What Remains in the Wake of Loss

I recently listened as a colleague ticked off a long list of losses. Each loss felt, to me, like an autumn leaf, brown and shriveled, dropping from a tree, from his lips, one by one. I could see the leaves falling, piling at his feet. I could feel loss upon loss gathered there, at the feet of the three of us, gathered virtually to listen. 

In his poem, Fighting the Instrument, Mark Nepo speaks of the opening that often follows in the wake of loss. He is careful, however, to avoid minimizing the pain of loss. Two-thirds of the way through the poem, he makes it clear: choosing to value the openings created over the desire to fight or bemoan the often cruel agents of change, is never an easy choice.

"This is very difficult to accept," the poem says. The line is so brief and clear, it would be easy to overlook. But, I have stayed in that place of difficulty that precedes acceptance for weeks, months, and occasionally years at a time. Sometimes I think that staying, that willingness to breathe through each painful loss, is what leads to acceptance, is what creates the opening and the courage needed to live into it. 

My colleague listed his losses and they fell like leaves gathered into a growing pile. We listened and affirmed the losses. But, even still, as the leaves were falling, I remembered the way barren branches reveal so much more of a winter-blue sky. I glimpsed, for a moment, the opening being made, and it gave me hope that there would be revealed, again, a "jewel in the center of the stone." 

This post is a reflection on Mark Nepo's poem, "Fighting the Instrument." Visit Spirituality and Health to read the poem and the poet's own reflections on it. 

Gratitude and Our Most Painful Losses

Occasionally, it's possible to catch a glimpse of gratitude bubbling up on the periphery of life's most painful experiences. This gratitude is bashful, hovering just to the side of things, small and round, like a spot of light, refracted. This gratitude invites a turning in those who want to truly embrace it. 

This is not gratitude for the loss itself, but for the path it opened, for the spacious place in which you find yourself now - days or weeks or months later. It is a sliver of light, a glimmer in deep darkness. Such gratitude is best captured by peripheral vision - look too closely at it, slide it under the microscope of quantity, quality or necessary identification, and it dissolves like fog in the morning sun. But, abide with it, welcome it in passing; extend your hand, your heart, to it, as one might do with a skittish cat and maybe, perhaps, one day, when you least expect it, it will walk right over and curl up to sleep in your lap. 

This post is a reflection on Mark Nepo's poem, "Fighting the Instrument." Visit Spirituality and Health to read the poem and the poet's own reflections on it. 

What Is It? (Look, Gather, and Be Filled)

A sermon for Messiah Village's annual Thanksgiving Service, based on I Thessalonians 5:18 and Exodus 16:9-21, 31.

In this passage, God responds to the Israelite's complaints by telling them to "draw near."  Then, God provides for their needs, because that's who God is.  But the way in which God provides is so strange, so unexpected, so utterly confounding, that when the hungry, whiny Israelites wake up, step out of their tents, and look around, they turn to each other in utter confusion.  

Seeing nothing more than fine, white flakes spread across the ground, they ask each other, "What is it??"   

Their befuddlement is so complete, they take to calling the strange food 'manna,' which is the Hebrew way of asking "What is it?"   

Any parent can tell you that a meal that starts with the question, "What is it?" isn't likely to go over well.  Most of us like to know what's been put on our plate.  We don't want to be surprised.  We don't want to consume a meal we may not recognize or, worse yet, may not even like.  

But this story doesn't focus on the Israelites' confusion or preferences, it focuses on God's provision.  God provides and all the Israelites have to do is wake up each morning, step outside and ask, "what is it."  They are to look for what God has given.  Then, they are to gather and consume as much as they need.  Three times that phrase is repeated in this passage, "as much as they needed, as much as they needed, as much as they needed."

God's glory appeared in the wilderness, God heard the complaints of his people, and God provided for their need.  As advent approaches, I'm struck by the parallels between this passage and the stories of Christ's coming.  The stories of John the Baptizer appearing in the wilderness, and Jesus, the bread from heaven, sent from God to meet our deep need.  Jesus, like the manna in the wilderness also seemed like a strange and unexpected gift.  The question with Jesus was not "what is it" but, "who is he?"

Exodus reveals a God who appears and provides, daily.

In response, the Israelites are call to be people who look and gather, daily.  

I chose this passage because I think it can give us some insight into Paul's challenging command to "give thanks in all circumstances."  I don't know about you, but there are times when I find gratitude and thanksgiving come easily.

I'm thankful when the house is warm.

I'm thankful when my kids are happy (and quiet). 

I'm thankful when medical tests come back with good results, when money is plentiful.  In short, I'm thankful when things are going the way I want them to - the way I think they should.  I'm thankful when I can easily identify "what it is" that God is doing in my life and in the lives of those I love. 

But some mornings, I wake up and step outside and struggle to know what God is doing.  Like the Israelites, I find myself asking, "what is it" God is doing?  "What is it" that I even have to be thankful for? 

Maybe you have those mornings too.  Sometimes those mornings stretch into days and weeks and months; whole seasons of asking God, "What is it you are doing?  Where in this wilderness are you?"

I love this story in Exodus for the way it answers these questions.

Where is God?  God is with us, appearing right here in the middle of whatever wilderness we find ourselves in.

What is God doing?  God is providing, as much as is needed, every day.

In response we, like the Israelites, are invited to be people who look and gather what is given in every day and every season.  We place our trust in God who appears and gives as much as we need.  We accept and give our consent to the words of Moses, "This is the bread the Lord has given you to eat."  We look and gather and are filled, because of who God is.

God is meeting our needs, but God may not be meeting our wants.  And the difference between the two - wants and needs - can be the center of a lot of pain and suffering.  The way we navigate the difference between having what we need and what we want can be the difference between a life of peace and contentment and a life of anger, frustration, bitterness, and resentment. 

Let me give you an example from my own life.  Eight years ago I was working part time as an Associate Pastor, feeling fulfilled in a job I enjoyed deeply, when I found out I was unexpectedly pregnant with twins.  Now, if having two healthy, unexpected babies is the worst thing that ever happens to me, I have very little complain about.  But, at the time, I found the news and the changes it would bring very unsettling.  

I would need to quit my job, I would need to surrender to living a life that was markedly different from the one I planned.  Friends and family were quick to tell me that this pregnancy was a blessing from the Lord and, with time, I told a friend, "I know this is a blessing, but it's not the one I would have chosen."

Over time, as I grew to love my boys and my new life, I realized how large the 'I' in that sentence loomed.  Who's to say I would have chosen best? Isn't it possible that the answer to the question "what is it" might be, "something bigger and better than you could ever imagine"?

I like that the bible tells us manna tasted like wafers made with honey.  Honey was a rare treat, a symbol of luxury in biblical times.  Imagine if the Israelites had never gotten beyond the question, "what is it."  What if they'd never placed those small, seed-like flakes on their tongues, had never allowed themselves to taste the goodness because they first needed to know what it was?

Have you ever tried to get a child to try something on the tip of a spoon without first telling them what it is?  I do this with my own children sometimes, wanting to share a special treat, and they put up no end of loud protest.  But, I insist, luring them with sweetness. "Trust me," I say, "it's good."  Do you know the kind of trust it takes for a young child to open their mouth and receive in that way?

I think this is something of what Paul is asking of the early church.  He's reminding them to be people who trust in a God who provides; people who believe that the answer always, ultimately, to the question, "what is it," is "it is good, because God is good." 

I want to encourage you if you're in a season of life in which you don't know what God is doing.  Or, if you can't understand why God is allowing things to happen as they are in your life.  There are few more difficult circumstances to find yourself in.  You're pain is real and we pray that this season will pass quickly.  

If you find yourself in a season in which thanksgiving is difficult, I want to encourage you to keep looking and gathering what God is giving and to invite others to join you in the wilderness you face.  The Israelites went out together in the morning and turned to each other to understand God's strange provision.  No one stood alone outside their tent that day.  

Also, like the Israelites, may you remember that the sweetness you taste this day, like those wafers that tasted like honey, is only a small foretaste of the meal that awaits us when we reach God's promised land - that place flowing with milk and honey, where tears and sorrow shall be no more.  

Let us praise the God who appears, even in the wilderness.  Let us be people who go out together, looking for what God is doing, gathering what God has given.  Let us be people who can say, "We have tasted and seen that the Lord is good."

Vulnerability & Trust in the Classroom

Every once in a while, I have the opportunity to teach a full semester's worth of introductory biblical studies materials over a period of fifteen days.  This, January, is one of those once-in-a-whiles.  Which is why I haven't been posting much here.  But I have been listening to my life, thinking, paying attention and the thoughts that follow are just a bit of what I've been noticing.

  

"I don't know."

I said those three scary words at least twice in class the other day.  

From the front of the room.  

As the professor. 

I can’t tell you how alarming that would have been for me when I first started teaching college level classes.  I was fresh from seminary then, wearing the one suit I owned.

 

That suit was – as they often are – something like a suit of armor.  It was a symbol that I was an adult (even though I didn’t feel like one) and that I knew what I was talking about (even though I didn’t feel like I did).  Looking back, I can see how fear-driven my teaching was, even though I didn’t want it to be.  I wanted to connect with the students, to engage, but I was unable to allow the kind of vulnerability that forms community. 

I was too attached to my armor of rayon/polyester and knowledge. I set up every aspect of the class in a way that guaranteed I would know the answers to any question that arose.  I chose the passages we studied based on papers I’d written in graduate school – a sure-fire way (I hoped) of ensuring I would know more about the topic at hand than any one else in the room.

I often wondered why I felt so isolated, lonely, and frustrated as a teacher.

//

This time around, some fourteen years later, I purposely wore jeans on the first day of class.  Mostly, I wanted to feel like myself and, as someone who works from home, I wear jeans almost every day.  Feeling like myself meant drawing on the sense of authority I carry day-in-and day-out as a parent, writer, spiritual director, and middle-aged human being.  Also, I wanted to lessen the distance between the students and myself, and jeans seemed like a concrete, visual way to do that. 

First thing, on the first day, I explained that every class would start with five minutes of silence.  This would be our way of acknowledging the presence of God which dwells - like silence – above, below, and in-between all our words.  After silence, I explained that, because this was their class, the first twenty minutes of every class was theirs to use as they saw fit.  Every student has an opportunity to submit a topic for conversation and we use silly questions to decide who will draw a question out of the stack. 

Those twenty minutes were a little awkward the first day – and still are, sometimes – but we’ve had some laughs, heard some differing perspectives, and even witnessed a little passion.  I like to believe giving the students some time and space up front, is one, small, concrete way of reminding them that this class is for them.  It also gives me an opportunity to observe and eavesdrop on who they are, how they interact with each other, and how they think about the world we live in.  In short, it gives me a chance to listen and builds community.

Finally, before lecture that first day, I explained that we needed to choose a passage to explore together in class the following day.  I gave them a few minutes to think about it, then invited them to offer suggestions.  Many offered favorite, well-known passages, but there were some random ones thrown out too.  I didn’t even flinch (hardly, anyway) when someone tossed out a story I’d never heard of from the apocrypha.  After we had ten or so to choose from, the students voted and chose Jeremiah 29.

I stopped by the library after class and grabbed a couple of commentaries.  That night, I spent about a half hour familiarizing myself with the context and reading through the passage.  Mostly, I figured, we’d figure it out together the following day.  And we did.  

Rather than worrying about the class, I looked forward to it.  I suppose part of this is the confidence that comes from teaching and preaching for years – a gift I’m grateful to have found.  Under-girding my decision, though, was the belief that what would be gained by working together, side-by-side, was more than what might be lost by me not knowing all the answers. 

//

I have a great group of students this semester.  They’re older, and more prepared to handle the course material.  Many are seniors and already thinking about how the things they learn now will apply to life in the ‘real world.’   All of this leads to a more enjoyable class environment.  But the thing I’m most grateful for, is a deeper capacity to be with the students, to create an atmosphere where those three little words, “I don’t know,” are nothing more than a fertile starting point for conversation, exploration and comradery. 

Enough (Coats and Quiet Lights - #SmallWonder Link-up)

The More We Own The Less We Have to Name

If we had only one coat, we would call it Warm,
but if we got another, it would not be Warmer,
      just our other coat,
and if we bought, borrowed, stole
      or rescued from the trash
a third, fourth, or fifth coat,
if our closets held so many coats
jackets, parkas, capes, stoles, mantles and mackinaws
that if we changed them daily from October through April,
rotating cashmere, leather, fleece and down,
scarlets and peacocks, blacks and browns,
if we had coats to cover the entire tundra
      and with it all our ancestors
who ever felt the chill of His absence,
none of these would be Warmer,
none of these would be Enough.

- L.N. Allen

We have a whole room in our house lined with hooks and devoted to the storage of coats - a startling array of outerwear designed to ease six people through four seasons of weather and everything in-between.  That small back room, a former porch now closed in, boasts more coats than Baskin Robbins has flavors - a coat, you might say, for every palate. 

I also have a whole room in my mind devoted to the coats of my past, a musty closet so full that the door will hardly stay shut.  Digging my way into memory's closet, I find, way in the back, the mustard-gold wool coat with large toggle buttons that I thought was oh-so-trendy in high school.  Hanging near it, or cast forgotten onto the floor, lies the bright orange and navy blue windbreaker that matched so well with my eyes, but made me feel like a construction worker every time I wore it. 

The dark wool pea-coat I bought at the Salvation Army during college still hangs stiffly on memory's hanger.  It was ungodly heavy, decked out with two rows of silver buttons and appeared to be a real cast-off from the Navy.  Nearby would be the thin yellow rain coat I bought for a camping trip with my then boyfriend who later became my husband, as though the purchase of a coat between us somehow sealed the deal. 

Hanging toward the front, still usable, would be the burgundy knee-length coat that makes me feel a little like a rock star every time I wear it.  This is the coat that caused my husband to suggest in a gentle tone when I returned home from buying it, that maybe we should consult each other before making big purchases. 

I have too many coats (maybe I always have) and my husband and children do too.  Lately I'm hunting for a back-up winter coat for my daughter.  I've made multiple trips to a variety of stores, ordered two online and returned, all because I don't like the way her bright pink parka from last year is starting to show some wear. 

Walking into Old Navy on yet another scouting trip I noticed a box for donating old coats as you buy a new one and I thought, "Why not keep your old coat and buy a new one to donate?" 

I didn't do either, though, not that day nor since. 

The coats we wear, like much of our clothing, are often a symbol for identity, announcing to the world our interest in outdoor sports or our need to hide behind something long and warm that covers us.  Our coats hold us, warm us, and I have to restrain myself every year to keep from buying an over-abundance of fleeces and hoodies at yard and consignment sales, so great is my desire and my pleasure at covering, clothing, my children.

I have too many coats as our back room will tell you and many days I'm convinced that this is more of a burden than a blessing.  I wonder what these coats might tell me if I were to listen to them one by one?  

Certainly they would speak of my vanity, my desire to fit in or stick out in equally competing measures.  They might mention also, perhaps shyly, my fear of the cold and how holding myself too tightly rigid only makes the shivering that much worse.  They would probably also want to know why I don't go out more often, to enjoy the cold or the rain or the wind, especially now that I have them to keep me.   

Gracious God, we in our frail humanity fear the cold, the wind, the rain.  To put it more plainly, ever since that incident in the garden, we fear exposure.  Forgive us, please, if we go a little overboard in covering ourselves and the ones we love.  Help us to bear, oh Lord, your stripping.  Teach us to welcome the first breath of frost and its burning sting.  Help us to learn to let Warm be Enough. 

*   *   *

Friends, are you longing for a moment of Quiet in the coming Holiday Season?  I want to invite you to subscribe to my Advent Email Series called, "Quiet Lights."  Signing up will allow you to receive an email of a simple poem and a few good links to add wonder to your Advent journey.  Watch my blog later this week for more info or subscribe NOW by visiting the link.  

Click here to subscribe to Quiet Lights.

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Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.

What if we chose to deliberately look for the 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.  

Love Leads (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

Photo Credit

In the rush between dinner and dessert, in the harried press to Get-These-Kids-to-Bed, four-year-old Isaiah remembers.

Running through the house, he shouts, "Guys! We need to do our yeaves!"

//

My family is growing leaves again this Thanksgiving. 

Last Tuesday I cut contact paper into the shape of a large, barren tree and stuck it to the wood paneled wall in the living room.  Then we cut a bowl-full of leaves.  Every evening we each write what we’re thankful for on a leaf and stick it to the tree.  By Thanksgiving the tree will be full and green, vibrant. 

//

Isaiah doesn’t remind us to do our leaves because he’s so very grateful.  Most of his leaves proclaim anticipatory gratitude for the handcuffs he hopes to receive for Christmas (heaven help us).  He reminds us because after the note’s written, he gets to color his leaf and Isaiah is a big fan of coloring.  He’s been known to spend a whole afternoon coloring at the kitchen counter.  He loves it.

And his love leads us, even if it has nothing at all to do with gratitude. 

That’s the way love is. 

Love opens doors, makes way and helps us remember what we set out to do, who we wanted to be, when we ourselves have forgotten.  And if we don’t have enough love of our own, all we need to do is follow someone else’s, to sit for a while in the glow of their passion and delight. 

I don’t love coloring like Isaiah does, but his love for it cuts through the evening rush, spurs memory and reminded, we follow in its wake. 

Do you have special family practices for the season of Thanksgiving?  I'd love to hear about them in the comments!

*   *   *

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.

What if we chose to deliberately look for the 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.  

      

Choosing Your Groove (#SmallWonder Link-up)

Reaching across the purple loveseat where we sat, I grabbed a hunk of my husband’s wildly overgrown hair and held it between my fingers.  “I have an idea,” I said, “Let’s hold Daddy down and cut his hair.”

The kids, sprawled around the room in various stages of candy consumption, cheered at the idea. 

My husband laughed and shrugged it off.

A second later Isaiah, returning at a run from the kitchen where the scissors are kept, ran up behind my husband and started snipping.

John lunged forward and spun around to face his attacker, panicked at the idea of a four-year-old hacking at his hair. 

It sounded like Isaiah had scissors, but he didn’t.  We all got a good laugh out of it and no one was happier than Isaiah.  His double dimples winked with delight at the trick he played. 

Standing behind John, the twins reenacted the prank over and over again and John followed along responding to every attack with a leap and shout.  It was like they were rehearsing parts in a play. 

Snip. Leap. Shout. Laugh.

They repeated the scene until their laughs were forced, a thin duplication of their initial joy.

Looking on, I was reminded how often little children repeat the things that give them joy.  Tasting a moment of delight, they demand “do it again”, savoring its sweetness, sucking joy down to its marrow. 

I’m far more likely to reenact the difficult moments in life, to stand over the kitchen sink come evening obsessively repeating a difficult conversation or the bumpiest parts of my day.  With the remembering comes the feelings and, in the middle of a perfectly fine day, I can find myself sunk in the shame or guilt of an incident that happened some fifteen or twenty years ago.

This is what I thought as I watched my boys running themselves round and around in that groove of delight.  Humans, young and old, learn through repetition and there they stood, giggling, earning a degree in joy. 

*   *   *

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.

What if we chose to deliberately look for the 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.  

Manna, Flying Ovens and Grace

Our stove was broken.  The oven burned everything and the biggest burner, the one I used every meal, either ran on high or not at all.  It was one more thing we didn’t have time for, didn’t have money. 

Not long ago, when our finances led me to consider applying for a full time job, God told me clearly, “Just wait.”  I was relieved to hear from God with such clarity.  But after a pause, I reminded God that this meant “he” would be “supplying all our needs.” 

After burning yet another meal in the broken oven this week, I scrolled Craig’s List obsessively searching for a replacement.  Then I remembered that conversation with God.  

Maybe God has a whole warehouse of stoves somewhere and all I need to do is ask, I thought. 

I don’t claim to know how these things work, but I stood on the porch and pictured a white stove floating down out of the bright autumn sky.  (Ought I mention that the stove had big black wings?  It was really quite a delightful image.)

That afternoon I found a decent stove on Craig’s list, but it was still $100 that we didn’t have.  My husband suggested we just fix the burner on the old stove and continue using the broken oven.  But I didn't have the heart to burn one more loaf of bread.

Later that night a friend stopped by and standing in the darkening driveway, my husband mentioned that he was stressed about money.  

“Really?” the friend replied, “We've got an extra $100 dollars floating around this week.  I want to give it to you guys.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out cash.

My husband said no three times before giving in.  We're so tired of needing help.  But when he came upstairs to tell me, as I was putting the twins to bed, my eyes lit up.  

“That’s our stove!” I said, telling him about my prayer.  

I wish the story ended there.  It would be a good one, wouldn't it?

The truth is the guy with the $100 stove didn't get back to me and we ended up buying one for $125.  Then the cord on the new stove wouldn't work with our outlet, so my husband pulled the cord off of the old stove to attach to the new one.

But that old cord?  It was broken.  So we ended up spending another $25 for a new cord.  That brings the new stove tally to $150.  

(Maybe God isn't the best at math?)

We'll fix the old stove and sell it, it's got to be worth something to someone.  And maybe then the math will work out.  

All of this has got me thinking about faith and trust and how the way things appear on the surface can often be deceiving.  I'm thankful for all of the graces, big and little that come our way.  But I want to remember also that each and every grace is only a fragment of a greater truth - the Love and Grace that dwells in and around our lives.  

Sometimes the little graces add up and sometimes they don't.  Sometimes that which is manna one day has soured by the next. 

I keep reminding myself of all the things we have, the things we take for granted that come floating down out of the clouds for free.  Things like the field of soy beans across the street that turns a brighter shade of gold with each passing day.  Or the view of the mountains along with the blue sky and sun.  Who am I in the midst of all of this abundance to say what is and is not enough? 

Last night I made pizza from scratch in the "new" oven.  It had a perfectly browned crust.  Examining her slice, my daughter exclaimed, "It's not burnt!" and the look on her face was priceless. 

Thank You (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

(This past week marked the one year anniversary of my admission to a local Psychiatric Hospital due to the sudden onset of severe panic attacks.  I took this picture of the outside when I went back this week for a routine appointment.  You can read more about my journey by clicking on the anxiety tab under Topics.)

Sometimes we must talk about darkness in order to better talk about light. - Kelly Chripczuk

Palpable fear, fog descending on the brain, blood pressure slipping and sliding while the extremities go weak.  Dizziness, anxiety and an unbearable desire to flee.

This is what I felt this past Friday morning walking into the lobby of the Behavioral Health Unit where I was hospitalized last summer.  I was there for a routine Psychiatrist appointment.  

I wasn’t feeling well.  Tired and stressed from a long week of classes, I had a brief dizzy spell in the morning.  I wondered if something was off with my blood pressure – it can tend to run low. 

As I drove, I thought about asking the psychiatrist to check my blood pressure.  She’s a medical doctor after all and, at the least, she could call in a nurse.  I pictured myself in her office, with that black cuff around my arm.    

What if they sent me to the ER?  The same ER where I waited for almost twenty hours last year before admission. 

What if going to the ER caused me to panic? What if I couldn’t stop panicking?

I spent the whole thirty minute ride to the hospital psyching myself out.  By the time I got there, I was jacked up on anxiety.

 

After parking, I pulled out my phone and took a few quick pictures of the "courtyard" - a small fenced in area where supervised low-risk patients could take a breath of fresh air in the afternoon and evening.  

Entering the building through double glass doors, I crossed the dim, brown interior.  Facing the receptionists’ large cubicle, I worked hard to force words out of my mouth in a stream that seemed natural.  I wanted to run back out into the sunny blue day.  Instead I sat and waited a good twenty minutes.  I picked up a magazine and read fluff articles about combating clutter while talking myself down.    

On the drive home I was physically sick.  I kept an eye on the shoulder looking for places to pull over and vomit.  A headache formed behind my right eye and stretched its way down into my neck and shoulders.  Thirty minutes later I ran into our empty house and knelt on the floor dry-heaving into the downstairs toilet.  My kids were still out picking berries with a friend.  The dog looked curiously at me. 

When the nausea passed I took some Ibuprophen and sorted laundry, placing the kids’ new school clothes on clean white hangers.  Exhaustion hung around me like a shroud, sleep was all I could think of, but I was scared to sit down, scared to lay down, afraid anxiety would pull me under.    

Finally I walked out the back door and into the yard.  The grass here is brown in patches, scratchy like straw, starving for rain.  I sat down on a little slope facing toward the garden and flowerbed.  The dog flopped down beside me, panting and squinting in the sun.

I leaned back onto the ground, my arms outstretched on either side, palms down into the grass.  The grass pricking my hands reminded me of the summer before, when I stretched out in the grass in the fenced in hospital yard.

“Thank you,” I said, aloud.  The words sprang unbidden from my lips, pure, like water from a deep, cold spring. 

I was home and the earth was solid and the sunshine warm.  No one  was there to hear me.  But I’d like to think the dog and the browning grass and sunflowers nearby nodded their heads ever so slightly in agreement.  

(Friday was the worst day I've had in a long time, but I'm happy to say it's passed and after some good rest, I'm feeling much better.)

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Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.

What if we chose to deliberately look for the 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.  

My Grandmother's Lap (#SmallWonder Link-up)

Easter weekend I made my favorite icing, tinted it pink and worked with a wide butter knife to spread it across the gentle curves of lemon cupcakes.  It was my Grandmother's recipe, the only icing I've ever really liked.  The recipe got me thinking again about my relationship with my Grandmother who died this past summer.  Later in the week, as I thought about my relationship with her, I felt God lean in close and whisper, "It was a gift."  So, with gratitude, I return to the memories and feel them for what they are and were - pure grace.  

I sat in my grandmother’s lap

in a long, wooden pew

in her old, ornate Methodist

Church.  The shiny pipe organ

breathed in and out and a man stood

up front in a long robe.

Sometimes we children 

made our way also to the front

and sat gathered at the feet

of the man in the long robe,

like ducks, heads tipped

up waiting for the hand that

scatters bread. 

Returning to the pew, to my

Grandmother’s lap, I felt the summer’s

heat rise in the old building.  Light

poured in through stained glass windows

and my long brown hair clung to the back

of my neck.

My Grandmother’s small hands, always

cool, lifted my hair, gently gathering it

up and to the side.  Then she blew her own

breath onto my exposed neck and air,

cool like a fresh spring, trickled across.

'Man cannot live on bread alone,'

Jesus said and those hands, that breath,

were grace to my love-parched skin,

the simple act of comfort-given and received

while I sat in the church, in the worn wooden pew,

balanced on the shore of my Grandmother’s lap.

Photo Source.

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Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.

What if we chose to deliberately look for the 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 of about five hundred words or less 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.    

Grace Notes (#Small Wonder Link-up)

I love this image of Christ in the Wilderness gathering Wild Flowers painted by Stanley Spencer.

I decided last weekend that I would try to write 500 words, five days a week for the month of March.  

And I nearly did this past week.  But still, I came up short, not having anything finished enough to post today.  Some weeks are like that for me, lots of planting seeds, lots of beginnings, but no real tangible harvest. 

Yesterday afternoon I took a nap and the sun came out, sending the temperature up above fifty degrees.  The kids swarmed coat-less in the driveway and later in the still-snowy field.  I sat inside by a dying fire working on a poem, then did the dishes and made a cake. 

We met some new friends for dinner and it amazes me always – how new friends can be made when you least expect it.  Since leaving the church we helped plant almost seven years ago, there's been a lot of grieving and letting go.  It's almost been enough to make me forget the life that always follows death - the way surrender opens our hands to receive something new. 

Sitting around a new table with new faces and listening to us talk, I felt keenly aware that we're not the same people we once were.  I heard a spaciousness in our lives, a reaching out beyond ourselves that feels so big and lively. 

“It’s just so much fun,” I heard myself say, over and over again, trying to explain the appeal of owning chickens. 

This weekend we celebrated the one-year anniversary of buying this good and spacious place here in Boiling Springs.  As far as we're concerned, the fact that we live here is a complete miracle, a good old fashioned act of God.  

One year ago we held our breath until the papers were signed, while drinking water out of bottles labelled "Trust Matters".  We left the lawyer’s office like two foxes leaving a hen house – wide grins on our faces, hardly able to believe we got away with it.

I'm learning that this is what grace feels like, this spaciousness, this bubble of joy that rises, this scandalous abundance unearned.  

May you be blessed with grace this Lenten season - 

may your emptying be followed by abundance, 

may your surrender make way for the new things 

already being rooted within you.  

May your grief be fruitful, 

may your joy be full. 

*   *   *   *

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.

What if we chose to deliberately look for the 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 might gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days. 

You're invited to link-up a brief post of about five hundred words or less 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. 

Rudolph's Bargain Patch (A Christmas Story)

 

It sat alone, across the muddy tractor tracks, next to the stinking porta-potties in a wide and muddy pit.  

Enjoying the wagon ride out to the fields, the hacksaw in hand and children all around, my husband and I hardly noticed the wide plastic sign, our sights set firmly on cutting our own Douglas or Frasier fir.  

We’re skinny-tree people, the taller and spindlier the better and we were excited to head out across the muddy fields to cut and claim our own piece of Christmas.  Two three-year-olds in tow, we climbed down from the wagon and followed vague directions toward a distant hill.  

The boys lagged behind by the time we reached the first stand of trees - small, pre-cut firs - and my husband I exchanged worried glances as we subtly scanned the increasingly alarming price tags.  We held a quick and quiet conference in the midst of the evergreens then turned as a family and headed back toward another field where the hopefully cheaper Douglas Firs waited.   

Things started to fall apart a little then.  Little people stumbled over stumps and ditches, hands were cold and ears.  There was an argument with an older child about the need to zipper a coat.  We crossed the muddy wagon tracks to a field of still shorter trees and slowed, again exchanging looks over the price tags we passed. 

Subtlety aside, our older children picked up our tone and started exclaiming over the prices too and then we were that family with too many kids exclaiming in overly loud tones about the cost of the trees.

Picking a tree in winter with young children in tow is a time-sensitive endeavor.  We were running out of patience, hesitant to pay for an overpriced tree that would be dwarfed by our nine-foot ceilings, but more hesitant still to spend the gas and time needed to drive to a cheaper tree farm.  

That’s when we remembered Rudolph's Bargain Patch, a humble cluster of homely castaways – a veritable island of misfit trees.  I ran ahead to scout things out, saving precious little feet unnecessary footsteps, and planned to signal back if the small patch held any promise.  I slipped and scurried past a storage shed and several industrial outhouses before stopping by an overly cheerful sign emblazoned with a chipper little red-nosed reindeer. 

Wagon-loads of people road by as I dove into the muddy patch, running quickly between the trees and, lo! to my great surprise our salvation lay in that lowly patch.  I ran again into the roadway and waved the family over, uncontainable excitement at the prospect of getting a “steal” written across my face.  

The trees were enormous and cheap, so cheap, especially in comparison to what we’d just seen.  The six of us bobbed and wove among them, stumbling and slipping in the mud, exclaiming over and over, “Look at this one!” and “Oh my gosh, this one is huge.”

In the far back corner sat the mother-load, a great monster of a tree, exceptional both in girth and height – a tree so big and cheap that we couldn’t not get it.  

Still, we hesitated, grinning, circling, exclaiming and wondering.   

Would it fit in our house?  Our tree stand?  Could my husband even carry it?  

Finally we brought it to a vote and with smiles all around, from the littlest face to the largest, we voted to embrace the glory of that giant, forlorn tree. 

Stumbling a little on his feet, my husband hoisted the heavy trunk halfway to his shoulder while I “spotted” from behind.  Then the six of us marched, triumphant, from the bargain patch, our faces filled with the glory of largess, the audacity of abundance discovered in unexpected places. 

 

People in the passing wagons smiled at us and I imagined the picture we made – a family short on cash with a gaggle of kids carrying this great misfit of a tree out of the mud and muck like we’d just won the lottery.

I was tempted to be embarrassed, but mostly I was joyful, exuberant.

Reading the Magnificat this week it occurred to me that maybe this is something akin to what Mary felt when she sang her famous song about the upheaval that was taking place within her.  Maybe the joy we felt lugging home that pearl of great price wasn’t so far removed from what the shepherds felt, slipping and sliding their way to the manger; not so different from the awe and welcome the wise men experienced entering the child's simple home after their costly exposure to Herod’s court.  

When the tree was home and in the stand, my husband cut the wrapping off and there was a pregnant pause before whomp! it sprang out of its confines filling the room and our hearts with joy.  

Every time I descend the stairs and spy it’s swollen circumference in the corner of the living room, Mary's question chimes within me, “How can this be?”  This is the story of Christmas, this story of searching and finding what you didn’t know you needed in a place you never would’ve thought to look.      

Credit for this sweet photo HERE.

(This post is dedicated to all of the families we've secretly and openly ridiculed for their ridiculously fat Christmas trees, specifically the Hicklins and the Ladases and in memory of my Grandfather Hausknecht whose Christmas trees got a little shorter and wider every year.)