This Contemplative Life: joy

Showing posts with label joy. Show all posts

What I Wish I'd Said

“What’s with the bracelet?” he asked.

The cuff in question, made of brightly colored fabric and secured with two snaps, circled my left wrist. Across the top, the word, ‘joy’ was written on a piece of frayed ivory canvas. I was making my rounds at physical therapy - moving from arm bike, to squats and leg lifts – when the young therapist posed his question.

“I made it,” I said – an honest answer, but short of the full truth.

“Oh,” he said, “do you make jewelry?”

The conversation moved on and did not circle back around, the moment was lost. I was left mulling my reticent reply and wishing I’d been clearer.

Have you ever lost something and, when you found it again, you wanted to do everything you could to keep from losing it again? That's how it is for me and joy. So, I made a bracelet in all the brightest colors, the happy, vibrant ones, and wrote the word “joy” on it. I wear it to remember to hold on to joy.

I don’t know what that young man would have said had I unloaded my frightfully serious reasoning on him that day. But, I wish I had, because it was the truth and sharing truth with others often helps solidify it in the deepest parts of ourselves.

This summer, as I prepare to transition from working at home to working at a church again, I’ve been looking over these past seven years of life and taking an inventory of sorts. What have I been given in this time that I want to carry with me for the work ahead?

One these gifts is joy - the reminder to cultivate and choose it, to recognize it not as an optional add-on to the spiritual life, but as a fruit of the spirit, an essential marker of the presence (or absence) of God in each of our lives. To remind myself of this truth, I made a small painting to hang in my new office, a painting filled with gorgeous colors, patterns and textures and one simple word: joy.

God's Not Grumpy

I've been immersed in Jesuit priest Gregory Boyle's books recently (Tattoos on the Heart and Barking to the Choir). I'm so encouraged and enchanted by his sense of God's innate qualities - qualities affirmed in scripture, but often overlooked in our own imaginings of God. All of this led me back to this brief post from August 2015. Enjoy.

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“What do you think heaven’s like?” my oldest son asked.

My kids and I were slowly waking up, seated around the sticky kitchen island, absorbing summer's early morning humidity. I cradled my second or third cup of coffee while they spilled milk and cereal and crunched on chocolate toast.

In a moment of unexpected quiet, my oldest son posed his question.

Wrapped in a fog of sleepiness and still focused on my coffee, I said, “I’m not sure. What do you think it’s like?”

Perched on a wooden stool, he pontificated for a while, and made sure to specify that his picture of heaven included the conspicuous absence of bickering.

There had been a lot of bickering that morning. In fact, first thing that morning I scolded the boys for their non-stop verbal warfare.

The 'absence of bickering' idea made its way into my sleepy brain, tickling my imagination. Putting on a grumpy voice (not unlike the voice I used to reprimand the boys earlier that morning), I growled out an impression of God policing behavior in heaven. “Hey, cut that out. No fighting allowed in here,” I said.

Distracted from the joy of his own ideas, my son paused and turned to me with a quizzical look on his face. Eyebrows arched, head tipped to the side, quick as a whip, he objected to my impersonation.

“God's not that grumpy,” he said.

His correction ushered in a moment of silence. Then we both laughed, surprised by his nimble reply. In four short words, my son defended his understanding of the heart of God; God's very nature.

//

I am often grumpy.

Especially in the early morning, when humidity is at 90% and little sweaty, sleepy people are squabbling all around me.

But God is not.

The fact that my son not only sees, but defends the difference, is a wonder to me and a source of great joy.

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.

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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!

In Defense of Fun (#SmallWonder Link-up)

I had coffee with one of my former college professors a few weeks ago. I walked down the road to the little corner café and we sat for a while talking about life and direction. We’re both in the midst of a murky time of transition – his post retirement, mine at the end of the season of parenting preschool aged children. This friend, a retired professor Christian Spirituality and Ministry who’s penned a biblical commentary for a well-known series, likes to tease me about the fact that I went to a “better seminary” than him.

When it came up that morning in the coffee shop I smiled and shrugged. “Yeah,” I said, “and look where it got me – selling flowers and eggs along the side of the road!”

He smiled and shrugged. “Well,” he said, “that’s important too.”

He’s right. It is. And I knew it even as I sat there making light of it.

John built the farm stand early this summer and I started out trying to sell eggs and produce, but sales were slow, by which I mean nearly non-existent. But then the two seed packets of Zinnias we planted grew and started blooming in a wild array of pinks and oranges. I soon added cut flower arrangements to the stand first in old glass canning jars, then in recycled soup cans. I called them “Tin Can Bouquets” and sold them for $1 each.

In late August, a friend of mine discovered the bouquets and posted a picture of them online, sales picked up dramatically. Some days it felt like I could hardly keep the stand stocked with flowers. All in all, I’m confident we made more money in flowers this summer than in produce and eggs combined.

I realized something amazing this summer when I sold my first carton of eggs to a stranger who happened to stop by because of the sign in our yard. When you sell something to another person – in this case, eggs – you’re in some small way, entering into their life. The woman who stopped by took my eggs into her home, put them in her refrigerator and they became part of her meal planning and dinner, lunch or breakfast. A product of mine became part of her life and I don’t even know her name. The same goes for writing a book, I guess, or selling flowers, each product offers a chance to impact someone else’s life.

A few weeks ago I told a small group of friends about my plan to self-publish Chicken Scratch this November 7^th. After taking time to think about my goals for the book and how I would measure its success, I had found I was surprised by my own answer.

“What I most want,” I told them, “is for it to be fun.” I shrugged my shoulders at the word fun, like it was a small thing. Then with my face scrunched up, almost as if in apology, I added, “I think it’s really important.”

My friends agreed.

We talked about how fun can seem frivolous, unimportant, when compared to the serious work needing to be done. These friends work in the non-profit sector, they know a thing or two about serious work, and yet they agreed, we do need more beauty and joy, more fun in our lives.

I used to think being a good person meant doing all of the serious work first. Then maybe, if I was lucky, there would be a few spare moments at the end of the day or the end of a productive life to do something “just for fun;” to travel, to rest, to play. I still find myself thinking that way when the list of good and important, even necessary, things that must be done is long. (Is it ever not long?)

But I understand now that fun belongs on that list too. Fun is good. Fun is important. Fun is necessary. So necessary that we may even need to practice at it until we learn to engage in fun, not as a form of escapism or entertainment, but as a way to refill our souls, giving us hope, energy and courage to continue on in the rest of the good and serious work needing to be done.

“It kinda blows my mind,” I told my friends that day. “Of all the things for sale at the farm stand, all of the useful, practical food items, what people bought most was beauty.”

I like to think of those tin can bouquets - the ones my friend bought two and three at a time and took to meetings all over town, the others bought by people I never met or even saw - those pink and purple happy Zinnia faces are smiling all around Boiling Springs and Carlisle, on kitchen counters, dining room tables and goodness only knows where else. What a joy it is to spread a little fun into pockets of the world I would otherwise never reach.

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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?

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 New Season (#SmallWonder Link-up)

(an example of a chicken with feathered legs and feet)

This past spring I caught a bad case of Chicken Fever. Not to be confused with bird flue, Chicken Fever causes its victim, usually already a chicken owner, to desperately desire more chickens. One friend, eager to aide me in my distress, told me that her neighbor, an Amish farmer, would be happy to hatch some eggs for me for free.

The price was right, but the timing did nothing to satisfy my urgent need. It would take about a month for the eggs to hatch, then it would be another four months before the hens started laying. Deep in the throes of fever as I was, I couldn’t possibly wait that long.

A few days later we found a flock of twelve laying hens for sale and within a week they were ours. My Chicken Fever broke as I faced the demands of the new flock, but in the early days of recovery I still sent a secret text to my friend who knows the Amish farmer.

“I still want some chicks,” I typed.

“How many?” she asked.

“Four or five?” I suggested.

That was back in May. Time passed. We lost the matriarch of our flock to a predator and our baby Polish hens grew up. Then one day last week, my friend pulled into our driveway and popped open the trunk of her SUV. I ran out of the Little House like a child on Christmas morning as she lifted a small cage to the ground.

I was happy to see three white birds. Then, as I walked closer, I got a better look. “They’re the chickens with pants!” I cried.

Inside the cage, three petite, fluffy white birds walked in circles. Each had feathers running down their legs, sticking out on either side, giving them the appearance of wearing cowboy chaps.

I carried the cage down to our smaller coop and lifted the hens out one-by-one. Their feathers were soft as silk and they rested gently in my hands. When the kids got home that day, I surprised them as they came off the bus, holding a white chicken in my arms. “They’re the ones with pants!” I proclaimed and we oohed and aahed over them.

I had no idea what kind of chickens we might get from the anonymous Amish farmer, but I never expected these fancy girls. Now we have a total of seventeen hens and one rooster roaming the yard.

New things around the farm are pretty common - new pets, new plants, new equipment and work to be done, but this week I also have some big writing news to share with you. First, I'm starting a monthly newsletter which will contain exclusive content (essays and poems not appearing here on the blog), links to great content around the web and information about upcoming resources and events.

And the second piece of news is even bigger and more exciting . . . but you'll have to sign up for my newsletter to be one of the first to find out more. Thanks for being part of the #SmallWonder community!

Just enter your address here to sign up!

How to Find Hidden Treasure (#SmallWonder Link-up)

(photo credit)

Our giant black chicken stood outside the open kitchen window clucking with vigor yesterday afternoon. Despite the high heat and humidity, she marched back and forth in the green grass busily squawking with an air of self-importance, a clear sign she’d just laid an egg.

I dropped what I was doing and rushed outside. “A-ha!” I thought. The day before I’d gathered a measly four eggs. I knew the hens were holding out on me and I walked slow searching circles around the yard in the afternoon and early the next morning hunting for their secret nest.

Our sixteen hens have a total of seven nesting boxes spread between two coops and one “alternative” nest tucked in a pile of hay on the garage floor. They have plenty of good places to lay their eggs. But once a month or so first one, then three or four find a new place to lay.

The first secret nest we found was tucked under a piece of abandoned plywood lying at the base of our largest pine tree. In the sheltering shade of the old wood, resting in a shallow depression between two roots, lay a clutch of eighteen eggs. Since then we’ve found clutches on wooden shelves in my husband’s wood shop, in dark corners of the garage, and in the middle of a much-trampled flowerbed. The nests are cleverly hidden and nearly impossible to find, although they have hens sitting in them and coming and going for most of the day.

When I suspect the hens are hoarding eggs, I prowl the yard looking around the base of shrubs and trees, I roam the garage looking for secret corners and shadowed shelves. Most importantly, I start listening to the chatter among the birds.

Every chicken we have, save perhaps for the shy Polish hen, announces her freshly laid egg with a puffed chest and wide-spread wings, her beak opening to pronounce pride with a voluminous round of “bawk-bawk-bigawk.” This announcement can go on for a good five or ten minutes as the hen boasts and elates over her own great deed. If I’m paying attention, then I notice this cackle of delight and quickly head toward the loud-mouth hoping to catch her red-handed at the scene of the crime.

Yesterday when I heard “Thunder Storm” (as my daughter calls her) or “Darth Vader” (as the boys call her) clucking up a storm I ran outside and checked closely in the weedy flowerbed beneath the window, pushing aside leggy Cone Flowers and Daisy stems that refuse to yield more buds. I scanned the base of the overgrown shrubs that need trimming but found nothing. Lately I've noticed the hens hanging out around the old well-house just beside the kitchen window but I’ve checked the ancient trellis there with its climbing vines and knew, just knew, there was nothing there.

Still, I paused and scanned low again while the black hen with her feathers that shimmer iridescent blue and green chattered on. Then my eyes caught it, just a glimpse of brown tucked in below the trellis, behind winding vines hidden in shadow. Kneeling, I tenderly pulled back vine to reveal a sheepish brown hen who, startled by my abrupt arrival, decided she had sat for long enough. Tottering off, she too began to boast about the egg just laid and I stared at the pile of eggs, treasure revealed.

I called the kids outside to witness my discovery and we started counting the brown, white and blue eggs I pulled out of their secret shade. “Eleven eggs!” I shouted, delighted with my find. Then I ferried the eggs into the house in the upturned hem of my shirt.

In the kitchen, I eased the eggs gently onto the counter and sent my husband a text, “I found the secret nest!” Then I washed the eggs, checked for freshness and slid each into its own slot in a new carton.

I don’t know why the hens change their laying habits, why they refuse to utilize the seven perfectly good nesting boxes. I suppose it has something to do with hiding from predators and other ancient longings they could not quite articulate even if given the gift of human language. I want those eggs, though, as much as any fox or raccoon in the wild might, because they’re of value to me and since I feed and shelter the birds (as much as they’re willing to comply) I feel entitled, you might say, to certain benefits.

I find it tempting, then, to accuse my birds of hoarding their gifts and from there it would be an easy leap to turn this into a reflection on hiding one’s talents under a bushel basket and the likes. Some of us do hide the gifts we’ve been given and hoard them to the detriment of ourselves and those around us. But the truth is, many of us have a hard time finding and claiming our own nest of gifts. Many of us spend weeks and months circling our lives waiting to discover what it is we have to offer a needy world.

I could tell you not to hide your talents, but I bet most of us know that’s a no-no already. Instead I want to offer this to those who are hunting and seeking for the hidden nests among us, the places of fertility and fruitfulness, the places of hidden treasure:

I never found a hidden nest by shaming a bird.

I’ve never sat a chicken down and had a stern talk eye-to-eye and told them they really should be more compliant. (But I have a hunch the effort would be wasted.)

What I do, when hunting hidden treasure, like a nest or a talent or a sense of true vocation in this world, is listen for the song. Look for the place where joy and pleasure abound, splitting the air on even the hottest of days, the place where you sing loud enough that you can be found.

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Author, Shawn Smucker and I are offering a one-day retreat this coming October 15 in Carlisle, PA. Titled, Writing As Witness, we will explore the ways writing can position us to witness the presence of God in our own lives and in the world. Visit link to learn more.

* * *

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 Birthday Flock (#SmallWonder Link-up)

We stuffed them into boxes marked “Smirnoff Ice” and “Captain Morgan’s,” small boxes, free from the local liquor store. John cut air holes on the ride across town, slicing with his utility knife in the passenger seat while I drove.

When we arrived at the farm, the chickens, still cooped from the night before and anxious to range, were furious at being boxed one-by-one. Four of us worked together - grab a chicken, tuck it in a box. Press down and close the lid, folding the flaps one under the other. Repeat.

We emailed over a dozen times with the owner who was selling a flock of sixteen at the beginning of the week. She asked for pictures of our yard, our coop, she delayed making a decision. Frustrated, we joked she was going to ask for tax returns and references next. “They’re pets,” she said in the craigslist ad and on email, “These girls are loved.” One by one, though, her free-range flock was being eaten by predators. It dwindled to twelve by the time we got there. One night they watched a fox take one out in the field and her son, twelve, ran to get his pellet gun, but it was too late.

The birds thrashed and squawked and the boxes, weakened by the overly large air holes, gave under the pressure. One then another bird toppled their way to escape, so we cornered and dove and the birds’ owner grabbed two by the tail feathers and we figured maybe we didn’t need to be quite as gentle as we’d thought. Finally we had five birds in boxes and five in a borrowed dog pen. Two baby polish hens traveled in their own cage. The adult birds settled as soon as we started driving, but the babies cried a steady stream of peeps.

With the back seats out, we had a van packed to the gills with chickens and it smelled like it too. Back home, we stuffed a quick lunch in our faces and went to ready the coop. Coco sniffed wildly and whined at the van, her tail wagging, eyes pleading. Then we unpacked the girls, unloading all of the boxes and crates into the coop, and opening them one by one. They settled in quickly, happy to find their old nesting boxes and piled in two and three at a time to lay eggs for the day. Because the new coop is big enough to stand in I heard, for the first time, the low purring noise, almost like a growl, they make just before laying an egg.

The Polish Girls, still in their cage, we tucked into our old chicken coop so they could explore the place. They’re gray and black speckled with an outlandish white bouffant of feathers on their head. Later, three of our kids came home and met their newest pets. That night when Solomon returned from a playdate, he squatted in the dark and rain to look at the Polish hens. “That one’s mine,” he exclaimed, “I love it with all my heart!”

Today I’ve had second thoughts and I’m not sure how long this egg production business will last. There’s a lot of poop involved – that’s the main thing. But John and I talked about our pets on the way home yesterday, the cats and dog and hens.

“I really enjoy animals,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, “I noticed.”

I told him about watching our tomcat Blackie and the dog, Coco, this spring. When the weather turned warm for a few unexpected days in March, I felt a sudden pressure to be Out and Active. But I didn’t know how to be in the yard, what to do, and the twins too seemed at a loss. Perplexed and discomforted, I watched the cat, though, and the dog, how they sauntered out sniffing the air and pausing every couple of steps. They laid in the sun, rolled in the grass. They stretched their way slowly into spring, leisurely shedding winter and opening, as the whole world does in spring, toward a new season. Watching them, I found freedom to do the same.

This morning I got to church just in time to hear the tail end of the sermon. I can’t vouch for the rest of it, but the final slide, the one I saw, was about birds and joy and the songs they sing, the songs we sing. Chickens don’t sing, per say, but I now know they growl and purr over their nests. That’s what I thought about when we sang Joy to the World for our closing song, when we repeated the line about “wonders of his love” over and over again in the fourth and final verse.

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I'm super excited to be joining with Andi Cumbo-Floyd and Shawn Smucker to organize a weekend writer's retreat this summer at God's Whisper Farm in the beautiful mountains of Virginia. Visit Andi's website for more info!

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.

Seeing Better (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

"I could die tomorrow,” I told her. “Without ever having pink glasses.”

The sales associate looked at me with her head cocked, eyebrows raised and conceded the point.

I’ve had the same small, brown glasses frames since 2011. I chose them not long before the twins were born in that end-of-pregnancy flurry of getting everything done before life changes irrevocably. Dentist? Check. Glasses? Check.

In the exam room the optometrist looked up, surprised, from his chart. “This says I haven’t seen you since 2013?” he asks.

“Yep.” I reply.

“And you bought contacts then? How often do you change them? Do you have any left?” He voice conveys incredulity.

“Well, yeah. I don’t wear my contacts much.” I fumble through my memory bank, drawing a blank. “I don’t know,” I finally reply, “I had twins, so the last couple of years are a little blurry.”

The answer seems to satisfy.

In the sales room, a young woman follows me around among the frames. I ask her what’s “in” these days and she tells me bigger plastic frames.

“What are you looking for?” she asks, calm and detached behind her half-framed lenses of dark blue metal. Her dark hair is long and perfectly straight.

“I want something fun,” I said, “some color.”

What I really wanted, before I even walked in the door, was pink glasses. I wanted happy glasses, but I wasn’t sure I dared get them. What if I made a mistake?

I feel like a failure when the optometrist pulls up letters I can’t read. Blinking, I watch letters flip and wiggle like so many small black ants waving their legs. I make random guesses, occasionally upping my odds by offering two answers at once. “Um, I think it’s an E . . . or a P?” One line I cannot read at all. The exam room is so strangely intimate, dimly lit, with the optometrist scooting around on his rolling stool, peering into my eyes with a little light that he moves in circles like a magic wand.

My left eye, weak as ever, has worsened again, but, good news, I’m not yet in need of bifocals.

Back in the sale’s room, the associate hands me purple glasses and offers red. But I don’t want purple glasses, purple glasses don’t make me happy and red glasses bring to mind Sally Jesse Raphael (please tell me I’m not the only one who remembers THAT). Then she motions toward an almost translucent light pink pair, but before she can pick them up, I say, “I think I had those glasses in fourth grade and I don’t really want to go back to that.”

In the end, I whittle it down to two pairs, identical in shape, one navy blue and the other a cheery magenta. Both frames have funky squiggly patterns in complementary colors along the temples. Both pairs are cute, but the blue look better on me.

Still, I hem and haw. A second associate is called over. She put the glasses on her own face for me. “See,” she says, “these blue ones kinda blend in but with the pink ones, the frames are all you see.” I see what sees and know she's right. Then she adds a third pair into the mix, shaped like the others, but in a deeper shade of purple. "These make a nice compromise," she says. But her well-intended suggestion only further confuses things for me.

I circle the room, I sit again and slip frames off and on.

“I’m turning forty in a year,” I tell the original associate, “maybe these will be my mid-life crisis glasses.” I'm only half-joking. Do I like the pink glasses or do I only like the ‘idea’ of pink glasses?

“You’ll want to think about the clothes you wear too, not just what you have one today,” the second woman adds.

“But pink goes with everything, right?” I ask, “Except for red?”

The younger woman agrees. “Pink goes with everything in my book,” she says. I find her patience endearing.

I apologize for taking so long. Then, finally, “I want the pink ones,” I say, scrunching my face up as if to offer an apology.

“I knew you did,” she says.

(I knew I did too.)

(Friends - it's my birthday this week! Hop over to my facebook page to see a picture of me in my new glasses and, if you haven't done so already, LIKE MY PAGE. I've been hovering near 600 page likes for a long time now and there's nothing I'd like more for my birthday than to finally cross that 600 mark. Thanks!)

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While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.

Palm Sunday: The First Day of Spring (#SmallWonder Link-up)

This post is loosely based on Luke 19:28-40, the gospel story of Jesus' entry into Jerusalem. In preparing to preach on the passage this Sunday, I decided to spend some time inside the passage, imagining what it might have been like. This story is told from the perspective of Simon the Zealot who I imagine being, along with Philip, asked to walk into town to fetch the colt for Jesus. I can't overestimate how very helpful this practice was for me. I hope you might also find some time this week to wander around inside of the gospel stories.

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It felt like the first day of spring. Like everything we waited for was so close we could almost taste it.

We were close to Jerusalem. The closer we got, the edgier we were. Jesus was quiet. When we reached the Mount of Olives, Jesus turned to me and Philip. He chose us, and told us to go and look for a colt in the next village, it would be tied to a post and we were supposed to just walk up and take it.

How did he know this?

We didn’t ask. He chose us, that was all that ever mattered. Jesus and the rest stayed resting under the shade of the olive trees. Philip and I walked alone.

When you were with him, walking beside him, it was like feeling the sun on your back – faith rose and blossomed. But with every step we took away from him, faith dimmed. Clouds of doubt rolled in. Our confidence wilted as we walked toward the village.

We hardly dared to think, much less talk about what might happen when we reached Jerusalem. Instead, his stories ran through my head. Everywhere we went he spun stories, painting pictures with words. I tried to make sense of them, but I couldn’t. Maybe I didn’t want to.

Bethany was small and dirty, like every other village, nothing special. The smells and sounds nearly knocked me out after the quiet walk through the countryside. It was hot, the sun was unbearable. I envied the disciples left behind, resting under the trees. The village seemed to go on forever. Women stared as we passed. Children ran up to touch our robes, then scrambled away laughing. We weren’t used to this feeling of travel, of being strange and out of place.

The further we walked, the more foolish we felt. Reason raised its head - why this village? Why a colt? And where? Where was it?

At the far edge of town, we heard it. A donkey brayed. I stopped mid-thought, put my hand out to stop Philip in his tracks. Again, we heard it, the screeching sound like metal grinding against metal. It came from somewhere to the right. We followed a small path through a thicket. Our steps slowed, nervously. Then we came to the edge of a clearing. An ancient stone house stood silent, a fire smoldered in a pit. Chickens pecked the ground. Off to one side stood a young donkey tied, just as he had said.

My heart leapt. Philip grabbed my arm and squeezed tight. Our eyes met wide with surprise and glee. It was all we could do to keep from laughing. Never before has the sight of a donkey been cause for such joy.

Giddiness propelled me. I rushed toward the colt. It skidded sideways, stretching the rope taunt. The colt erupted in a string of screeches, its lips pulled back, teeth exposed. I lunged for the rope, ready for a fight, when Philip again grabbed my arm.

“Simon,” he said.

I followed his eyes toward the house. A small man slowly emerged from the shadows. I pulled my hand back from the colt immediately. Behind him a woman and a small child peaked out of the doorway. Chickens squawked and scattered as he crossed the open yard.

I have never seen such a short man, he would’ve made Zaccheaus look like a giant. He had a grave and wrinkled face. He seemed coated with a lifetime of hard work and dirt. My heart sank. He would never let us have this animal. I thought of the sword at my side, it wouldn’t take much. But the woman and child, watched from the doorway.

Philip bowed in greeting and I followed. The little man bowed.

Braced for anger, his simple question disarmed me. “Why are you untying the colt?”

Why.

Why not, I thought. Why should we not take whatever we needed to overthrow the Romans? Why try to explain the unexplainable to this dirty man in his dark hut?

Philip’s hand was still on my arm. I stared at the little man, so solidly rooted to the ground and remembered Jesus’ words, “if they ask why, tell them ‘the Lord needs it.’”

Everything was always so unbelievably simple with Jesus, the simplicity itself was confusing.

“The Lord needs it,” I said.

The little man caught my eyes with his own and held them. I watched him measure the truthfulness of my words. I knew he likely guessed my thoughts about my sword, my urgency, and frustration.

Something in my eyes satisfied and he turned to the colt. He reached out and patted the animal, murmuring into its long ears. “Take it,” he said simply, then turned and walked away.

Our excitement grew with every step back through the village. We marched into the olive grove like victors returning from battle. The donkey brayed and bucked at the rope. Everyone gathered around shouting questions, slapping us on the back, startling the colt. “How? Where?” they asked.

“It was just like he said, just like it,” I repeated, grinning and proud forgetting the doubt I’d carried across town.

Then Jesus pushed in to the circle. He smiled at our surprise and delight. His tired eyes crinkled in the corners. His robe was wrinkled and dusty from resting on the ground.

“You did well, Simon,” he said, clamping his hand on my shoulder and fixing his eyes on mine. “You too, Philip,” he added. Like I said, he was like the sun, you know? And when he shone on you, it was something you never forgot.

Jesus took the rope and leaned in quietly toward the donkey. He patted it, whispered in its twitchy ears like the little man had. I think in that moment, the colt felt just as loved as we did, just as happy and full of hope and excitement. It stamped a foot and brayed flicking Jesus’ face with its ears and we all burst out laughing.

Peter pulled off his cloak and laid it on the donkey’s back. Nathan too, and Andrew, until the poor animal was draped with a rainbow of dirty robes.

It was time for Jerusalem.

I knelt right there in the dust and made a step with my hands. Jesus stepped and leaned while Andrew tried to steady the donkey. But the animal sidestepped and I teetered, pitching Jesus forward. His stomach landed with a thud on the donkey’s back, knocking the wind out of his lungs. I was so embarrassed, but Jesus pulled himself up laughing again and swung his leg over the side.

When he laughed, it unleashed something inside of us. We were like boys again, free and happy. Here we were, in the biggest adventure of our lives, with Jesus at our side and the wonder of it carried us all along.

Jesus led the colt toward Jerusalem, leaning to whisper again in its ear, scratching the coarse hair where the rope hung around its neck. Moving forward, a nervousness settled over the crowd of us again. Then we followed and with each step our excitement grew.

Thomas started the singing. His deep voice rose and the others joined in following the words of the psalm we all knew. The psalm of victory. I heard the words entirely new as we sang them there in the dusty streets out under the open sky.

I wanted, waited, all of my life for a King.

Here he was and here we were together, marching into Jerusalem. But not marching, nearly dancing. As much as I wanted it to be different, as much as I remembered the sword at my side and my dreams of a mighty king on horseback leading me into battle, I was happy. Happy with this fool of a man plodding along on a donkey’s back, this man who loved me.

I felt my love for him surge in my chest as we repeated again and again the chorus of the Psalm, “Give thanks to the Lord for he is good, his steadfast love endures forever.”

I wasn’t the only one off pitch. Philip had no rhythm, not an ounce of tune, and we were an ugly bunch weaving our way into town, drunk on good news and friendship and the love we all needed. They heard us first (probably smelled us second) and women and children wandered out to watch us.

Such a strange parade. We sang at the top of our lungs, jostling each other, slapping shoulders and backs. Peter reached out and grabbed a boy in the crowd, swung him on his shoulders and Andrew jumped to reach a palm branch. Breaking it, he placed it in the boy’s hand and the boy cheered and waved like mad.

There’s something about a people, so beaten down with sorrow and fear, there’s little left to lose. Maybe this is what made them join us, welcome us, break branches of their own and join the singing, the dancing and shouting. Some stripped off their robes and laid them in the street and Jesus was there in the middle of it all, steady and solid as the sky.

Things got a little out of hand.

But that never seemed to bother Jesus. He got tired sometimes, needed rest and space, but he didn’t try to control us. He let us be however we were, welcomed us and that day we were happy and he didn’t bother to contradict.

But the Pharisees did.

It was one of the things they hated the most about him, the way he refused to control us. He didn’t seem to need to control anyone and therefore refused himself to be controlled. It bothered me too, if I’m honest. I couldn’t figure out how he might overthrow the Romans without taking for himself some measure of the power and control they exerted over us. But it bothered me less when I was with him, then it felt like I could believe anything and, if I’m honest, I thought he would change when we got to Jerusalem.

To the Pharisees, it was blasphemy, all of it. The way we sang and danced in the street, the image of Jesus on the donkey like some kind of street urchin playing king, it was all offensive. But mostly it smacked of disorder and freedom, two things they feared and fought tooth and nail.

“Rabbi, tell them to stop, make them stop!” they shouted.

Jesus turned from watching the dancing children, the singing men. I watched him meet the Pharisees’ eyes. My hand involuntarily drifted to the hilt of my sword. Jesus held the donkey still while all around him the crowd rose and swelled. There was amusement in his eyes and he smiled a sad smile.

“If I tell them to stop,” he said, “the stones you walk on will rise up singing and dancing. You cannot stop joy, my friends, cannot stop praise that flows like a river. Heaven and earth are being un-damned. We will sing and dance while we can.”

If we ever needed permission, we had it. We cheered and sang all the louder, “Give thanks to the lord for he is good, his steadfast love endures forever!”

It felt like the first day of spring, I tell you. Like everything we waited for was so close we could almost taste it. It was glorious.

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It’s harder now, to talk about the rest. When we reached the inner edge of the Jerusalem, Jesus burst into tears and the words he spoke terrified and confused us. Confusion and fear followed us everywhere that week; it hunted us, hounded us.

For a long time, when I remembered Palm Sunday, I felt regret, embarrassment, how little we really understood.

But Jesus, he loved it. Now I know he carried our praise with him through the darkness that lay ahead. He focused on the memory of our singing when the crowds cried out for his death.

Jesus’ first desire wasn’t to change us. It was to be with us.

And his being with us, changed us, slowly into something closer to who he was, what he was.

I like to think of it like that – he carried us with him, our joy, our love, to the cross and we carry him with us, his joy, his love through every week ahead, singing and dancing or weeping in sorrow, we carry him, he carries us.

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