Us" has been on repeat as I make dinner and the lights we hung outside last year (and didn't take down . . .) were ready to go and plugged in the day after Thanksgiving.  Many are struggling in the wake of a tumultuos election, others are worn and weary from carrying burdens of every shape and size and we long for the comforts of Christmas as the days grow short and cold.

But this week's passages reminded me that Advent brings more than comfort - it first brings disruption.  The prophets of advent speak of an overthrow of what is in favor for God's kingdom which is to come.  Advent seeks to unsettle us, to wake us up that we might be ready for the unexpected ways of the One who comes to turn the world as we know it - broken, beaten and rife with violence - into a place where the lion lays down with the lamb and swords are beaten into plowshares.  

This week's readings remind me that Advent brings revolution and bids us stay awake.  The temptation is fierce this year to use the distractions and delights of the holiday season to placate our longing and need for light in the midst of darkness.  Like the apostles waiting in the garden with Jesus, we are too easily lulled to sleep in the long, dark night of waiting.  

Let us stay awake this year, let us wait in darkness and with wonder.  Let us read old verses with new eyes, let us be willing to suffer the disruption that precedes redemption, the death that precedes resurrection's glory.       

What practices will help you Stay Awake in this season of waiting?

*   *   *

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.  Thanks for being part of our community!  

Advent Has An Edge (#SmallWonder link-up)

In early November a dear friend mentioned her desire to offer a pre-advent Advent retreat, she even had a title picked out, "The Edge of Advent."  She wanted to offer a space for people to prepare for the season, to stand on its edge and determine ahead of time what practices, what questions, might steer their journey toward the arrival of the Holy One.  I loved the idea and when my friend's husband fell sick, I chose to offer the retreat myself, because I knew I dearly needed it. 

Yesterday, a small handful of people gathered at Still Waters Retreat House in Carlisle, PA to listen and reflect.  The following is a compilation of a few thoughts I shared about Advent's edge.  

Advent Has an Edge.  

An Edge can be sharp,

like a knife, or dull.

Cutting Edge is new and exciting,

Edgy is raw and unsettled, like the wilderness

where John the Baptist appeared,

and all the people went out

to meet him there.

An Edge is a place of transition,

liminality, and potential.  God

seems to prefer the Edge and

those who dwell in it; appearing

most often among and to those

who find their way there

by faith or fate.       

Advent boasts a warning sign: 

Traveler Beware, the journey 

from here will leave you 

On Edge. You will know 

you're on the right path

when you find yourself dislocated,

caught between comforts like 

Mary and Joseph of long ago.

Advent reveals the Sharp Edges

of things - the sorrow on joy's fringes,

the place where light and darkness meet,

and the way every possession positions us

for loss.  Advent’s prophets declare

upheaval, a great rending of the

tapestry of this world.  Those in power

tremble, but the humble rejoice.     

Advent has an Edge. 

It is a beginning,

it is an end.  

I'd love to hear what you're reading or practicing during Advent this year.  In particular, I'm looking for new Advent materials for us to use as a family.  Let me know in the comments below!

*   *   *

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.  Thanks for being part of our community!  

"Healing" (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

Early this week my lower back popped, some inward tension caused it to explode in pain, twisting and curling my hips, shoulders, even the arches of my feet.  Monday it was bad, Tuesday worse and I started wearing a back brace.  By Wednesday I knew I was in serious trouble and texted a friend, “Do you have any muscle relaxers?  Ibuprofen isn’t cutting it.”

She replied, “No.  Maybe you should go to the doctor.”

“I know,” I said, “but they’ll make me get a scan and probably go for physical therapy.” 

My husband had my vehicle that day and a trip to the Dr. would involve a ride in his rattly old pickup truck, waiting, and then a second trip for a scan of my back.  Walking and standing brought real pain and the thought of such a trip was overwhelming. Instead of heading to the Dr., I pulled out all of my back care tricks.  I rubbed pungent Tiger Balm on my clenched muscles, wrapped my brace tight and threw back 1000 mg. of Ibuprophen. Then, I laid down on the floor, flat on my back, which seems to be one of the simplest ways to relax and realign my muscles.   

This is what I know I need to do when my back gets bad.  But there’s so little I can do in that prone position.  I can’t write, can’t be online, can’t clean, cook or do laundry.  I can read for brief periods of time until my arms grow weary, I can scroll through Facebook on my phone.  It’s humbling, it’s frustrating.

But I laid on my back as much as I could on Wednesday, I took a two hour nap and did slow, gentle stretches.  By Thursday things were a little better, by Friday another bit improved.

Every time this happens (once, twice, three times a year?) I think, “I have to work on my abs, my back needs more support.  It wouldn’t hurt to lose a little weight either.”  But these thoughts arrive at a time when I’m in too much pain to embrace them, by the time I’m up and able I’m too busy with life to make good on my own commitments. 

And so the cycle repeats.

//

I’ve heard a lot of talk about healing this past week in the wake of the election.  “The time for arguments is past, the time for healing is begun,” the rhetoric goes.  I believe that’s what we heard four years ago too and four years before that also.  Yet we continue to run ourselves, every four years, through a gauntlet of vitriol, hate and ideological (as well as actual) violence.  I'm not surprised that the nation of America is trapped in this cycle, but I'm dismayed that the church in America is also. 

Something about this repeated cycle tells me we’re not really that interested in healing after all, but more interested in rearming and preparing for the next round like boxers gasping for breath, dripping sweat in the corner of the ring between rounds.

How often can we keep repeating this injury before the whole body is beyond repair?  How long can we limp along?

Despite chronic and sometimes debilitating back pain for ten years I don’t take muscle relaxers because I need the pain to tell me to make a change.  Maybe it’s time we as a country starting listening to our pain and the pain of those around us.  Maybe it’s time we stop rushing to heal when we’ve yet to identify the wound, to cleanse it and seek amends.  Maybe its time the church took the lead in this activity.

//

I’ve been thinking about this passage in Isaiah 1 this week,

“Hear, O heavens, and listen, O earth; for the Lord has spoken: I reared children and brought them up, but they have rebelled against me. ³The ox knows its owner, and the donkey its master’s crib; but Israel does not know, my people do not understand. ⁴Ah, sinful nation, people laden with iniquity, offspring who do evil, children who deal corruptly, who have forsaken the Lord, who have despised the Holy One of Israel, who are utterly estranged! ⁵Why do you seek further beatings? Why do you continue to rebel? The whole head is sick, and the whole heart faint.⁶From the sole of the foot even to the head, there is no soundness in it, but bruises and sores and bleeding wounds; they have not been drained, or bound up, or softened with oil.”

The prophet calls creation to bear witness against the people of God who, though reared by God have become “utterly estranged.”  I love the prophet’s use of image after image to convey the absolute discord between what is and what should be.  According to the prophet, the people of Israel lack the basic common sense of an ox or donkey, they’re utterly tone-deaf, wracked with delusion. 

Isaiah is addressing the nation of Israel – God’s people - and so the accurate parallel to us is to hear this as a word for the church, those who identify themselves as the people of God today.  What I hear in this passage is a pleading, lovesick God seeking to speak sense into a people who no longer see, no longer comprehend the peril of their situation. 

//

I'm convicted this week by my own failure to comprehend the reality of my situation physically in regard to my aching back.  And I’m prayerfully wondering the degree to which I should feel convicted of a failure to understand the reality of my situation spiritually, by which I mean, as the prophets always meant – in regards to righteousness and justice.

Isaiah isn’t asking people to come back to church, in fact a few verses down he slams their religious practices altogether.  He isn’t asking them to pray more or attend Bible study more faithfully.  God, through the prophet, is calling people to a faith that bears fruit in the arenas of justice and righteousness, particularly on behalf of the poor and marginalized as Isaiah 1:17 makes clear. 

//

This week has revealed the depth of my back issues, I would be foolish to continue to ignore them just because they lessen for a day, a week, a month.

This election has revealed the depth of our issues as a nation, but more importantly as a people who claim to seek God’s face.  We would be foolish to ignore them even if they lessen for a day, a week, a month.

Let us not hurry toward healing that is merely hiding.

Let us listen to voices around us, but particularly those of the poor, the weak, the marginalized.

Let us pray and examine our hearts, where is our own justice, our own righteousness lacking?

Let us seek to love not merely in words, but in deeds.    

*   *   *

Thank you to everyone who participated in the Rafflecopter last week.  The winners of a free copy of "Chicken Scratch: Stories of Love, Risk & Poultry" are (drum roll . . . ) AMY HERTZLER and JACOB LONG. Congratulations!  I'll be emailing you soon for a mailing address.

 *   *   *

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.  Thanks for being part of our community!  

Open Heart : A Sneak Peak and a Giveaway (#SmallWonder link-up)

This is it, friends, Monday, Nov. 7 "Chicken Scratch: Stories of Love, Risk & Poultry" officially launches into the world.  It's exciting and a little bit scary and so, in honor of that, I want to share an excerpt from the book - a story about love and risk, pain and joy.  Enjoy and when you're done reading scroll down to see my free launch-day giveaways.

*   *   *

Cold winds and thunderstorms settled into the area over the weekend.  Saturday came and went in a fog of post-birthday-party exhaustion, and the sunny morning turned dark and windy by late afternoon.  In the morning, our sleepy kids stayed inside playing on the Wii, and I walked down to the fence, hoping to talk awhile with our neighbor Ann. 

I spotted her husband, Don, in the yard first, closer to the fence.  Based on two years of over-the-fence observation, I’ve reached the conclusion that Ann and Don’s yard is governed by a neat division of labor – Ann tends her teaming flowerbeds and Don putters in his vegetable garden.  Both the beds and the garden put ours to shame, but John and I comfort ourselves by remembering that the Ann and Don are retired and not raising four young children. 

I’ve noticed a similar division of labor in their approach to the neighborly business of fence-side small-talk – Ann engages freely in extended conversation over a wide range of topics, and Don does not.  Drawing Don to the fence to even ask a question is like pulling teeth.  Attempt more and he’s clearly uncomfortable.  

One day last summer, when we were integrating our second round of chicks into our well established flock, the twins discovered one of the chicks named America, trapped tight in the far corner of the run.  “She’s dead!  America’s dead!” they cried, running into the house and pulling me out into the yard.  Bending down to examine the chick I discovered a large bloody gash in her neck.  It looked, in fact, like she’d been decapitated.  I wasn’t sure what to do, and, more importantly, I didn’t want to deal with the dead bird alone while Isaiah and Levi ran enthusiastic circles around me. 

Standing up, I looked down toward Ann and Don’s yard hoping for help.  I caught a glimpse of Don and approached casually under the guise of commiserating but seriously hoping to convince him to take care of the dead bird.  Don, however, proved resilient in the face of my woman-in-distress ploy. 

“Oh,” he said, “that’s too bad.”  He didn’t offer to help, and, knowing it wasn’t his responsibility, I couldn’t bring myself to ask.  I would deal with the bird myself. 

When I got back to the chicken tractor I bent down again for a closer examination.  The twins, bored already with death, had wandered off and in their absence, I noticed the rise and fall the chick’s fluffy feathers.  She was still breathing, a clear sign she had not, in fact, been decapitated.  I walked into the run and reached into the far back corner where she was huddled.  Pulling her out and tucking her to my chest, I realized she was pecked up pretty badly but likely to survive.  After a few days of isolation and over-the-counter antibiotic ointment, she was on the mend, and I had learned not to expect Don to play the Knight in Shining Armor.   

So I wasn’t looking to talk to Don Saturday morning, I was looking for Ann.  I spotted her on the far side of their yard wearing shorts and tall black polka-dotted rain boots.  Easily forgetting she’s close to 70 years old, I watched as she pushed a wheelbarrow full of mulch around to her flower beds.  Seeing my approach, she made a bee-line to the fence, and we chatted about summer and the gigantic addition being added to a house on the hill behind our house.  While we talked, Isaiah and Levi ran over yelling, “Miss. Ann!  Miss. Ann!”  They climbed briefly up and down the fence, lapping up her attention, then trotted off to play again. 

The reason I walked down to the fence was that I needed someone to talk to.  The night before John and I had found out that dear friends of ours were separating, and our hearts were broken.  When our chit-chat wound down, I told Ann about it.  She affirmed the real pain of a marriage ending and how sad it is for everyone involved, sharing stories from her experience with the divorces of people she knows. 

So many of the married friends John and I share got married at the same time we did.  We knew, even then, that the odds were high that many of us would not stay married.  And yet now, some 15 years later, it still seemed impossible that some of our friends were entering into a post-marriage stage of life.

“Maybe we’re naïve,” I said, “I’m almost 40.  I don’t understand how these things still catch me by surprise.”  What I really couldn’t understand was why it hurt so badly – hurt to see our friends in such complete and utter pain, hurt to be unable to fix it for them, to only be able to stand by watching, listening, and praying. 

Turning back to face our yard, I noticed the Polish hens and asked Ann if she’d seen them.  She said she had but couldn’t really tell much about them since they were penned up in the run on the far side of our yard.   “Do you see the fluff-headed ones?” I asked, my eyes following the Polish hens as they pecked along the perimeter of the netting. 

“Yeah, kinda,” she said, “but not very well.” 

I described them for her in detail, painting a picture of their fluffy white pom-pom heads and lacy gray-black feathers.  As I talked, I felt love for them rise in my chest despite the distance between us. 

Later in the day, I told John about my conversation with Ann, about how I thought maybe we were just naive.  But I also told him something I had realized while standing at the fence watching those baby hens from a distance.  “I loved them,” I said, “even from all the way across the yard, and I guess if you’re the kind of person who can fall in love with a Polish hen, then life’s gonna hurt.” 

“What do you mean?” he asked. 

“There’s no separating the two,” I said.  “It’s like the words on that painting hanging in the upstairs hallway, “Love wide; make your way with an open heart.”  Loving a Polish hen is loving with an open heart, and an open heart’s gonna get hurt.  But an open heart also has access to the kind of joy that helps in the middle of the hurt.”

Some days, I think that’s the most we can hope for – enough joy to carry us through the hurt.  Maybe also, if we’re lucky, we might find a sturdy fence to lean on and a neighbor willing to listen for a few minutes or more.

(Like this story?  Want to read more?  Pop over now to order a copy!)

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Today, I'm giving away two Prize Packages.  Two lucky winners will receive a signed copy of "Chicken Scratch" AND a "Chicken Poop" lip balm.  (For the record, the lip balm contains NO poop and only natural ingredients like avocado oil, beeswax and jojoba oil.)  Check out the Rafflecopter below to enter to win.  Winners will be announced next Sunday.  

a Rafflecopter giveaway

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Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.  Thanks for being part of our community!  

I Died 100 Deaths That Halloween (#SmallWonder link-up)

(This is one of my favorite old posts from year I started blogging. The twins were just over a year old, Solomon was four and Sophia was six.  Enjoy!  And my you find hope for your own moment by moment journey from death to resurrection.) 

It was rainy and cold and we were keyed up and worn out from being trapped indoors for two days by Hurricane Sandy.  I woke up late and squeezed in a shower while the twins, still in dirty diapers from the night before, wandered around the living room.  

Their whining amplified to full pitch when my shower cued them in to the possibility that I’d be (gasp!) leaving for the morning.  The preemptive separation anxiety continued through breakfast and packing everyone into the van to take Sophia to school. 

After drop-off I carted the remaining three kids back into the house.  We mulled around, waiting anxiously for the babysitter who was coming to stay with the twins while Solomon and I went to his preschool class's Halloween party at a local nursing home.   

The twins settled for a few minutes, their anxiety lulled by the fact that I had yet to leave them and Solomon's anxiety about the party simultaneously rose in direct proportion to their calming. Following me through the house, he peppered me with nervous questions, 

“Will there be people from the nursing home in the party?” he asked.

“Um, I’m not sure, honey,” I said.

“Will they see me in my costume?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Are you going to dress up?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Then, I don’t want to wear a costume,” he declared. 

I had been dreading this party from moment it was first mentioned, knowing that my son, so robust and cheerful at home, would be shy and clingy surrounded by strangers in a new place.  Committed to accompanying him, I had hired a babysitter for the twins, despite my own teeth-clenching, foot-dragging antagonism toward it all. 

“Solomon,” I said, “what if I wear a costume too?”  Then I emerged from the back room wearing the fuzzy black antennae from my daughter’s ladybug costume.

“Ok,” he said, brightening, “you can be a black beetle.”

Then, I felt myself giving in, letting go a little more.  “What if I’m a ladybug?" I asked.  "I can steal Sophia’s costume.” 

He approved of my decision and I had just enough time to gather the red and black-dotted wings and my camera before the babysitter arrived.  Isaiah dissolved into a raging stream of tears, protesting my impending departure.  I ran in circles grabbing the rest of the things we needed, carrying Levi in my arms and nearly made it out the door with him, but the sitter stopped me just in time, grabbing him from me with the words, “This one’s staying here.”

Then we were off, on our way to a party I don’t want to go to, but also don’t want my son to miss.  We drove through the rain to the nursing home and found his classmates in a large room coloring at a table while elderly people in wheelchairs sat in a wide circle around them.  The residents watched the children, their eyes hungrily absorbing the beauty and innocence, the luxury of so much youth in one small space.  

Solomon was clingy, shy and tired, overwhelmed by the noise, the crafts, the games.  But I did my best to get into the spirit of things.  I helped with glue and tore bits of tissue paper for a craft.  I assured a child that it didn't matter where he put the eyes on his pumpkin.  I laughed with the other Moms over the resident who rode in on a wheelchair, pretending to scare the kids with a mask, all the while giving a growing peep show as his robe slid further and further open.  I posed for a smiling picture with my son, a little Iron Man snuggled up on a ladybug's lap. 

By the time we returned home, though, I was over-stimulated and frustrated at my inability to love Halloween, to love loud parties and candy.  The twins were exhausted and hungry and when I walked in the door they flew to me like magnets, pressing their tiny bodies onto mine in desperation.   

It was all I could do to untangle myself from them, causing more tears and desperation, as I headed to the kitchen to make lunch.  Solomon started sorting and dumping the morning's haul of candy, dancing and singing and blowing the whistle from his party bag while the twins screamed from their highchairs, desperate to convey how deeply my had absence wronged them.   

Then I yelled, “Stop it!” and threw an apple-peel all the way across the kitchen.  It hit one twin and bounced off and they both sat staring, shocked into silence and my son, that sweet four year old boy, offered to play his whistle to settle them down.  

//

There are days when being a mother feels like dying a hundred tiny deaths.  One hundred letting-go's, a thousand surrenders to more noise, more movement, more demands than I feel capable of handling. I’m not complaining, I just want to be honest about the stretch of motherhood and how quickly, how fiercely, I shrink back from it.   

I died a hundred little deaths that Halloween morning.  But I know, thank God, that this dying, this surrender, makes me new again.   

I may die a hundred times a day, but I'm just as often made new, reborn in the face of a chubby, gap-toothed grin, a gentle hand seeking mine for reassurance.  That morning I was resurrected by Solomon's voice calling cheerfully from the back of the van as we made our way home, “I can’t wait to be old so I can go to the nursing home to live.”

//

Later in the day I made chili to share with friends who're coming trick-or-treating with us.  While the twins again stood whining at the gate that divides them from me, my Dad called with the news that my maternal grandmother had died that morning in the nursing home where she lived for years in North Carolina.  

Standing over the stove, stirring the chili, I found myself surprisingly grateful.  Grateful that, although I couldn't be there with her, I was visiting a nursing home here with my son, the very same morning.  I thought of my Grandmother's life and the many little and big deaths she endured.  I thought of the ways I get so focused on what I'm giving up, that I nearly miss what I have right here, right now in front of me.  It occurred to me that I live such a grace-filled life, full of opportunities for surrender, continually pressing me toward the edge.  

//

I finished dinner and the older kids and my husband came home, and poor Isaiah, who just couldn't seem to pull himself together, sat crying on the floor.  I scooped him up and settled into the rocking chair and watched as he drifted into a heavy sleep.  I loved that moment - the rocking, the sleeping child so sweet. 

Then Isaiah lifted his head and looked around, disoriented, before throwing up all over both of us.  Leaning forward, exhausted, he laid his head back on my chest with the pile of warm, smelly goo spread like a layer of glue between us.  I died again in that moment and rose again to hug him tight until my husband came to help us both get cleaned up.  

//

Every day of the dead, every Halloween, gives way to all saints day and I wonder if we too, dying in our little and big ways, aren't also being moved, continually, from death to new life.  This dying is a surrender, a stripping bare until all that remains is love.  

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Hey-all!  The kindle version of Chicken Scratch: Stories of Love, Risk & Poultry is now available for pre-order on Amazon!  The launch date, November 7 is just a week away!  And here's a fun little chicken meme for you to share.

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Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.  Thanks for being part of our community!