A Steep Climb

In The Prodigal Son, Henri Nouwen speaks of forgiveness as a stepping over. And sometimes a steep climb. It's not easy to forgive. It goes against our pride, our wounded hearts. It often seems impractical. I know I have a mini-Commando inside of me that wants to build a wall of defense and then embark a major assault on someone who has caused me pain. My mind can spin around like a child's toy, the colors of pain and fear colliding in whirling circles until all I end up with is this empty feeling of dejection. This past week I had an opportunity to forgive. I didn't want to. The situation caused my cheeks to burn, my heart raced, and my palms grew moist. All blaring signs that I had been hurt. My first inclination was to clam up, stew on the situation, nurse my wounds and wait for the scab to heal. Then the better side of me marched forward, or rather climbed over my pain. This voice nudged me toward a different path. I began to remember words from The Prodigal Son."Finally, it demands of me that I step over that wounded part of me that wants to stay in control and put a few conditions between me and the one whom I am asked to forgive." Thinking about his words made sense. Besides I didn't feel very good. My concentration suffered and my stomach started to hurt. I figured that God must be a genius to command us to forgive one another. Henry Nouwen also wrote, "But every time that I can step or climb over that wall, I enter the house where the Father dwells, and there touch my neighbor with genuine compassionate love." I think that forgiveness is just as much a need for our neighbor as it is for ourselves. It does not come easily, and often takes time. But the more we practice, the easier it is to step over our inner arguments and love compassionately.

Protective Custody

I had a recent date with fear. It was one of those dates you desperately want to end before it even begins. They say that a mother will do anything for her children. Stay up all night with a colicky baby. Drive across town to endless orthodontic appointments. Wait in the car with the engine idling, trying to look invisible while your sixteen-year-old-son kisses his date goodnight. Good mothers do those deeds and more. I try to be a good mother. More importantly, I am looking forward to becoming an awesome grandmother. Last week, with my daughter lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to bags of hospital stuff, fear stuck in my throat like a chunk of dirt. She's supposed to be at her baby shower, not here in this sterile scary room! And it's too early for the twins to be born! My insides twisted as fear danced in my belly. I prayed hard. Supermom hard. A few hours later at my daugther's shower, my mind was thick and fuzzy, my thoughts hinged on the two baby boys. Are they safe? Can they hear the prayers? As if we had been given protective custody over two neonatal strangers, the room stilled and my dear friend spoke an earnest prayer. Then, feeling like an impostor, I opened the shower gifts, ooohed and aaahed over tiny outfits and foreign-looking gadgets. Friends re-wrapped the presents, making them appear virgin-like, hiding the torn corners and rearranging hastily ripped-off ribbon. My daughter arrived home the next day, and she opened the gifts in her comfortable lounger. I feigned surprise as she gave her own rendition of delight. The twins remained secure, unscathed by the recent tumult. My breath escaped easier and my shoulders dropped an inch. Fear might be strong, but prayer is stronger. Fear shouts and prayer answers. And fear never makes a good date.

A Bloggers Tale

A co-worker asked me recently,"How's it going?" He wore a serious expression, one eyebrow arched. I looked at him with complete understanding. He wasn't interested in how much work is plastered all over your desk, or are you attending the way-too-early meeting next Tuesday? No, his concern centered around my favorite hobby. Writing. A flurry of noise encircled us as we discussed the virtue of following our passion. I whined about my unpublished manuscript. The one collecting dust. His other eyebrow arched. "Start another one," he said. That got me to thinking. I have the beginnings of another story already downloaded to a flash drive. The creative part of me says, you can do it, it will be fun. The practical side of me says, just blog, you don't have to do countless re-writes and it doesn't take much of your time. Besides, you'll never get it published. Then I clicked on Donald Miller's blog. After reading his thoughts on books, writing, and on blogging, I came to a very serious conclusion. The next time my co-worker asks me the question, because he will, I will be prepared. Looking him straight in the eye, I will answer, "It's going good!" Words are inside of me and the stories will be told in their own time. For that I am thankful.

Fall On Me

This time of year, with trees undressing, blanketing the autumn ground with crimson red and bright yellow leaves, my thoughts trail the pattern of the season. A curling fog aprons an open field, the sun dances across a spider-web draped outside a window, and the east wind creates a play-day with the tossing leaves. My inmost desire is to let go, create, frolic and wait patiently for renewal. It comes, the renewal. Most often after the fiercest storms and all you really want to do is sleep. For a very long time. I feel like the trees in November, shedding their leaves, standing naked for a season, vulnerable and exposed to the elements. But, after a cold and sometimes harsh winter, the first buds of spring renew their promise, and together, with the aged bark and crooked limbs, the journey of creating continues. We moved my father-in-law yesterday to a Foster Home. He did not want to go. I am praying he will be happy. So, like the great maple tree outside my bedroom window, I hope to shed a bit of the pain and uncertainty. Today, I notice a massive red oak across the street, stripped down to a brilliant yellow tutu, and I wait for the eternal promise. For when the tree bares itself completely, I know the cycle continues, and I can rest in the hope of regeneration.