Echoes From the Past

He asked my last name, this man I first met the year I turned seventeen. "The same as yours," I said, and waited for the surprise to lift those gray eyebrows. "Oh, is that so!" A few minutes passed while I chatted with fellow residents in his foster home. The question, he inquired again and I answered like I had numerous times before, having long ago understood the mind plays tricks on elderly and all fault and blame is finally laid to rest. In peace. "The same as yours." His chin cocked a bit, a puzzled expression crossed his deeply lined face. "Is that so!" And so it goes, this attempt to reach my ninety-two-year-old father-in-law, to draw him out, to listen intently for those echoes from the past that leap unexpectedly into the present moment. It's in the present, the here and now, super-power that quickens heart beat and floods the soul with unabashed joy.

 

The seeds, we plant in our conversations, we share this next generation of his, his great-grandchildren and tell him their names, starting over each time, much like an Etch A Sketch. And the harmonica's from Germany that makes music in our home now, husband handed one over for him to hold on Christmas day.

Those tiny miracles we pray to see, the ones that God strategically places before we rise from deep sleep, they cause heart to flutter quick and eyes mist over and we watched one unfold. My father-in-law did remember a song on Christmas day, the notes rose tentative at first, gaining momentum with each breath puffed into his old musical instrument. Husband sang a few lines, German words that none of us knew. He made music and joy flooded the room.

I noticed it later, when our house stilled and white lights twinkled beauty. This box that housed his harmonica all these long years. An echo from the past ushered into this present, in God's own time, a miracle to behold. Holding the empty box in palm of my hand, this immeasurable gift, I felt the lightness, and I understood. Not all presents are neatly wrapped and placed under the Christmas tree. Other gifts, the ones that come unadorned, unrequested, they might be the most precious of all, virgin they are in simplicity, easy to miss. Unless the eyes are always, always, searching for the light. 



Everything God does is love-even when we do not understand him.

~Mother Basilea Schlink~

The Healing Power Of A Mushroom

She prayed for compassion, a deeper understanding, empathy for her patients' suffering. She prayed, and then one day she ate a mushroom. "Six weeks ago," she said, "and four days spent in the hospital."  Each day afterward, a challenge to perform even the most mundane activities. This, a vibrant, fit and active woman. A business owner, a healer without health insurance. Some gifts, they lay deep and hidden, layered they are with pain and hardship, sickness and loss, and once in a while, severe reaction to freshly picked mushroom.  I took a breath and asked a question, the bold and courageous probing that does warrior battle with all complaints and resentment. "So your illness, this mushroom picking crisis, it was a gift then?" Her hazel eyes lit up in perfect comprehension. "Now I understand my patients' suffering better, I can see what they  are walking through. Before, I couldn't relate to their pain." A moment's pause. "Now I can," she said. "It's the gift," I offered. "The gift was your severe illness. A blessing." Her smile widened. "I prayed for it and that's how I got it, the compassion I prayed for." I scanned the gym, at all the people trying to stay fit, to be healthy and active, to live strong. Sometimes the blessing is found through deep suffering. Maybe all we can do is wait for the fog to lift, for time and insight to dry the damp mist cloaking the eyes. E.M. Bounds once wrote: "God sees to it that when the whole man prays, in turn the whole man shall be blessed." I looked at this healer woman again, measuring my words carefully, joyfully. "Thank you for sharing." We chatted for a few minutes, and she offered helpful information on the type of mushroom she found, ways to avoid her graven mistake. I answered emphatically, "No! I prefer to buy mine at Trader Joe's, thanks." Her laughter spilled all around us. An effervescent light shone from her eyes, an understanding of such things, such things in life too lofty to understand, yet beautiful enough to give thanks for. This thought, the loftiness of it all, I clutch it tight like verses to inspiring song, and I walked away that day knowing I would never eat a freshly picked mushroom. But I would always keep searching for gifts, for the light that drapes the weakest of moments is the treasure worth watching for.

The Music Room

He put the German made harmonica to his lips, blew into those holes, small shoulders bouncy and free. Soon brother joined in, taking the other ancient harmonica from my hands and blew glad into his great-grandfather's instrument. "I make music!" Brown-haired boy announced, wide grin pasted on his face. Blond boy turned his attention to the guitar resting in its stand, his small frame bent over in pursuit of drawing out the notes, gently, I reminded him. Be gentle with uncle's guitar. Brown-haired boy plucked the strings too and I picked up one of the harmonicas and sounded out a garble of noise, hips swaying to cacophony of home-grown chorus. Our christening of "the music room." And music never tasted so sweet and maybe David had his harp, and his feet danced wild and free and so did we three.  Pausing for breath I looked at these boys, at cheeks puffing in and out, heads bobbing, eyes blazing fun. It's His breath, in our lungs.

And the light that led David eons ago, it blazes yet here, illuminating tiny vessels, pumping joy into heart, a life-line for the weary.

 It flickers glory, fanning into flame this bubbling joy, daring us right into gratitude. We got a bit wild with it, this making music, gleeful tears sprang, lips chapped red with the effort and I think our notes reached heaven that day. It's His breath, in our lungs, so we pour out our praise. It's this saying thank you and leaning into the word, receiving what is present before us, eyes focused on the moment. I want to learn to make music, to breathe in pure fragrance of grace, to give thanks all humbled and bold.

Sing them over again to me, wonderful words of life ~ Philip P. Bliss

How To Be A Spotter

He asked if I needed spotting, me who had just finished stretching on the bench he was nodding toward. I glanced at the mammoth weights placed on each end of the bar looming above the maroon-colored work-out bench. I refrained from laughing and said, no thank you, I think I hurt my lats during some push-ups I tried yesterday. He smiled and said yes, he has done that also, he walked away, to lift more weights. Swallowing the need to defend myself, to change the number of push-ups to more than the seven I actually performed, I cranked up volume on iPOD, hummed along. The change it came, gradually, unwillingly at first, and after a while this competitive heart waved white flag in surrender. Once a long distance runner, and semi-weight lifter, I learned to wean myself from panting desire to run, to feel adrenaline high, especially in majestic fall season. Humbling it is, to bend knee so low that scabs form and the white flag, it folds gently in autumn air, even though hand waving still trembles from inner desire to control. So, I punch down the speed on treadmill, speak body into slow, ushering in this virgin acceptance to nurture.

A good friend shares, bad cancer struck hard in her family and I worry less about scraping the knee now. More about lifting palms, less about how far down the rack of weights the pin pushes in.

 Splashes of vibrant color decorate the landscape, and those orange, blazing-red and yellow leaves, they carpet hard ground. A kaleidoscope of color floats gently, and I know that trees are undressing, and bare limbs appearing, the change is coming here too.

And I tell my friend I will pray. Breathing in His grace. Grasping it in midst of the hard, the ugly and the painful. She says she recently read the book and she is poised to count, to record the blessings. Breathing slow, I remember that God is always one step ahead. I click to capture still beauty, a view I could not appreciate while speeding by in Nikes.

The path, it weaves and twists, turning another corner and climbing mammoth hills. I contemplate this journey and I think the hill climbing, it might require another set of hands, maybe even one thousand, to lift you, to be a spotter. To be just there, to be with you when the weight gets too heavy, too burdensome and arms quiver under strain so great.

To be a spotter is to be the gift.

 

 

"Before us is a future all unknown, a path untrod; beside us is a friend well loved and known-that friend is God." Unknown

 

Picture This

I had grown used to visiting this secret place each day at work. A place special only to me, my corner of peace, a sanctuary when a phone call went bad, a deadline loomed and sluggish brain needed a jump-start. When pain fired hot and spirit sagged low, a moment's rest from turmoil I craved. I read a few years ago in a research study, that simply looking at a loved one in a photograph eases pain receptor in brain by forty percent. I brought a digital photo frame to work.

It is therapy this scanning of photography.

Subtle it is, this lifting of the corners of mouth, ever so slightly. Shoulders release tight grip.

It changes things, this gazing, sour tones quickly transform into light notes, a beacon for those who surround us.

 

And when flash drive failed after using Walgreen's photo computer, I said thank you to co-worker who possessed talent to fix and now I can behold once again and practice those grateful breaths.

 

This ride we are taking, us all, it helps ease the pain, the uncertainty, to pause in that place that is yours alone. Breathe it in, this great grace that says I-am-here-right-now-and-I-always-know-exactly-what-you-need, even when the ride goes unsteady and you tumble and fall. I will pick you back up.

 

And I look at scenes, at snaphots, moments in this life. It comes once again, His grace-tipped arrow, it pierces the heart, this love that conquers all, and I quiver unsteady.

And I come across words that lends voice to this flutter inside. There on the mountain top, there in the everyday and the mundane, there in the sorrow and the dancing. His great grace, and I breathe it in, all over again, yesterday forgotten, this moment, this now, cupped in exalted grace. 

 

Joy is that deep settled confidence that God is in control of every area of my life.

~Paul Sailmamer~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Games We Play

The game, it started same as always. Brown-haired toddler urged me on, to come, to "look and see." I followed his elfin body into bedroom. He sat on his knees, pat carpeted floor with dimpled hand, and beckoned, "down here, Grandma, down here." I knelt beside this tiny boy, pointed my gaze out the door, readied myself for the hunt. "I see a TREE!" He began, brown eyes ablaze, and I followed the direction of his pointer finger, cherry tree, the closest one in our view. "And I see leaves dancing in the breeze," I said, rewarded with a grinning face, cookie crumbs adorning corners of his mouth.  And I see your innocence. Unhindered by blond-haired boy who slid between sheer curtains like he was practicing a curtain call for America Idol, we continued on. "I see an AIRPLANE!" Flying high in baby blue October sky, airplane with its smoky trail whisked above and we craned our necks, edging around brother to watch last exhaust marks penning the sky. My achy joints forced me to switch positions, and I lay on my back, looking out glass, watching world upside down in this room with a view.  Immediately, toddler boy joined me. "I'm UPSIDE DOWN!" He rejoiced, lifting his chin toward white ceiling, tilting head back far as possible, scanning yard outside. "I see LEAVES!"  Soon brother lay down too, joined us in our upside-down-world play. "I see the sun," I announced, showing them a patch of hazy light poking through tree branches. "I see it TOO," they cried out in unison. Maybe we three enjoyed this new  world, a fresh perspective, unedited, this freedom to turn it all upside down. When government shuts down, another photo of a Kardashian stares back at you on MSN page, and isn't it better to steal a moment, turn it all off, flip yourself around and watch patches of light glimmering through tree branches? In the words of Leon Henri Marie Bloy, "Joy is the most infallible sign of the presence of God." I see pure joy when your twin eyes discover novel territory. And you said come here, sit, and I did , and we played our game, and the light, it streamed through glass, and the green leaves they wiggled and danced all free, all beauty. Such grace. I looked out the smudged glass, gaze scanning back yard with its rubber balls and toy cars. Breathing in His grace I stood and tripped over stuffed raccoon. Breathing out His praise.

"I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven."

And the light, it stretched past cherry tree, gloving us three, all radiant in its permission, its freedom, its never-ending Grace.

When Life Is Full

Pouring fragrant jasmine green tea into Royal Dover china tea cup, I readied to tell her everything. How we celebrated husband's sixtieth birthday at the beach, all six of us, grown-ups with gray hair and nagging aches in various joints. You were there too. Leisurely walks under canopy of aquamarine sky, seagulls winging it, frothy waves lapping shore, you were there. Grand houses we admired, jokingly longing to buy, purchasing lottery tickets, for the joy of it all. Delicious birthday cake with coconut frosting made special for his sixtieth, pure bliss for palate. Our son, he surprised us for the special day, all grown now, he walked into twins' bedroom, and I turned to see this man-child who flew from Virginia to celebrate his Dad. Strong arms wrapped around my quivering shoulders, I swiped tears, this wet joy that streams from eyes. You were there too. A video daughter shot, capturing my surprise,  I played it and saw you too, my knees all wobbly and the hand that brushed at tears, you once held. You knit me together in my mother's womb. And I hear it then, this crazy word that takes the impossible, all the strands of messiness, pain and regret, sickness and doubt, it knits it all together in unimaginable fashion. We breathed it in, this rich Grace, for what else could hold your six children together? What else could fly son here on standby ticket? It's there in the shadows of this life, there in the sound of a newborn cry, there in six middle-aged children standing tall, together. In the words of George MacDonald: "There can be no unity, no delight of love, no harmony, no good being, where there is but one. Two at least are needed for oneness." I wanted to share it all with you, all this living, instead I drank the steamy tea alone, punching my thoughts out on keyboard. Twenty-three years have passed, bruised heart colored pale blue, ping of missing you lingers, just as your last breath. Can it be the image in the video is truly me and not you? And the breaths we take each day, your offspring, your grandchildren, are they an extension of your own, your lasting legacy?  In journal I penned, to count and claim, # 489 siblings who care #490 friends who work for airlines #491 mother's who smile wide when life is full.

You don't choose your family. They are God's gifts to you, as you are to them.

Desmond Tutu

When The Story Isn't Over

We gathered together, our guests and family, communal gazes pointed towards big wide screen made up of queen-sized sheet. Right there, standing in brother's pristine garage, on that make-shift screen our lives unfolded like a favorite story book. Only the story hasn't ended. Tears welled, then slid down our cheeks, my husband and mine, our hands clasped tight, eyes glued to picture show. Each scene depicting a chapter, each photograph a snapshot, a reminder of what we were, our lives progressing chapter by chapter. Twin breaths hitched together, his and mine, as each picture captured moments that flew by as fast as those hummingbirds I wait for. Where did all the time go? Look at your hippie hair! I wore those baggy pants? Look at our babies! Since the anniversary party, we  re-play our video, cry a bit more, and those reflective thoughts, they stare back at us like rear-view mirror. This is proof of who we were and are we doing our best and how many chapters until the book is finished? In the beloved novel, Tuesdays with Morrie, Morrie encourages the author to; "Make peace with living." Continuing on, he says, "Make peace. You need to make peace with yourself and everyone around you." A few days ago, I watched video once again, eyes misting as faces of cherished loved ones played across computer screen and along with age spots on hands, I understood what I did not know when I slipped white lace gown over my not-quite-nineteen-year-old-blond-head. Everything will work for good. And it's then I see Jesus walking beside me up that aisle, smiling tenderly, knowing the future and how it will all end.

 The video, it commands flat screen, the images of dearly loved ones, music streaming from speaker, songs hand-picked by daughter for each chapter, and there it is, that truth that floods cloudy eye-sight. Everything will work for good. Truth trumps darkest fear. Each and every scene captures plethora of gifts, myriad of moments, of blessings, of living and loving others. The song, it plays and lyrics skip across heart, reminding me of teen-aged girl who knew no peace, and it slips then, this joyful tear. He knew the future, the pitfalls, the joys and the crushing sorrows. Only the story isn't over. Cranking the music a bit louder, I continue to play fortieth wedding anniversary video over and over, peacefully humming to tune pasted below. I would loved to have met Morrie, and I hold out my hand for my invisible friend, I breathe in the promises. All is still. All is peace.

 

Time is so precious that is is dealt out to us only in the smallest possible fractions- a tiny moment at a time~ Irish Proverb

 

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OTg1n95--KE&feature=player_detailpage

A Birthday Presence

My husband, he asked what I wanted for my birthday. A dozen items speed-raced through my mind, purchases I dreamt of having now. But the altruistic part of me surfaced, a truck for the toddlers I said, and two balloons. I can replace earphone set for IPOD. Later. And Sephora can wait too. On that special day, I reached into pansy-flowered gift bag, pulled out surprise and supersonic sound of whooooaaa! and ooohhh! awakened all ears. Happy faces spilled all over into celebration room and true to nature, toddlers want everything now. Chaos reigned as two dimpled sets of elbows jostled for birthday gift, flaming-orange tissue flying, each boy demanding temporary ownership of new toy, now. Original truck tossed aside, newer vehicle clutched in small hands, hands that wrestled for possession of novel model. Attempts to pacify, to moderate the tussling failed. And like all used goods and gifts, newness wears off, fades like late summer's eve. Later we sat outside, green maple leaves rustled light, warm breeze brushed our bodies and taxing toddlers' cries soon dwindled. Sephora gift card tucked away for future. Contented boys played with both trucks, kicked rubber ball and I watched, surely knowing best gift was presence. A breath, peaceful pause, appeasing interlude, this is what is needed, now. I glanced at another gift I had opened, one that held no interest for little boys; a new hummingbird feeder. My heart flipped happy cartwheels as faith rinsed off doubt. Like a hummingbird's tiny wings whirring in suspended motion, just before nose-diving in for sustenance, so too it is for me. The tranquil pause in midst of all the swirling activity, it feeds the soul this pause, nourishes the beautiful. The world grinds, it pulses with now and this intermission, it bathes and soothes, reminds that waiting is OK. The One who cares for the birds in the air, this One, He meets us right there, in the rest, and it feels like those lilies of the field, worries receding, gentled and scurrying noise and hurried pace it slows and surrenders to present. Breeze brushing cheek, toddler's innocent cry, hands crinkling up orange tissue, granddaughter who sung sweet over cell, and all I ever really wanted for my birthday was just this. A birthday filled with His presence.

The most important prayer in the world is just two words long: "Thank you."

Meister Eckhart

 

 

Every Good Thing

I asked her how she was doing, this gym friend of mine. She removed earbuds inserted in each ear, hesitated, then told me how she was doing, really. Unflinchingly I nodded, I knew, I understood, I knew that road.  A tricky part of this life is re-learning what you thought you had already nailed. To cross that bridge once again, all wobbly and worn from trodding rough terrain, and foot lodges between slats, sticky discouragement sets in. I wrote down two titles on yellow Post-it retrieved from staff member, who in turn agreed on one title, saying he reads it daily. I handed her the small piece of paper, a prescription for aches and pains, told her one of my own copies is worn thin from all the studying. From all the learning. From all the trying to get it right. That just this morning inspirational words, they leaped from an ear-marked page, astounding me with their fresh insight, even though I had read this entry already, perhaps a dozen times and this is why I offered my friend the titles. Every good thing begs to be shared, delighted in, a bountiful gift is passed on, into the hands of someone else. Another fellow traveler. Oswald Chambers explained in My Utmost For His Highest, "God will bring us back in countless ways to the same point over and over again. And He never tires of bringing us back to the one point until we learn the lesson, because His purpose is to produce a finished product."

Later at home, I clipped blossom for glass vase inside, and this very good thing caused tears of gratitude to well in my eyes. And those feet that still slip and often stumble, I humbly plant firmly in His grace.

 

 

Climbing that ladder, rung by rung, holding fast to this radical grace, to the One who stands at the top, gentle hands patiently waiting. The lessons, they get easier after time, exhorting the virtue of patience, especially with yourself, and  repeated messages, they don't appear so scary, more like text messages with holy wisdom. An accepting breath escaped that day, flowing free, unhindered, paving way for next faltering step, for re-learning that walk all over again. 

And every good thing is birthed in grace.

 I opened the devotional once again, an ear-marked page, a chance to begin anew.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Take My Breath Away

She sat hunched in her chair, shoulders rounded, my co-worker who was feeling the stress and the weight of it all. Just breathe, I said. A tiny chuckle rose from her weary spirit. I know, it gets stuck in your chest and you're just sucking air. Breathe anyway. Another miniature laugh. It's hard to do, when inhaling becomes more chest heaving and abdomen weighs heavy, like yoga never existed. Scanning my digital picture frame on desk, I practiced what I had preached. Shoulders dropped an inch and elfin smile played on my lips.

 

Daughter called today and her breath lodged too. Hard life trembling her hands, they shook she said and her text wept into my palm.

 

 

The waves, they calm, they crash, the salty air is His and he weeps too. Sunsets and play, castles and seagulls, strolling lovers and dogs, inhale down to quaking toes.

 

 

"A man without prayer, is like a tree without roots." Pope Pius X11.

And we pray without ceasing, breathe those ragged breaths, post notes as reminders to do the things that only self can do when life gets undone. Breathe. Pray. Breathe.

 

"Relying on God has to begin all over again every day as if nothing had yet been done." C.S. Lewis.

Every breath is a second chance, a chance to do right, say right and just be OK.

 

"Every time we encourage someone we give them a transfusion of courage." Charles Swindoll.

Some days, taking that next breath is a grand feat and muscling up enough courage to Just Be OK is grit hard. Maybe virgin breaths catch up to each other, after time of practicing being OK, and helping others be OK too. A castle built inside the soul, a plethora of breaths counted as gifts, each one caught by the ecstatic, life-giving Beautiful. All the things in life that simply take the breath away.

 

 

 

 

Just Do It

The tears, they sprang, then leaked narrow rivulets down my warm cheeks, a language all their own, they spoke sweetly, tenderly. Watching memories unfold, precious layers of forty years springing to life before us on white screen, forty years since husband and I spoke sacred sacrament, "I Do!" We were babies, how did we ever get here? Odds were against us! All those mistakes and arguments! The gift, all week I wondered at the super-power it possessed, the sound alone, intoning unabashed humility. A coat of armour it is, this gift that shrouds disagreements, wraps up mistakes with blanket of grace and says, I-forgive-you-even-though-it-might-take-a-while-for-me-to-feel-it-completely. For the boulders in stomach to morph into tiny pebbles. When son made toast and we clinked glasses my mind spun like cotton candy. With bare souls and sleeves rolled up, we heart-muscled through rough terrain, trod foreign territory, almost gave up, got back up, shook off dust, took one more timid step. Stumbling again, took another step and yet another. Forgiveness is our shield against the past, our strength in present. Nelson Mandela once said, "Forgiveness frees the soul." It lays to rest the unrest. Surely White-Out for regret. When we proclaimed forty years ago, "I Do," eyesight was poor and now His light shines on those weaknesses, caressing the past and performing first-aid to all wrongs and saying yes to life, and thank you for trying and helping and just being there. Just Being. A new light waves bright, shimmering across brown spots on hands and creases around eyes.

And with heart limber and free, the light shines brighter and clearer and on days when getting up is hard, just doing it, the picking it all up and starting over is magnificently OK.

 

And at times when I can't remember what the date is, or why I walked into the room, I recall what truly matters.

 

 

A pristine melody, gleeful voice rings true, muscling past all conjecture and pretense, innocently pronouncing, "I Do It!"

 

 

and the scrapes and bruises are gifts too I count, they mark like growth notches on door, beautiful with grit, we learn just how to Do It all over again.

I didn't start to count until Ann Voskamp taught me how. But once I tasted the sweet, liberating taste of forgiveness, and journeyed under crazy umbrella of amazing grace for forty years,

the easy part is to just do it, to praise and say thank you. The two we raised grasp tight His hand, and I think I hear the noise, the joyful, the harmonious voice, it rings translucent, unfeigned, and whispers,

I watched you on the dance floor those forty-three years ago, swaddled you both tight, yes babies you were, I am a promise keeper, and I've never, not once, ever let you both go.

 

When Rainbows Hug

A rainbow, it made its glorious arc against western sky, unexpected morning surprise, a beautiful wake up call. A bow of glorious hues, this spectrum of light, multicolored vision that caused breath to hitch and foot to ease up on gas pedal. Early morning fatigue eclipsed by burst of color gracing scenery. Heartbeat pulsed to new rhythm. Doldrum routine outwitted by God's magnificent nature. A breath, a respite, an invitation to pause in the moment. Life is hard, gritty, messy and undone, in need of captivating surprises. When unannounced gifts interrupt the hurriedness, the clutter of it all, I want to say yes all over again. Yes to grace and emphatic no to worry. Whispering a forever and a day praise, I felt it once again, this awe and gratitude, spilling over into beginning of work day. Thank you! This has to be the answer, to embrace every rainbow, each moment of splendid miracle, each gift as if it might be last. In the words of John Calvin, "There is not one blade of grass, there is no color in this world that is not intended to make us rejoice." A rainbow, a dog's flying fur, a child's first wobbly steps, favorite song that causes voice to pitch loud with wild abandon. I like to think that somewhere over that rainbow, our beautiful God watched with eager anticipation, with glee and gladness as the early morning spectacle of moisture, light and color adorned His landscape. And we rushing humans who stilled in the moment, mouths smiling awesome, with childlike innocence proclaiming our praise. A cacophony of grateful living people. Somewhere over that rainbow He must know, must surely understand, sometimes, all it takes is one unexpected, one stunning display of beautiful. To lift a head up in song, to brush the shoulder of the wounded, to dry a mother's tired eyes. And on that day, driving in my car, I felt that hug once again, and it was warm and it was free.

How To Sink Pride

A physical therapist recently suggested I try aqua jogging as a form of exercise. "It's better than swimming in your condition," he advised. The corner of my mouth twitched. He Googled a website, showed me gear I could purchase. Fear snaked up my spine. But I am a runner! In my heart, truly! The sheet of paper he handed me read, "The Power of Water," and "How it Works," for the "AquaJogger official website," all captioned in aqua-colored blue font. I left his office that day knowing he had a good idea, that my running days were long gone, this back of mine still fired-hot, but I wasn't ready to surrender. The idea of clamping on a flotation belt, getting my hair wet, or worse, donning a bathing cap caused sweat to pool on upper lip. Memories propelled me back to the sixties. To swim lessons at the YMCA,  and the dreaded deep end. Where I refused to dive in like the cute instructor who had a crush on my older sister encouraged, instead I crept to the back of the line, again and again and again. I liked the water. I abhorred the deep end. Now in my fifties, there is a wiser piece of me that knows exactly when to raise those palms in total acquiescence. Like when husband trims favorite bush and says he made pretty, I count missing buds for this year's bounty, but quickly fix a smile on surprised face and squeeze out a thank you. Taking baby steps, I surveyed the website he suggested, watched a You-Tube video and understood immediately that I was about to dip my toes in holy water. I am not in charge and this is my best bet for now, and isn't surrendering my pride a good idea? Samuel Rutherford wrote: "Humility is a strange flower; it grows best in winter weather and under storms of affliction." With clear water lapping around shoulders, I pumped arms and legs, running in the deeper part, and one more chunk of pride slipped from heart, landing on bottom of pool, I could see it all crumbling. And with each pump of arms, humming an old hymn, pieces of pride disintegrated, becoming invisible under weight of chlorinated water. Lifting knees toward chest, I practiced the crazy art of sinking my own pride. They will soar on wings like eagles: they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint. And they will sing in gym pools wearing lime-green float belts, humming favorite songs, leaning ever so slightly forward, each virgin breath capturing yet another phenomenal gift.

Those Hands

"Broken," brown-haired boy uttered. "Broken, broke." How did all of those break? Scattered on the cement, various pastel-colored chalk, split in two, and I watched as grandson cracked another in half, dropping it to the ground. And he pointed to the chalk, as if the pieces could mend themselves, supernaturally caulked and made right again.

 

Why don't you play with them, draw a picture, make pretty?

 

When things are cracked, broken and messy, maybe it's the simple things that shape the heart.

Bend down amidst the undone, the cluttered imperfection, trusting that at some point, someone else will help pick up the pieces and make right.

Inch out one more ounce of trust, one more faltering step,one more choice and wait...

And those hands, those hands you fear have dropped you down rough, leaving you disordered, undone. Those hands that shaped the world, they hold you still, gently, tenderly, making pretty out of suffering, coloring scars with delicate shades of Grace.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Camera, Fireflies, And Faith

It happened in a flash, digital camera all zipped up in gray case, slipped from his hands, falling into darkness, out of reach. Gone. Down the sewer drain. Stunned expressions painted our faces. Hands that had tried to rescue, eight altogether, remained empty, camera housing vacation pictures lost under ground. Where will it end up? Son unsuccessfully attempted to lift grate. Our gazes focused on offending curb and the gaping open space ready to devour anything spilled. I lifted eyes to baby blue sky, offered up a thanks. Husband had already downloaded his pictures. Thank you! "I'll call and have someone come out and get it, Dad." Son's words encouraged, but this was Sunday. Continuing on with plans for the day, lamenting over sudden loss, husband checking calendar for next Senior Discount Day at Fred Meyer's, a replacement on horizon. The next day, we arrived at son's home, thoughts of missing possession already tucked away in space that says, it's-OK-I'm-over-it-now-it-was-just-a-camera-anyway. Husband took a seat and noticed familiar gray case laying on side table. "You got it back? They came out and found it?" His tone incredulous, genuine surprise lacing his words. Son explained two men arrived and retrieved his camera, just in time they said, imminent rain loomed in weather forecast. Just in time! Those thoughts of new camera poured down the drain. Since arriving back home, popping Aleve, nursing pain and practicing this thanks in all circumstances, I wondered at son's assurance, his faith in salvaging camera from down in dark. Like a firefly dancing on summer's dusky eve, a quote by Corrie Ten Boom skitted across my mind, "Faith sees the invisible, believes the unbelievable, and receives the impossible." The words, they groan thanks, the trembling hands, they reach out in the darkness. The light, it emits a pulsing hope.









   And the eyes that see impossible, the childlike eyes of faith, they rest upon the beautiful. Where cameras are rescued from sewer, and pain is eclipsed by infinite glory. 

CPR For The Weak

She said she was tired and I told her the same. Our conversation last week at dinner, it sprinkled across the table, the lamenting and loving, dusting our laps with the graces and the struggles. My friend and I we go way back, to a time when our bones were strong enough to sit on stadium bleachers without back support. The past, it leaves skid marks on the heart, and this friend, she knows the tire tracks and how they came to be. And I tell her how exhausted I am and she says the same and I know that is the answer that every friend sometimes needs to hear. I understand. I feel the same. You're going to be OK. Ralph Waldo Emerson said it well, "A friend is a person with whom I may be sincere. Before him I may think aloud." My friend, she listened and truly heard, and I waited on her life stories too, and we shared this present day journey as only good friends can; with truth swaddling our words. The afflictions, they evaporated in midst of veracious confessions, and a pent-up sigh expelled into forgiving atmosphere. My husband recently lost a good friend to cancer and I draw this friendship closer, hold it like a thousand-dollar bouquet of yellow roses. To possess genuine friends along the journey is a treasure, a gift to count and appreciate. I have a number, and when life is low and heart beats faint, the person He delivers to resuscitate, always, always, arrives exactly on time.

 

 

 

 

There's No Place Like Home

"Have I answered your questions?" He inquired, seemingly searching my face for clues. "Does it make sense to you, what I believe to be the cause of your tooth pain?" I nodded a yes and left the dentist chair that day with more questions than answers. Giving up recent habit of chewing gum would be easy. Avoiding a root canal, mind strumming acapella all the way to work. Am I clenching that tight, gripping life unaware of the transaction taking place, the unconscious gritting through days and nights? News that blared hard through the week, back that pained red-hot. I stood in line at Walgreen's, where another Kardashian commandeered the magazine rack. I am undone! And like a  paratrooper landing on a deserted island, I shot up an SOS prayer. A distress signal for the lost. Please unfurl these fists, this jaw that clings tight when my heart whispers let go. Please help the wounded and hurting this week, please find the guilty and let there be peace. I moved lower jaw in circular motion, an effort to break loose indiscernible tension. A quote brushed my mind and I let it settle, like a rippling creek it bathed the stony part of me that wants to give up. Hubert Van Zeller once wrote: "The soul hardly ever realizes it, but whether he is a believer or not, his loneliness is really a homesickness for God." Maybe that is what causes teeth to grind, in the night when all is dark and stars are mapping a highway of iridescent light. A homesickness that pings distress when life is hard and peace appears farfetched. For now, I declined my dentist's offer for a tooth guard. Is there another way? A foolproof method to loosen the grip? And then I am eight-years-old perched in front of black-and-white television watching Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz . She clicks those famous red heels together, uttering words that is cure to all ills and fears, a soothing balm for all pain and uncertainty, and surely she did not know the visceral truth uttered in those forever lines: "There's no place like home. There's no place like home." A compass for the lost and a constant guard against grinding teeth. A dusting of peace sprinkled across restless soul. There's no place like home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Promise Keeper

The wait was over. Finally, after long, bleary winter, those tulips daughter planted last fall, the earth gave birth and I danced happy. I flipped on camera switch, anxious to capture images, reminders of what comes after the dark, the bleak winter and hopeless feelings that stretch the soul into mammoth yawn. Click, click, click. Feet tapped the damp blades of grass. Our neighbor caught sight and yelled over, "Don't forget my pink one over there," she said, motioning toward her own hot pink tulip standing tall in planter. No, that is your gift. These are mine. Click, click, click.

 

A bird tweeted spring lullaby in nearby tree, a gentle breeze caused blooms to move in unison, mother nature's ballet. Thank you. A song I recently heard played across my mind, massaging the worn part of me, the part that yearns to have everything figured out, comfortable, easy, painless. Adjusting camera angle, inhaling warm, grateful breath, I snapped again, proof of renewal, eternal promise tunneling its way past the fear. Same patch of earth I plopped in my own mother's tulip bulbs eons ago. Orange-tipped blossoms winked at gray sky, oh, how clever God is, the small graces, ones I can so easily miss, the power they have to jump-start weary, tired, spirit. The song, it continued to weave timeless message across ache, and I added a link at the bottom, for all who are worn thin, please don't ever give up. Eyes focused clearly on gifts, they see through the haze, a willingness to thank for small, it must be the key. For all is grace, and I clipped on another camera lens, hungry for a single hint from God. He waxes poetic across the earth, and I scanned spring sky, noticing a swatch of baby blue elbowing through bank of endless clouds. A promise, it appears on time, disguised as green stems and yellow orange blossoms, it kisses gray horizon and the soul, it hums quiet. 

Why Memories Matter

It might happen upon you like a gentle breeze, a brush across contented face, a knowing sigh and exhale of understanding and peace. It could arrive like an intruder, catching you unaware, a breath lodged at base of throat, a frozen silence wedged between the question mark and the answer. A loved one's dying words, a message quaking the soul. Or an image flits across the mind, one that you've already memorized for future reference, only you don't know the why. It's in the soft folds of transparent petals, the smell of freshly mowed lawn, a song that stills movement, a millennium of chances and histories and dances. A patchwork quilt sewn together with pieces of fabric from clothes once worn in high school and you never understood the reason for the individual squares, until one day you see the story unfolding across the bed. A quote by Margaret Therkelsen, I think she understood the why I want to clutch the tender recollections: "Our God loves to come; He wants to come forth in us, to rise up in us in all His beauty." It is the rising that causes that catch of breath, a third glance at exquisitely written lines in a delicious book, an ear picking up a bird's sweet trilling song. He rose and continues to rise with each precious memory that blankets our thoughts. A mind quilted with tendrils of grace knows the past and present weave together, and the need to understand in the moment is unimportant. What matters is the deep trusting, the naked, blind trust that good has already won and the light will eclipse our most sorrowful memories, most painful snapshots hanging on display in bruised heart. The daring to believe that He thought of me on that day so long ago, a brilliant light that holds the dark captive, it enables me to take that next step forward, feet that scissor across the pattern He already laid out. Each memory washed clean, each moment bathed in grace, each opportunity a chance to let go and let those hands do the work only He was meant to do.

 

 

Who You Are

Today is her birthday, this granddaughter of mine, her two-year-old self growing big. Her socks are pirated from auntie's suitcase, colorful argyle snug up above knee caps. A smile and pink shirt that says yes-it's-all-about-me-today. Purse dangling from hand, a thought for the future girl she will be when legs stretch taller and eyes open wider to whole crazy world. What words could I say to small one that plants funny looks on her face, laughs silly and hunts for dark chocolate in closed cupboard? Garnering up all wisdom gleaned, squeezing eyes shut in super-concentration, the word balloon above my head shines like rescuers flashlight aimed straight at the missing. If you ever get lost, you will be found. Glancing once again, I take in her wide grin and sparkling eyes. If you can, try not to ever leave home. But in case you do, remember, the beam of His light will find you always, leading you safely back. When her face masks comical and inexperienced words tumble forth all novel and pure, innocent child please stay in that place. Don't ever leave that funny self behind or sell the laughter for sake of pleasing, don't loose sight of what you love, and chocolate is sweet and tastes like heaven. I build that story inside, a storage war of words that glimmer with truth, that childlike faith is what keeps feet planted on home ground.

And here is the secret I have learned, practiced and penned, the giving thanks, for nothing and everything, for pain and sorrow, lost toys, Doc McStuffin and birthday parties. Giving thanks in all will settle your fears, calm your elfin heart, and keep you on path if you have only one shoe. Thank you God, for this precious one and maybe sometime I will tell her myself what I heard the day of her birthday, what the word balloon had to say and the love that ticks in my heart for toddler girl.

#103 Skyping with granddaughter on her second birthday

Count the graces, start over and count again. As legs grow longer, feet rooted deep in truth, ready yourself for every chance to give those gifts away. And don't ever forget, this is who you truly are; You are loved.





 

Ancient Ruins

A number of years ago, my husband and I journeyed through red rock country around Sedona, eager to explore ancient ruins. Under canopy of azure blue sky, warm air draping our bodies, we hiked up rock cliff, red dust caking bottom of shoes, we strove toward the site, upward to Native American cliff dwelling. Pausing occasionally to catch breath and to pray for deliverance from panicky fear of heights, I pinned gaze toward goal, a castle of sorts nestled in small hollow in the side of a thin ridge. A deep desire to witness first hand the housing for those who lived so long ago, in such a primitive way, propelled me forward, fear grounded below. I wondered at the pictographs, drawings etched with primitive hands, fingers never to tap a computer keyboard or turn a key in the ignition. Did they fall on slippery rocks dampened with rain? Were they frightened when fevers struck and Tylenol had no name? Today I marveled at the sun singing high above, wide open arms welcoming turn of season, and how a baby cries same as yesterday and we might not be any different than those cliff dwellers. Edwin Hubbel Chapin wrote: "Not in the achievement, but in the endurance of the human soul does it show its divine grandeur and its alliance with the infinite God." The calling upward, past failures and mistakes ground to fine dust, regrets burned to smoldering ashes, fixing eye on the goal, taking next step, prayers for grace and strength to keep the moving on. I had sat on edge of flat rock, gaze sweeping verdant greenery and red rock vista, crystal blue horizon causing breath to catch in way that says I-made-it-here-for-just-a-time-as-this. A pictograph, an ancient text message amid the ruins, pinging out words in drawings, yes-I-was-here-too.

 

 I have asked one thousand ways for God to take my pain away, and I am not Paul and have to keep re-learning that ancient secret of contentment. With each brave step into unknown territory, trusting Him to shelter me, I catch firefly glimpses of that cache. It's there beneath old cobwebs of fear and He is drawing it out, painting a picture so divine I wonder if that is a place I can finally call home. Where the past is left amidst the ancient ruins, and all that remains is the divine grandeur of the beautiful.

    

A Liquid Promise

I stood at Nordstrom make up counter and politely requested a free sample of wrinkle repair cream, the promotional item a friend urged me to collect. Having just purchased tube of favorite lipstick, I seized an opportunity to address aging skin. Lately, reflection in mirror appears more like my own grandma than twenty-year-old newly-wed who craved sunshine on youthful flesh. All lathered in baby oil, unsurfaced meditations on the virtue of skin protection chilling in back of mind as I listened to the Beatles and perused Seventeen magazine. Reigning thoughts back to present, a quick nod to sales lady, securing future appointment two weeks out, another free sample of magic serum on the horizon. A promise of visibly reduced wrinkles and lines, improved radiance and texture, oh a litany for this mature complexion, cart-wheels for heart. Today I noticed the back of the appointment card, words causing body to still, thoughts tracking back to forever past. To the teenage girl who sun bathed underneath beaming happy face in sky, to the wife who spoke harsh words and faltered with truth. To yesterday, unkind ruminations that swept through mind like dust storm in hot desert. The gritty past, coated like sandpaper with failures, regrets and mistakes, I stared at the folded card, and a gust of grateful breath expelled into merciful atmosphere. "A second chance to forgive the past," it read and I knew then that wrinkles are prizes hard won. Trophies of graces collected along the journey like opaque shells on sparkling sand. The more times I forgive, the more shells I cradle in upturned palm, and I practice daily, this forgiveness that plugs the soul holes and unlocks dark cells of fear and regret. C.S. Lewis penned: "Every one says forgiveness is a lovely idea, until they have something to forgive." Studying reflection in mirror, layers of forgiveness already shed from skin, I thought about calling the marketing team for this serum. Maybe they truly don't understand the plethora of chances we're given, that forgiveness is daily discipline, a beautiful eternal gift and it begins with me. Slathering on the liquid promise, I stared back at reflection, humming a tune from pardoning past: "With a love like that you know you should be glad. With a love like that you know you should be glad."

True Grit

Two years ago, preparing for my new role in life, becoming a grandmother, the wondering started, doubting if I had the true grit for this next leg in the adventure. In a short span of time, six weeks to be exact, our family expanded by three. Three new souls to nurture, to pamper, romp and wrestle with. It didn't take long for me to let go of preconceived notion of what a grandmother should be. Abandoning perception of perfection, I pinned my sight on how much love could be draped around tiny shoulders. This I practice, this unfailing act of vintage love, a valentine for my own heart. In his book, Tuesdays With Morrie, Mitch Albom quoted Morrie: "As long as we can love each other, and remember the feeling of love we had, we can die without ever really going away. All the love you created is still there. All the memories are still there. You live on--in the hearts of everyone you have touched and nurtured while you were here." Years ago, I underlined that paragraph, along with many gems in this beloved book. Closing eyes, I hear my grandma's high-pitched voice instructing me how to roll a perfect pie crust. Grandpa, teaching us city kids the art of milking a cow. Squirt, squirt, pinging metal bucket in barn. In their own way, in their being, a brush stroke of immeasurable time and experience, they left behind cherished memories. Ancestral imprints, wisps of time designated as reservoirs, a supply of unending wealth. Like a love bank it is, interest accruing over time, withdrawals made with each photograph, each recipe and sound of cow's low "mooo" in grass green pasture. Maybe the elementary act of being there is the formula, the instruction, in believing that crazy yes, I absolutely do have the true grit after all.

 

And if apprehension muddles the mind, threatens security deposit made generations ago, I steer gaze to riches and wealth...

 

 

 

 where being there forever is singularly, the motivation I need to passionately believe.

How To Maintain In The Mundane

An old photograph and burgeoning tulips, two of the gifts I received this week. A picture it came, delivered by mail, a snapshot from the past, a comforting gift in the present. Housed in paper envelope, not digital and all the better, my fingertips stroked cherished memory, fanning into flame a burning desire to behold this loved one who passed many years ago. The photograph, her laughing smile and big wide glasses, hands wrapped around daughter of mine, these photos are few and she's been gone so long her voice a weak timbre in my ears.  I looked at the scene again from 1988. My mother, she's pressing my daughter close, this daughter who planted tulips around our Dogwood tree and our son stands smiling sweetly, cousins dressed smartly for the special occasion. Oh, how the past weaves itself into present, scrap booking memories together. A divine implant. And when life presses in hard, the next step seems ominous, maybe the best thing to do, is to "wait" for the unexpected. Take a step, wait, take another step. When trials in life threaten to unravel inner peace, old habits hang around like a bad boyfriend, and the Kardashian's appear in nightly dreams, the unexpected surprises in life glove the heart, warming it back up again. Supernatural CPR. My daughter asked me the other night if the tulips had shown their green tips yet. If they had surfaced through the wintry dirt and stretched their virgin stems. She ventured out into dark evening to investigate. Returning, she announced with great pleasure, an emphatic "Yes!" This was my second gift. The bulbs my daughter planted around base of Dogwood tree last year, a tender reminder of my own mother's bulbs I planted in same spot of earth those long years ago. They are springing to life, same as revived pumping of heart, past and present colliding together, wrapped as unforeseen gifts. F.B. Meyer said: "If God maintains sun and planets in bright and ordered beauty, He can keep us." I like that. In the "waiting" room, where nothing seems to happen, I scan the day with eyes searching for the presents, for ordinary to morph into extraordinary. Oswald Chambers says it well: "We will see God reaching out to us in every wind that blows, every sunrise and sunset, every cloud in the sky, every flower that blooms, and every leaf that fades, if we will only begin to use our starved imagination to visualize it." An old photograph, a maiden bed of tulips, light, light, light up my eyes to see ever more luminously, Him that maintains it all.

Make Room For Daddy

The news we carried it heavied our hearts and minds, a boulder of unthinkable possibility. His condition we heard, he needed prayers, this was serious and I knew the knee had to bend low, pleadingly, humbly, low. When family is sick, very sick, I get edgy inside, faith turns slippery, oil slick of worry. I found myself fretting, those vexing thoughts they tumbled into words and spilled all over earnest attempts at swallowing whole. Stowed away inside like a packet of thwarted love letters, unfaithful, traitorous. My husband kindly reminded me to "stay positive" and I turned deaf ear at his sage advice. Unannounced tears welled while working out at gym, driving in car, preparing dinner. Doubts nagged, and I wondered why oh why wasn't I a male named Thomas?Long hard months we have prayed, please God, a miracle of healing, victory over this wretched sickness. Stealing furtive glances at cell phone, inwardly dreading all text messages, all emails and phone calls, I continued hot pursuit of One who knows all,  the beginning and end. Feverish prayer, pleading and thanking, petitioning and thanking. And then I saw God's love note, written by Oswald Chambers: "Always be in a state of expectancy, and see that you leave room for God to come in as He likes." In husband's secret language code: Make room for Daddy. On Friday, the day the doctor's predicted would be the decisive day for prognosis, I drove down a street under canopy of pale blue wintry sky. Familiar sound reverberated from inside my purse, message pulsing, announcing, I pulled over to side of road. Hesitantly, I retrieved the phone, flipped open cover. Rush of hot tears spilled, heart beat slowed to steady rhythm, and I laid my forehead on steering wheel. The engine idling, cars whizzing by, and I stayed there, postured in thanks. Is this it then? The trusting thing that opens the door that I nailed shut with doubt? Light now seeped through crack of fear, an eternal glow of  faithfulness. He is breathing now so we catch our collective breath and wait for God's next move. Releasing pent-up doubt, murmuring now familiar mantra, words that spring life into bones, steroids for the heart, thank you, I whispered. And a refrain that often leads me down shadowy paths that curve and twist and warn with a bright yellow Yield sign, it hums me through the recent days now, waiting, expectantly, hopefully:

Never once did we ever walk alone
Never once did you leave us on our own
You are faithful, God you are faithful

The lyrics subdue my doubt, and I take that next step forward, wielding prayers with renewed hope, waiting, expectantly, sliding over to make more room for Daddy.