Worn, Weary and Threadbare (#SmallWonder Link-up)

(Ah, friends.  Welcome.  It's still January, I have 7 more days of teaching to go.  My husband has manned five pediatric sick appointments in the last two weeks and today we return together with our oldest son who's illness doesn't appear to be responding to antibiotics.  So here I am, again, sharing something old, but entirely relevant to the now.  May we each find rest when and where we can.)

Come unto me, all you who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest." - God 

I came into the retreat like our old cat Samson used to come into our house after a string of nights out on the town.  Samson would disappear and refuse to show up for nights on end as we leaned out the screen door, peering and calling his name into the darkness.  A few days later, he would come dragging in, thin and dirty, walking slowly with a limp. 

That’s how I felt that morning - I arrived completely exhausted.  Life with four young children is like drinking from a fire hose, all struggle and gasping and refreshment to the point of drowning.  The discipline of a monthly retreat has revealed the intensity of life lived between those moments of rest and I often arrive haggard, gasping for breath. 

The day opened with an opportunity for each participant to write on a scrap of paper three words that described how they arrived.  Then a large ceramic bowl was passed from hand to hand around the gathered circle as we named our words and laid our papers into the bowl. 

It felt to me that others had much nicer words, like “rested,” “eager,” and “waiting.”  But as I lifted the heavy bowl and dropped in my small scraps of paper three words escaped my lips like a cry,

worn, 

weary, 

and threadbare.

I passed the bowl quickly and sat quietly.  

I listened and prayed throughout the morning as the tears rolled down. 

Later, I found a sunlit window and sat curled in a chair soaking it in.  I ate a quiet lunch that settled in me like a bowl of warm milk, full of soothing comfort.  Then I returned to the retreat house and stretched out on a long cushioned bench.  I wrote a little, read a little too, but eventually I gave in and, leaning to the side, I curled up there in the lap of God and drifted my way off to sleep.

*   *   *

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.  

At the End of this Swaying, Fraying Rope (#SmallWonder Link-up)

Matti Mattila

(This is a re-post from January 2012 when the twins were just six months old and my older kids were 3 and 5.  It was a crazy time.  This January I'm working full time and my kids are sick (as is par for the course come January) - it is also a crazy time.  In light of all the craziness, I thought pulling something out of the archives might serve me well.  Enjoy!)

There’s a level of desperation around our house these days.  Winter's arrival has us cramped and snotty, sneezing and feverish.  My husband and I make daily trips to the store for things we forgot and debate who should go to the Dr. next as we shuffle endless loads of laundry from basket to washer to dryer and back to the basket again. 

It feels like an endless game of “whack-a-mole.”  

One day, between phone calls and drop offs and trips to the library, I turned to see one twin chewing on the now-empty bottle of infant Ibuprophen.  Running to call poison control, hurdling the baby gates with Olympic precision, I realized I don't know for sure who drank the medicine.  I doubled-back quickly to check both boys over, frantically searching for tell-tale sticky hands and berry-flavored breath.  Thankfully, it was "not a toxic dose."

I called the Dr. the other morning about our son who’s running a high fever after two days of antibiotics and left the wrong birth date on the message.  I thought it was wrong as I said it and tried to correct myself on the phone.  In the end the message went something like this, “His birthday is 8.11.2011.  Or wait, that’s not right, it might be 8.10.2011.  I’m sorry, I really can’t remember right now.”

I'm at the end of my rope, you see, hanging here white-knuckled with fingers grasped tight. As I dangle, gasping for breath, waiting for things to stop spinning, I'm reminded of Eugene Peterson's translation of Jesus' first Beatitude,

“You’re blessed when you’re at the end of your rope. With less of you there is more of God and his rule."

How can this be?  

Blessed, right here, right now, dangling, struggling, sagging with nowhere to go.  Blessed because the end of me is not the end of everything, only the beginning of something more, Someone more. 

Peterson's words remind me of something I read a few months ago in Scott Cairns' book, Short Trip to the Edge.  Cairns is an Orthodox Christian and writes briefly about the role of a prayer rope, a string of 33 square knots used to focus the fingers and mind during prayer.  As Cairns puts it, the prayer rope "does its bit to re-pair the inherent schism within the human person, [it] helps to  . . . bring the mind into the heart (36)."   

Reflecting on this image I wondered whether prayer itself might be like the weaving of a rope leading us deep into the heart of God - where we're anchored and at rest.  

The rope woven through prayer is so different than the one I work to climb most days.  I struggle along the rope of my own striving like a scrawny adolescent in gym class trying to perfect the hand-over-hand technique necessary for upward momentum.  This rope, the end of which dangles before me daily, is one of my own making, my striving, my success or failure. 

But the rope of prayer begins where that one ends and leads downward out of myself or perhaps deeper in to the place where Christ now dwells in my heart as I asked him to all those long years ago.  This rope of prayer, when I tend it and mend it, leads me to the places of deep blessedness and true security.

Once again I lower my expectations and ease myself down off of so many cliffs of my own making. I sit down, sink down into grace and love and with every prayer I find the courage to let go one more time, to lean-in to the blessedness. 

Here I am, again, at the end of me; here I am, again, blessed.

*   *   *

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.  

After

After 

(Matt. 2:1-12)

After you find the One for whom you wait,

after you are overwhelmed with joy

and kneel to kiss holy ground,

you might also find yourself

returning home by another road.

The ways you once walked no longer

appeal.  And though the way is dark

and takes you further ‘round,

you will know it at once to be your road, 

the path for which you were made. 

- Kelly Chripczuk

Christ Creeps in Among Us (#SmallWonder Link-up)

The fog comes

on little cat feet.

It sits looking

over harbor and city

on silent haunches

and then moves on.

- Carl Sandburg

//

In the long, dark winter evenings, the older kids and I read our way through the Chronicles of Narnia.  In them Aslan, the God-figure, is a large lion.  As C.S. Lewis frequently reminds his audience – Aslan is not tame. 

Aslan walks silently on great, padded paws. 

He comes and goes at will. 

He’s seen by those who look for him.

Yet, often when Aslan appears the youngest girl, Lucy, is quick to squeal with delight.  She runs and buries her face in the fur of his mane. 

//

Every morning Blackie, our long-haired cat, waits impatiently to go outside.  Eager to investigate the yard, he pauses briefly before the open door, then saunters out into the crisp early morning air.  An hour or two later a soft thud announces his return as he leaps to the closed kitchen window, the one with the broken screen.  There he waits, his fur coat fluffed, green eyes blazing, a silent silhouette. 

Seeing me see him, he meows.  The double-paned glass mutes the sound, but I see his mouth stretch wide, his dagger-teeth flash. 

I slide the window open and he pushes through the screen, fresh and cold from his morning stroll. 

“Blackie!” I cry, my hands slipping under and over, encircling him, lifting him to my face.  I bury my nose in his fluffy mane.  I inhale the smell of the cool grassy fields he wanders, the morning dew and earth.  It’s a moment I never want to miss. 

This year, I listened beneath the hustle of the Christmas season, hoping to hear the silent padded footsteps of Christ creeping in among us.  

There are so many ways to miss his coming.  

And yet, he comes again and again each year, throughout the year.  Like the cat leaping to the window, the fog sitting silently, Christ arrives opening us, always, to the fullness of what is.

*   *   *

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.  

Trying and Letting Go (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

(#SmallWonder friends, this post is late!  My apologies.  We will be taking a break from linking up next Monday (12/28) and I'll see you back here again January 4th.)

I tried to make Christmas cookies twice this December. 

The first was a batch of chocolate covered peanut butter balls.  I mixed the no-bake batter quickly before the buses brought the older kids home, then I shaped them into balls while all four watched TV.  Lining a tray with parchment paper, I put them in the refrigerator to chill, thinking we would roll them in chocolate after dinner.

Then my oldest son threw up. 

The next day he stayed home sick and by the third day the moment had passed.  The peanut butter balls sat naked in the refrigerator, stale and shrunken.  “Just eat them,” I said, at last.

Yesterday, a week after my initial attempt, I mixed two batches of cookie dough – classic cut-out sugar cookies and Martha Stewart’s chocolate peppermint cookies.  I put them, covered, in the refrigerator to chill. 

And then, yes, my older son threw up again. 

Baking cookies lost its appeal and I pulled the last bags of Thanksgiving’s turkey-barley soup out of the freezer to thaw for dinner.  Today he’s home sick again and I completed my first “professional” interview in years over the phone while he sat watching TV.  The call was dropped once and a visitor came to the door mid-conversation.  This afternoon we’ll head to the pediatrician’s office, again.

//

Last week I met with my Spiritual Director.  She told me, in the nicest way possible, that I’m not the center of the universe.  Also, when I complained about not being able to do. it. all., she asked me, “What is most important to you during this season?” 

“Attending to the mystery,” I said, “staying alert for all the ways Christ creeps in among us.”

Of course, that means I might need to let go of some other things. 

Like baking cookies. 

What do you need to let go of this week?  What's most important for you to hold onto in the midst of the holiday rush?  

*   *   *

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.  

The Animals on Christmas Eve (#SmallWonder Link-up)

Legend claims 

at midnight 

Christmas Eve

animals received 

the gift of speech,

but I imagine 

it was the other way around

that first starlight night.  

Animals didn’t gain

but humans lost, 

for once, 

their words.

Speechless, 

they welcomed 

the Word in silence,

led by the animals 

in a chorus of mute wonder. 

*   *   *

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.  

Something Epic

He was a dead ringer for the kid from A Christmas Story.  A short, chubby boy with an overgrown buzz cut and thick, dark rimmed glasses.  Dressed in navy sweats from head to toe, he ran back and forth along the edge of the playground, arms pumping, breath huffing in out-of-shape bursts. 

On his third time past he stopped about twenty feet away from my husband and I, equidistant between us and the black plastic swings hanging on long metal chains.  Inspired, he turned toward us, the nearest available audience.

“I’m gonna do something EPIC,” he said.

Then he turned and ran, huffing and chuffing, arms swinging and threw himself belly first onto a swing.  To our watching eyes, it was decidedly un-epic.  The extended take-off added nothing to the quotidian talent of swinging on your stomach – something any little kid can do.  

But something in his confident declaration, his putting it all on the line approach was truly legendary.  And I loved him for believing it, for announcing it and following through.  

What he did wasn't epic.  

But the way he did it?  

Totally EPIC.