The Beating Heart Of Christmas

I watch a hummingbird nestled on the frozen feeder outside, razor-thin beak taking swift dips, unsuccessfully seeking a fill in the cold, how it remains perched for elongated minutes, then it quickly flies away. Joy to the world. I love birds. Without saying a word, they speak volumes, stilling the soul, quietly soothing the spirit. I hear "Mary Did You Know" playing softly on Pandora. As the hummingbird returns, my thoughts drift like the snowflakes outside, swirling back to last weekend, and I rest in the memory, letting it tell the story. I watch the bird and these knees, they bow all over again, a few inches lower.

It began with a tiny Christmas decoration, its tail all busted after falling from the shelf. Knowing my penchant for birds, my husband, he made certain this decoration, this inexpensive replica of that which gives me such joy, that it would be right side up for this season. With the aid of a  plastic bottle of Elmer's glue, he set the trinket upside down, giving it time to heal right proper. 

While the healing was in process, this sticking the tail back on, he set about stringing up miniature white lights. Our five-year-old grandson proffered up a one dollar reward straight from his own wallet, all for a light show on our front porch. Stealing glances out the kitchen window, my wayward thoughts iced the chilly pane. Why are you in the back yard? He asked for lights on the front porch! Why are you stringing those all around the deck, the fence...the water feature? 

After voicing a toned-down version of my inner angst, he nodded his head, kept on stringing. Dusk settled around his frame, soft rain began to fall dampening his jacket, the yard illuminated, swathed in tiny lights. He said we would be able to see the lights from inside the house and the doubts, they circled  in my mind, simmered low, an inner boil. What about the front porch?

Later in the evening, after the limbs loosened and all strife disappeared, my thoughts pooled back to a recent email from a friend. She reminded me of a scene in my novel, My Red Shoes. How the husband decorates the house for Christmas even though it's Spring. Trying to cheer his wife, he blows up a plastic Santa, the colored lights hang all cheerful, everything Christmas to offer up a taste of joy.

The bird feeder now vacant, the snow stilled for the moment, I plug in the cord on the deck, stroll to the front porch, there too I turn on the lights. I tell my husband all the lights are beautiful. A warm smile bathes my heart, and I lean into the Promise all over again. Love and sacrifice, it might not look like what you expect, it might be framed in a cheap Christmas decoration, a blazing back yard in December. Or it might lay in a manger, with that one gleaming star guiding the way, all the grace-filled way, right into the glorious beating heart of Christmas. 

The Rescuer Always Wins

How do you find that restful peace when the world tilts upside down? How do you choose joy with the pointer finger poised and ready to "unfriend"? How do you push back the fear while tunneling back down to those life-pumping roots of faith?  After a pre-dawn text from my friend, the morning after the "big event", this message coming before the first sip of coffee, before the first creases of light slipped through the wood blinds, I knew I was undone. Groaning audibly, rolling over in bed, lungs reaching out for a bit of air, I feared the worst. Once I clicked the little round button, read her message, I yanked the covers over my head. Closed the eyes and fought back rising panic. Much like the rest of the world, a looming question mark hung above, dangling the unknown.

 But after a few days, the emotional tsunami subsided into a more resigned surrender of sorts, breaths coming out a bit less jagged, slightly less fierce. How can I step through this future without the faith? How can I take care of those around me, be present without judgment of their choice, their views? How can I find peace in the midst of this uncertainty, this unrest? After much elongated prayer and quiet time, after reading posts on Facebook, reading and watching the news, after talking with family and a few friends, I knew I needed rescue.

Today I glance out the kitchen window, see the divided sky, sun wrestling for position between the dark-bellied clouds, there's always a wrestling match between dark and light. I want to cast my vote for His light, his crowning yes on all that is good and true. So I am collecting the ransom money. To bring back my spirit, the inner peace, the faith in Him who works all things for good, and if I don't start collecting now, the emotional roller coaster wins, the fear wins, and all the "unfriending" will not feed the starving heart that feeds off Grace. The sun gained position, the sky brightens, glows even, and I think I might have a fighting chance.

The barista I saw yesterday, pain etched in her eyes, she said she was OK but her puffy eyes had something different to say. Pausing, forgetting about my coffee order I searched her face, leaned deeper into her sad, her not-OK state of being, she confessed her cancer stricken mom gave her the news the night before. My mind captured a picture of my daughter, I asked for her mom's name, I could pray. The creases around her eyes softened. Prayer wipes tears, kindness pushes back fear, a moment steeped in pause lifts the sad. That's ransom money! And my mind was free from "the big event" for a few moments!

The clouds have covered the sun, the afternoon sky now dimmed. And I think back to the barista, how her clouded face brightened a bit with the moment in pause, the sharing of pain always does that, especially when the light has grown dim, when the path ahead is dark and the unknown looming, the heart bruised a dark purple.

 It might take a little while to collect all that ransom money, but I cast my vote for His light. And if I reach down deeper in the pockets, hunt for the kindness and good, keep eyes focused on Grace, avoid the news for a bit, the newspaper too, maybe even Facebook, I can see a thinning of clouds on the horizon. A hint of peaceful, soul-filling light breaking through all the angst.

 The Rescuer always wins the wrestling match anyway.

Captured Bounty

He showed up today. Greeted us this morning with His signature grace. Right before election and we all needed this gentle reminder, this impromptu touch from above. This break from the stress and worry, minds whirling with all the what-ifs. My husband and I, we caught sight of that beautiful display this morning before wiring up to the news, the polls, the what-ifs and calculations. My daughter, she captured it on her phone, sent the message of grace to family. Our son, he caught his own taste miles away in Virginia where the trees are shouting glory. He texted his message of beautiful and I breathed it in, that life-pumping taste of His presence, His beautiful face shining on us, and lighting up Facebook too. We needed this today. This year we are worn at the cuffs, tired and weary of it all. Thank you for lifting our eyes, even for a moment.

I carried it around today, carried the phone, swiping every so often, touching the screen looking at  the images much like a three-by-five memory card, this reminder of how you showed up for us. Tucked those majestic scenes in that place inside that needs hope, that drinks in grace and mercy. Brought it out when the fear threatened to erase those visual images, before stepping out for ice cream with grand kids in the pouring rain, and before switching on the evening news. How I easily forget you are in control and we can let out the pent-up breaths and ease up a bit with the worry beads. 

And before going to bed, I gaze once more, this captured bounty I breathe it in, the limbs swollen with unabashed joy, telling Him in between each grateful breath. Thank you for whispering I love you in the morning sky.

~Grace can strike when you are in great pain and light you with the greatest hope~

Ann Voskamp

That Shining Light In The Dark

The sun streams through the window pane, this the first day of November. It leaves its beauty mark on the smudges  behind the stove top, the dusty glass and counter tops. The neighbor's Japanese maple is half-dressed now, the ground below dusted with a symphony of color. The tree does its best fashion show right when glints of autumn light splay across the crown of passionate shades of yellow and orange. Two gifts that never cease to give me pause.

The light that shows our dirt, the real gritty stuff, shining all over it, a laser beam into the deep hiding places and we cover our eyes, blinded we are by all that beautiful. And when you catch a breath you begin to hold out the shaky palm, the clean up begins. The dark places begin to take shape into something more recognizable and they have a bit more sparkle, more hope, more joy. And as sunglasses go back in the glove box for a season and the breaths come a bit steadier, the questions begin. What if all this light wasn't meant for me alone? Am I to share it while holding the breath? What is the real true purpose behind all that deep cleaning anyway? To help, to bend low, to share?

 I copied this message a few years back, a missive to myself to keep the eyes forward, to cling to hope and the struggle is richly good and pain is your favorite teacher. I see this reminder every day and I forget it every day. But He doesn't. When the season shifts, I reach for the sunglasses, settle them just so, blink at the blazing light, wait for the vision to clear. Maybe giving it away is walking on water. Is that Him wooing us through all that fear, hand patiently outstretched like an invitation to a surprise party? One with our name on the front.

Ann Lamott, one of my favorites wrote, "I have to believe if I do this, it will cause change-there will be more to give, and give means there is more light between the links. You never know exactly where the knot is going to release, but usually if you keep working with it, it will."

And then I notice that streak of light coming from the flash on the camera, how it caught my message above, how it runs right through the inky black writing I scribbled back when the pain began its rifling through and turning things upside down. Is that what happens? In the darkness those flashes of light are the developing process? Making us into beautiful? I think of Henri Nouwen who penned, "People who have come to know the joy of God do not deny the darkness, but they choose not live in it. They claim that the light that shines in the darkness can be trusted more than the darkness itself and that a little bit of light can dispel a lot of darkness. They point each other to flashes of light here and there, and remind each other that they reveal the hidden real presence of God." I take another look at that reminder, the beautiful make-over.

And later on this first day of November, this sun dipped day, I step out of the car with a grocery bag filled with items from the Dollar Tree, small things to bag up for the homeless, I can't help but notice the way the light glints on the Japanese maple. The limbs will soon bare all, but for this moment I rejoice in all that bright beauty. I take my sunglasses out of the car, set them on just so. And I breathe.

If Books Could Speak

We talk on the phone now, my granddaughter and me. This five-year-old girl who lives a zillion miles away in Virginia, this girl who I miss terribly, and her brothers too. I want to tell her everything to avoid in life, what friends to hang out with and that her heart will break and shatter more than once, the shards finding their way to Oregon piercing my own, and I won't be able to fix it. I won't tell you this, let's chat happy. She is not a telephone chatter by nature, much preferring talking in person, like asking for special dark chocolate hidden in my suitcase. Or chatting it up with friends outside. But cleverness pirated this Grandma's mind and I figured out a way to say I love you in person, me and her on Sunday eves. Thank you for Face Time and regulated bed-times for kindergartners. I capture her in bed now, telling her I love you, a bazillion miles away,

Reading books, our new love language. Words leaping across the vast separation, pictures dancing across the pages, caulking the missing spots, the longing, we share our mutual delight in stories. Focusing the cell phone screen, careful to point the phone just right, I read her words and my heartbeat thumps wild. It's like I'm that nine-year-old girl again dancing around the living room to the theme song from that TV show, Bonanza, the thrill of the music and Little Joe coming up soon. This all on Sunday night. My heart pirouettes with the memory and with granddaughter all blanketed in bed, nestling inside those precious virtual moments I say again I love you, with each flip of the page.

I pray you will love God long after I'm gone and you will remember our times on Sundays when you watched the stories unfold on the tiny screen, and you rubbed at your tired eyes, the lids they fall heavy and I love you a thousand different ways. The sleepy stars tucking you in, and I fold a corner just so, loving you a gazillion miles away and the stories they swirl around us, as we ready to say goodbye. 

Remember me, those pictures and words they speak, we coupled you two together when you lived so far apart. We tucked joy inside your aching, brought you snapshots of grace to carry inside your longing. We did this for you both, who live a trillion miles away.

The One Who Bridges The Gap

The winds is blowing, leaves are beginning to fall, and I hear the beckoning call of change permeating the air. Just like the seasons in Oregon that signal rebirth and renewal, I imagine the possibilities that wait for us all, us humans hunting for the good, for kindness, sharing and caring.  Is it possible to be the person you think I can be? How do I get there without sacrificing all my stuff? Maybe I can give you one small thing, something borrowed perhaps? I tune out all that scares me on television, social media, the radio, clearing out the gutters of noise and try super-hard to focus, to meditate on all that truly matters.

And I want to fast forward to a future moment when the all-together-person shows up inside of me, the someone who never complains, who bakes all day just to give it all away, and who gives until it hurts right bad. Everything, all of it, to anyone in need.

The wind is picking up, rain drips from the moist leaves, the clock ticks away the minutes. I think about the world and all it needs right now, and I get stir crazy. I wonder about that inner person who left a number of years ago to follow that outcast who told things straight up and still does today. I can't do this alone! You have to help me because I will seriously give up!

A farmer plowing his field never looks back, he continues working the ground, keeping his eyes on what's up ahead, never looking backward.

The rain lets up a bit, seizing the moment, I step outside into the damp October day, walk across the street to retrieve our neighbor's mail, him having a stroke recently. Each step rings the message right clear. A tender touch of grace brushes my back as I walk up toward his front porch. I take a long inhale of promise.

 He is the one who bridges the gap between who we want to be and who we are right now. And every act of kindness, every step toward caring and sharing sends those angels up above into a glorious alleluia. I knock gently on our neighbor's door, readying for some conversation, and my mind draws to those bridges and all the people who cross safely every day, never seeing the invisible on the other side who is orchestrating all that busy, crazy traffic. 

He answers my knock with a smile.

Love Always Wins

It was a trying day. A day that stalks your patience, your peace, strength and stamina. It was the morning  after the Presidential debate. My emotions ran high like a tsunami wave, and pacing and fretting only worsened my heightened condition. I fired up right fast SOS prayers for help, for deliverance from this anxious state. Help me please! I am undone! I cannot believe this is happening in the USA! The clock ticked fear, text messages on the cell pinged doubt and the news on the television shoveled worry into my disheveled being. I practiced taking those long inhales of faith, of courage, and the thoughts continued their relentless assault.

Later that night, after much hand-wringing and fretting, I lay on the floor to stretch out the pain. And to pray. Did you hear me today? I know you did, but I'm not feeling the relief.  How do we step through all this with peace? My pleas met with silence and I closed my tired eyes.

In spite of all appearances to the contrary, God has a plan for this bankrupt world...This earth of ours, He still wants as a theatre for His grace and glorious direction.

~Helmut Thielicke~ 

My eyes shuttered open. And what hugged the ceiling above my quaking body caused those shivers to spill all over the carpet, a puddle of released doubt seeping through cracks of trepidation. My husband's birthday balloon now void of its white curly ribbon, this symbol of happiness and joy, it gifted me clarity in that moment. I forgot to choose you! I forgot to grab for joy! I forgot to trust you!

And the following day I noticed the balloon had drifted a little further across the ceiling. A trailing tweet from above. Forming a mental note to make love choices this day, vowing to curb the inner qualms with truth, I stepped into the unknown, aiming for the right target this time.

#Love Trumps fear # Love Trumps hate #Love always wins

Why We All Need A Time Out

I step outside on this first day of fall, my very favorite season, the debut of all that splendid color and the shifting change. I see the first glimpses of all that could be in the landscape, the air sparks transition and it stirs quick inside, this renewing, everlasting promise.

Easing into retirement, the days now void of alarm clocks and lunch bags, the hours stretch out into vibrant splashes of fresh choices, slow mornings, and shorter lines at the grocery store. I look outside at the first hint of varicolored hues, those dazzling oranges and reds dressing the leaves, and I breathe it all in. This unhurried pace that kisses the soul. Thank you for this time out. Thank you for the slow. Thank you for this peaceful inhale.

I want to guard this discovery, suspend this fraction of time and sweep my gaze from the droning  television, social media, the ticking kitchen clock and all that buzzing noise competing for this inherent peace. The upcoming days will fill I know, and the maple leaves in the backyard will soon carpet the cooling ground. But in this moment, I rest from the all that scares me, all that terrifies my quaking spirit, pluck the slivers of fear from this beating heart. The television is silenced, that man's voice rendered mute. And I turn my attention to  two birds nipping at the seed in the feeder, and I begin tunneling through to the light, hunting for that awesome, heart pumping joy. Cracking open my husband's birthday present, I flip the pages, searching for the tiny species taking their fill on this day, this first day of fall. More joy. More peace. More time out.

And I nestle into the Promise once again, exhaling renewed hope, this truth that trumps all my fear. I see Him in the orange-red breast of the bird I can't yet name, the dancing leaves that will soon shoot glory beams into unsuspecting souls, the unknown hours, moments, waiting patiently up ahead. I hear it all over again and I stamp an imaginary sticky-note on the still scared places, reminding myself of this unshakable wild and crazy truth.

He's telling His changeless story all over the earth. Weaving the thrilling chapters together, one page, one change, one season, one moment at a time. 

If God maintains sun and planets in bright and ordered beauty, He can keep us.
~F. B. Meyer~

The Gift Of Five-Year-Old Speak

We drove in the car that day, me humming to a tune on the radio, the refrain slipping from my lips much like a lyrical mantra. He asked it matter-of-factly, this brown-haired grandson of mine, his tone a curious question mark. "Grandma, what does that mean?" My off-key singing halted abruptly. Carefully, ever so cautiously, I adopted my wisest, grandmotherly voice. "It means that God is in control of everything," a thoughtful swallow, "and we should always try to do our best and trust Him, always." Unusual Kindergarten silence invaded the atmosphere. A quick peek in the rear-view mirror told the story. Looking like Batman searching for his missing cape, eyebrows scrunched right tight and his quizzical expression quickened my plea. Please help me get this right! I don't know if I truly understand anyway so please, please give me five-year-old speak! Now please, thanks! "It means that you try to be nice to the other kids at school. Be thankful. And it means that you listen to your mom and dad and always try to behave." An elfin pause. "You mean that I always have to be nice?" A smile crept across my face. "Yes, you should always try your best to be nice, even if you don't feel like it. I think God would like that." Blond-haired boy finally chimed in, "We need to be nice." And as the song faded into childlike memory, fresh curiosity formed in this five-year-old brain. "Can we have Burgerville for lunch?"

Thy will be done

Thy will be done

Thy will be done

I know you see me, I know you hear me, Lord

Your plans are for me

Goodness you have in store

Today, that same song, it threads through my psyche like an old vinyl record, the needle stuck in the groove. And I cash my last payroll check, me heading into retirement, I hum it all over again. Heading back to my car a man approached, tattered sleeves and a canvas bag of sorts he carried, and he asked for a dollar to get something to eat. Glancing back at the bank, I hear it again, pulled out some cash, asked him where he slept and handed him the money, all the while studying his pained, done-with-life expression. Thy will be done.

And as I start to do my back stretches, unwillingly feel the familiar ache and want to wail, it comes like a missive from above, Thy will be done, and I'm on the edge of discovering the many variations of five-year-old-speak. Oh, the plethora of chances to raise the white flag, surrendering to the invisible One who understands it all, to just get this one thing right. Recalling our car ride that day, I muscle up a bit of youthful chatter, aiming to let Him know I'm on His side, at least for this one precious moment.

OK, I'll play nice now.

My Friend In The Clouds

I look out at the maple tree, how the leaves shimmer and shake with the September breeze. The pregnant gray clouds readying to spill their bellies. I take a long inhale of that first hint of fall permeating the air and my mind trails over the past few months as if I am a pioneer trekking along a vast unknown. How do we keep going when we don't know the way? Which turn is right and what if I get lost? The ground is hard, my bones grow weary and which step will lead me further along the road?

"What a revelation it is to know that sorrow, bereavement, and suffering are actually the clouds that come along with God! God cannot come near us without clouds-He does not come in clear-shining brightness."...

And I glance at the warming sun sneaking a peek between the clouds. Shading my eyes from the bright, I wonder at this grit in my eyes, at this journey that has clouded my vision and I know that without the hard you can't recognize the beautiful. I breathe again and swipe at the grit.

"Through every cloud He brings our way, He wants us to unlearn something. His purpose in using the cloud is to simplify our beliefs until our relationship with Him is exactly like that of a child."

~Oswald Chambers~

The sky darkens once again, the soft rain, it brushes my shoulders and I begin to see a pattern. Lifting my gaze toward the heavens, I ask my question and wait. And it is there that I begin to pray, standing in the middle of the pause. Like a child He says, so I continue to talk to my friend, not knowing the answers to the questions, but believing the invisible has it all under control. Friends take care of friends.

Planting my feet right firm in Grace, chatting under this blanket of clouds, I open once again this book of learning. And I turn the tattered page.

Just Breathe

The birds outside are singing, trilling the high notes, those creatures without a care in the world. They can't watch the news on the television, read the newspaper, stand in long lines at airport security, they chirp and fly above it all. Can I be a bird for five minutes? To drown out the chaotic noise with my own singing, deaf to the all the crazy madness running rampant in the world. Blind to the Presidential election and the man who sends chills down my spine and those guns that shoot all that maiming pain and belong off the streets, not here, not now, not ever.

The birds are singing and my minds trips over itself, working the puzzle, desperate for a concrete plan to fly for just five elongated minutes and then I hear the song over the radio. God sends down His presence in mysterious ways and I closed my thoughts, listened, super listened, a door gently opened and I peered inside. He's telling me what I already knew, what I've already practiced at stop lights, in a crowded grocery store, when I see the man on television.

Breathe, just breathe
Come and rest at My feet
And be, just be
Chaos calls but all you really need
Is to just breathe

And I practice it all over again, this breathing, as if I am a tiny sparrow nestled all warm in its mother's nest, opening its itty bitty eyes for the very first time. I take that elongated breath, scan the back yard. And exhaling joyous hope, I see it right clear. A perfect spot to hang a brand new bird feeder. 

A Missing That Never Leaves

I hear her voice when the rain whispers soft on the window pane. It comes unexpectedly, like most treasures in life, this gift of memory that swathes the mind with tenderness, love and all that was before. Maybe it's all that brave I wore while planting our flower pots with my husband this year. The array of variant plants arranged in fresh new pots scattered around our yard. I wanted change and I don't even know the names of these annuals, but she would. Or perhaps her recently discovered garden book with her handwritten notes penned in slanted cursive and I felt her then too when I handed the spiral bound pages to my brother, him with her green thumb and all. You left too soon and I have so much to tell you. I still cry sometimes when nobody sees. The missing, it never goes away.

I wonder if my first breath was as soul-stirring to my mother as her last breath was to me.

~Lisa Goich~

Maybe it's when I look at my own daughter, how her face mirrors my mom's at times, it steals my breath and they never really knew each other so the missing digs a tunnel right down to the deepest part of me. It must be universal, like a dark purple bruise cloaking the heart, it never heals proper. Only fades into a brownish welt, throbs a bit less.

This grief, it swallows all that was before, leaving the ones left behind wondering about the next steps, the looming moments ahead with that inky dark void. I miss my mom and that will never go away. But my clever God caulks those empty spaces with infinite creativity. A daughter whose smile sends ripples of joy through the sad. Decades-old spiral bound notebook harboring beloved handwriting. Siblings who shoveled through the tunnels, each at their own sweaty, stumbling pace. A neighbor who winged me tight and loved all the messy part of me. Regardless.

And when the rain whispers softly on a cloudy June day I take a glance back at before, the pain and the healing, the mountains of sorrow and the wobbly journey toward now. Inhaling remnants of  grief, I say to God the only words that make sense when life goes awry, thank you for holding my hand.

Silent Grace

It leaned forward, inclining toward patches of sunlight and I studied it awhile. I wanted to clip the gorgeous, orange-tinted blossoms, bring them inside but I let them be. I lingered, inhaling an elongated breath of this fragrance lost in winter time. I breathed deep again, knowing that taking all those breaths are good for health and well-being, and stress falls off the shoulder, landing on a carpet of verdant green grass. Linger more, pause and plant these feet right here, right in the midst of the moment or it might evaporate like the rich scent of our roses.

A man prayed and at first he thought prayer lies in talking. But he became more and more quiet until in the end he realized prayer is listening.

~Soren Kierkegaard~

Maybe the moment will hold me together, wrap me in peace and understanding if the mind stills just long enough to hear the invisible, allow the milliseconds to tick off stress, ushering in abundant joy. A dog barked, water cascades from our fountain, a lawn mower revved up and I remained. The television inside silenced, worry beads tucked away in the solitude, my prayer list surfaced to mind and this is where I heard him speak.

Returning inside I waited for the pull of all that anxiety and scurrying to hem me in once again. And I wondered if I heard him right true, and I started to decipher the missive as if I'm spelunking in ancient ruins, transcribing hieroglyphics. But it wasn't until the next day when my husband and I scanned the home decor aisle at Fred Meyer's that clarity blanketed this anxious mind.

We bought it and hung it same day. A naked spot on our fence that now holds the message he gifted me that day in the lingering.  Taking a deep rich inhale of grace, I whispered thank you. I will start again.

Choose joy, rest in me, I've got it all under control.

How To Drown Your Fears

Did you ever have a wish so big it woke you in the inky dark night, the eyelids shutter wide open, breathless you are with awestruck wonder at the unspoken possibilities? Did you ever wonder if the ground you stand on, shaky legs and all, is harder and stronger than your toughest fear? Did you pause, ever so slightly, at a wisp of spring air caressing your scared self? And all humble now, tilting the chin upward, searching, still seeking. This knowing inside, it was more than a gentle breeze touching your scars, your hurts, this invisible hand massaging the pumping heart.

You unravel me, with a melody, till all my fears are gone...

Did you ever step into it once, just once? That unknown place where your footsteps now bear your name, your right size and shape, and the light is so bright the eyes need shielding from all that you couldn't see before. The light, your wish now magnified into glory. And you step again.

From my mother's womb you have chosen me...

And when my daughter and I gave each other identical scripture messages on Mother's day I wondered at his creativity, at his zillion different languages he speaks to us all trembling, toiling, spinning down here.

Is that it then? The secret to this waking up in the night all sweaty at the dream you had that right now seems whale-sized and sleep and rest sound better than walking into that uncomfortable fearless zone. The knees quake and my heart beats wild, anxious thoughts swirl over circumstances I can't control and I am still bolted to one of those hardwood tiny desks in a classroom, the ones that hide all that trembling going on. Re-learning over and over again how to live this life without all that fear. Choking on all that chalk dust. 

You split the sea so I could walk right through it...

Maybe laughter is the prescription needed to wipe the sweat from the brow, Xanax in non-pill form. I want to see more beautiful, to engulf myself in the dreams and burrow into victorious present, to step into that which waits patiently. And winging it above it all, laughing at the hard, the unknown, knowing that through it all down here, my daughter and I, we are always, always, wearing the right clothes for every single occasion.

My fears are drowned in perfect love...

Painting Beauty From The Ashes

I drive down the street under a blanket of gray clouds, flip on the wipers. A song, it threads through the car like a hymn from above, it does. The words, they reach my ears, tunnel right down to that place deep inside that hurts big. The prayer list has grown massive, the suffering around increases and I want it to stop, I want to wave a magic fairy wand over all the pain, make it vanish like vapor from a humid rainstorm. Can't you see it? Can you stop it please? Can we barter over all of this? I hear the lyrics and the tears, they pool, these holding cells of pain and weariness, and I turn the volume way to the right, sing loud and off key. And once the tears start doing the spilling I keep on singing, blinking back doubt and fear.

"Tell your heart to beat again, close your eyes and breathe it in, let the shadows fall away, step into the light of grace."

I don't know why he gives a four-year-old her wings right early, or a twenty-one-year-old is already on hospice, or why cancer strikes some fierce and people die without a hand to hold on to. I know He has it all under control but the pain it sticks like tar and I have to do the searching before the feet get stuck.

"Tell your heart to beat again..."

I bring out the flashlight, dust it off, begin the search all over again, this hunt for grace, this CPR for the heart.I clasp on a necklace given to me last summer, a reminder from my daughter that love trumps it all. Always. Regardless.

And I tell my sister a story, one that got lost this past week with all the swirling prayers and the light, it gleams a bit brighter. My husband and his brother made a trip to the beach, the place where my in-laws lived before frailty and old age drove them back to Portland. They loved the coast, the salty clean air, his tool shed, the casino. Invited into the home and the back yard by the new owners, a sweet surprise awaited them. These two stranger's, they had discovered from a neighbor how my mother-in-law loved her garden, her raspberries, vegetables and flowers. The new owner's named a patch of their garden after her, calling it Inge's garden. You didn't, right? Right there in their yard? Oh how she must be grinning wide! 

And my father-in-law, he now rests partially at the beach he loved, the two brothers sprinkling his ashes over Inge's garden, and the joy that washed over my husband's face as he shared his story reigns me gently back into glory. Only He can paint beauty from the ashes, and I fix the gaze up above once again, sit down quiet with the prayer list, color the mind with a kaleidoscope of hope, telling my heart it's Ok, it's Ok, it's Ok.

You can beat again

A Portrait Of Love

What if we gave it away every single day? Would the air taste cleaner? Would the thankful voice sing louder, no matter who listened? Would this crazy world stop its mad spinning and just plain take those peaceful, restful breaths? What if you gave it away every day and watched as the world tipped right side up?

Watching a video gone viral the other day, that achy good feeling shot straight through to that place inside that yearns for hope, hurtful hate buried beneath all that love and peace. A four-month-old boy seeing his mom for the first time, plastic glasses wrapped carefully around tender ears, perched on his small nose, the tiny lips slowly curving right up to heaven's gate. I grinned happy, watching it over and over again. And once more just because.

I want to believe I have enough to give away, to risk extending until it hurts in places once darkened by fear. And what if a smile worn gracefully pumps life into the clerk at the grocery store? Brightens the inky dark moment behind the mask worn by a next door neighbor, a co-worker. It's a start for sharing, it's infectious and smoothes out a wrinkly bad day.

Hard life muscles its way into the room, into the present moments audaciously daring you to abandon all that beautiful light. All that magnificent joy bearing down on the places that have the blazing possibility of standing tall under the weight of a bold yes to love, a risky yes to sharing and giving, a shout out to peace on earth.

Maybe it seems a tiny offering, a minuscule gift to share with the world. Maybe you want to give more today than yesterday and the mind frets over how many tomorrows are left on this journey. Perhaps in the deep middle of hard, when the steps are sluggish, uncertainties surround like a swarm of angry yellow-jackets, a smile is a courageous start. Especially, most importantly, when it fearlessly begins with your own.

The smile I saw that day on the video, the innocent joy sweeping over that four-month-old's face, it birthed a wondrous awe, tipped me right-side up, and I shared it too. That viral smile, a portrait of love, a hope once again miraculously renewed.

Our God loves to come; He wants to come forth in us, to rise up in all his beauty.

~Margaret Therkelsen~

How To Build A Sandcastle

She leaned over her flower bed, hands busy doing that digging and earthing thing she does. I pulled into the driveway, parked the car. Sat for a few beats. Who will greet me today? Will she smile and giggle like a child? Or converse like the old days, the days Before. She called out a hello as I closed the car door. I inhaled deep and stepped closer into the converging lanes of our lives, where our past and present are causing detours missing on my GPS. I walked over to her and she stood up, this ninety-year-old neighbor of ours. A few words we exchanged and that big sadness I felt lately lifted for a few stolen moments. Like when a small child blows a wish into a gentle breeze, a promise is born again.

She used to watch my son all those years ago, giving a young mom a break so I could go running. He rode his wooden horse pretending to be one of the characters on The Three Amigos. On a good day she remembers. On an off day, the mind sifts like sand and her car is missing from a parking lot, thieves are entering the house, neighbors lurk bad all around. I kneel and pray for the good days to outweigh the off days, for grace to shelter her frame, her wandering mind. Maybe when the mind starts the sifting, and all those stored-up memories co-mingle like a jig-saw puzzle gone wrong, maybe we each get that extra brushstroke of grace, that unique part to play in the unedited piece of the story. The raw uncut version. 

I looked at my friend intently today. Missing that piece of her that is already gone. She went back to her beloved garden, bent over once again, reaching down into her patch of the earth, her unfinished story writing itself into the land she loves, as if nothing has changed. And in the middle of her sifting, I do the recollecting, crafting a giant sandcastle in the shape of a resurrected heart.

She motions to an over-sized six-foot bush hugging her freshly-mowed lawn, tells me there is a sparrow living in there, a family of birds nesting she says. An innocent smile plays across her face. Surveying the shrub I look for evidence, perk the ears for the sweet sound. Silence hangs in the spring air. I smile a yes. Holding tight to beautiful, I see an invisible bird, hear a mother sparrow trilling it over her young, and this infinite grace is winging it once again , sprinkling joy and peace all over my dear friend and me.

The Good Guy Won

He opened a bright yellow plastic egg. The kind found in Easter baskets on the shelf in the holiday aisle, later hidden under a budding bush waiting for small hands to discover. This blond-haired grandson, he separated the egg and curiously, I peered inside, looking to find what captured this little boys attention and drove him to bring the carton of plastic eggs to our house for dinner night. A dialogue between two five-year-old boys ensued, and those voices, they wrapped around me like a silken shawl. I watched and listened, freeze-framing moments, imprinting a memory on my grandmotherly mind. My gaze fell upon a miniature crown of thorns held between grandson's fingers, I inhaled slow. Expecting speckled jelly beans, pastel foil-wrapped Hershey kisses, a few chocolate eggs or maybe a few coins. My ears pricked right sudden when our little grandson held this tiny thorn crown between his elfin fingers. "That made his head bleed." I swallowed. Another egg split open, a diminutive wooden cross he surveyed. "He died on a cross like this one, Grandma." He placed it back inside, snapped the egg closed. Another rattled. "These are nails. They hurt bad." I winced quick. "Jesus loves everyone," brown-haired boy said between bites of a cookie. The air around us softened, a wisp of grace settled in around our impromptu egg party.

The story continued and all the pent up anxiety and stress commanding my heart lately pooled onto the wooden floor, a reflection of this radical forgiveness, this amazing grace. Cradling those moments like a beloved photograph, resisting the urge to tell the story for them, I waited for their version, the kind that mixes it up a bit but the main ingredient still holds it all together. His story unfolded, innocently revealed, one plastic egg at a time.

Later in the week I bought my own multi-colored plastic eggs at a Dollar Tree. Readying to hide them for an early Easter hunt my thoughts spooled back to the story-tellers, two children chatting it up about the grandest of love. I plopped a yellow jelly bean inside a sky-blue egg with painted white bunnies and yellow swirls. Fastened it closed. A quarter dropped in another. Two organic fruit snacks in a daisy-colored hot-pink egg. All the while I thought about this tale that spins wild, a man on a cross, a thirst so grand, and a bleed no Band-Aid could contain. An empty tomb, the bad guy defeated, and two five-year-old boys setting it right all over again for that small child still living inside of you and me.

#All for love 

When Wings Span Wide

I follow the graceful flight of a green speckled hummingbird out our front window. How it glides to the glass feeder rimmed in red, short wings whirring, long slender bill diving in to take a drink. I pause for a moment,  watchful waiting for the flight movement, this delicate bird how it wings its way to its next stop, its next resting place. I wonder at the bird, why it captivates and delights us so, this creature that darts in and out of our sight, so quickly appearing and just as swiftly it disappears from view. Maybe this is why I love this particular species, this beautiful bird that catches me by surprise, grabs me for the moment, and I see this same delight on faces of friends, family. What is it about the moments that take our breath away, that halt speech and draw the eyes toward the unplanned, the unannounced.

When the mind is drawn toward the unexpected a transaction takes place; I no longer own the moment, the moment owns me.

What sound does it make I wonder, this sudden intake of breath, a racing thought stilled by radiance, a body shifting at once toward the right direction. What noise do they hear above and do they sing alleluia at the sight of one stopping still, pinning the ear toward a quiet whisper of a cherry blossom tree, tucking cell phone away in a pocket. A delighted breath of gratitude expelled into the graceful atmosphere. 

When I catch sight of this bird in flight, this hummingbird that sends a transient thrill down the spine does my joy ping heavenward?  Can he hear the moment before dropped quick and does he smile big as the present imprisons with its sheer beauty? When a knee hits the ground in awestruck gratitude, a bird takes flight and we follow the bird, our wings span wide and we fly too, if only for an instant. And the time itself captures and detains us, our joy is his joy, the moment is complete.

Every moment comes to you pregnant with a divine purpose; time being so precious that God deals it out only second by second. Once it leaves your hands and your power to do with it as you please, it plunges into eternity to remain forever what you made of it.

~Archbishop Fulton J. Sheen~

Where To Drop Your Anchor

Life is chock-full of unanswered questions. Will the influx of people relocating to Portland fit our cramped space? Where can we house all the homeless? Why is Donald Trump running for President? How can we focus in the moment when our minds are racing to find answers to our most pressing questions, our needs and problems?

And oh those questions that pop from the mouths of babes, all innocent they are, meditations void of dark ominous clouds hovering over their inquisitive brains. He said they fly in fast jets, speeding their way to heaven, way up high in the sky. That's where his Opa is now he conjectured, his affirmative tone punctuating the air inside the car. My heart skipped a few beats. This blond-haired grandson peered out of the car window, he brandished his thoughts like a sure-fire contestant on Jeopardy! Kids Week. Brown-haired boy, he traced this thought pattern, "Where did Frazier go? Is he all alone?" Stopping for a red light, I inhaled way deep, looked into the rear view mirror, glanced at both boys in the back seat and adopted my wisest grandmotherly voice. "Honey, we don't ride in jets to heaven, but I bet we fly up super fast." Flipping the turn signal I heard brown-haired boy ask, "How did Frazier get to heaven? Was he by himself?" I want you to feel loved, safe, and I need to be present in this moment. Answer carefully but don't wait too long, he will forget and forge on. Speak plain simple language, now hurry! "I don't know if Frazier was by himself but I think he wasn't sick anymore, and I bet he is running and playing happy." A furrowed brow. An unanswered question lingering in the space between us. Thoughts spilling over into the deafening silence. I tried again. "But I do believe when we go to heaven Jesus will help us get there. I think his hand will hold on to us and we won't feel alone at all." Blond-haired boy agreed,"Yes Jesus will be there." And like a helium balloon let loose to roam a cloudless spring sky, our conversation thread ended. "What are we having for dinner?"

After arriving home I thought about our talk in the car. I thought about the deep desire to have all the right answers, to never let an inquisitive mind whither from neglect. To ignite diminutive hearts with hope, faith and love. We ate dinner together and I peppered them with my own questions. Laughter and musing traversed across the table, our voices shooting heavenward I believe. Maybe what matters most is to Just Be. To show up in the driveway and push the key in the ignition, turn it over and listens to how it idles. To be present in the moment anchored by hope, focusing with all our mighty self on the One who knows the answers and loves us right big through each and every precious millisecond of each and every gifted day.

Actually I Love You

It's a teary-eyed groom catching sight of his bride, the warm June sun kissing her joyous face. It's an over-sized umbrella offered on a stormy rainy day. It's an elderly couple clasping hands as they walk down the sidewalk, adoringly, every day. The face of love, it colors the world and it paints bright red on Valentine's Day. And oh how I love imperfectly, erratically and sometimes even comically. But He says that's OK and that makes me love Him more each gifted day. It's Valentine's and the sight of all that love in creation makes the heart do cartwheels, the feet tap happy and the mind focus tight on the glorious love pouring down on us each and every day. Each and every millisecond of  every breath we take, it captures and amazes, and this love, it never grows old, tired, or weary. It simply keeps on giving.

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. 

~Oswald Chambers~

This brown-haired grandson, he has a penchant for prefacing his responses, his answers to the smallest of questions with the adverb, actually. Actually, my car is purple. Actually, we ate lunch at Burgerville. The truth it is and he wields the word like a mini-sized lawyer in the courtroom fighting for the good guy.

And today, I stepped outside, the air crisp, sun all bright winking down on us this February morning. Birds priming for spring, verdant green daffodil stems dotting the landscape, and those treasured tulips saying hello, yes I returned once again to make you grin happy.

Actually, I think God really does love us, our imperfect, messy, wildly, madly in love with each other human selves. I take a breath of acceptance and rest, glance around the flower bed. Actually, I think He likes it a lot when we truly, gratefully, love him back.
Happy Valentine's Day

The One In Particular

Where do you go when the world tilts crazy? When politicians and one in particular dominate the media and you want to hide in a closet until the election is over. Where do you go when stress threatens to steal the peace and the peace is your sanctuary from the one in particular who hijacks the show? 

Recently, my husband and I spent an elongated weekend at the beach, the ocean serving up a beautiful respite from all those conflicting elements charging the air waves. Instead of wringing our hands, we inhaled happiness.

If God maintains sun and planets in bright ordered beauty, He can keep us.

~F.B. Meyer~

What can sting the heart, hurt the soul or rob the joy when the earth is filled with these wondrous reminders, the divine Artist, He speaks to us,  I am here, I am here, I am here. God's majestic showroom of His glory it surely is, and the knees quake thrilled standing in all that downward motion, His constant gaze breathing new life, new hope into the downtrodden.

Can it be that He takes you by the hand, ever so gently, ushering you into the breathtaking, the awesomeness of His creation, of His promises especially at times like these? Can it be that I don't have to hide from the one in particular, that I can trust that all will be well and bad hair will disappear like those perms from the eighties? Can it be that in the end, this will be nothing more than a night terror, a scare in the dark, and the sun will shine bright over the earth and the ocean will roar with blissful praise?

In spite of all appearance to the contrary, God has a plan for this bankrupt world...this earth of ours , He still wants as a theatre for His grace and glorious direction.
~Helmut Thielicke~

Packing our bags I scanned the television screen and the shoulders tensed hard. I turned my gaze quickly to the glorious view outside, to the frothy waves and those soaring seagulls without a care in the world. Inhaling a deep breath of His presence I didn't feel quite as frightened of the one in particular and my shoulders loosened a bit. Maybe I won't have to hide in the closet or disconnect from electronics. This new thought infused me with energy, and this mantra, my heavenly defense against all evil and dark powers, these two words that speak volumes against all negativity and fear, speaking to Him who works for good, who sees it all, knows it all, loves us through it all. Thank you, thank you, thank you.