How To See A Baby King

I strung the gold tie around a tree limb, stood back and surveyed her all over again, much like I have since she first lost her right arm. This fragile little angel ornament broke a number of years ago and it still remains a favorite of mine. It's not perfect, it truly is defective in need of repair, pretty much like the rest of us. And somehow this year, I found myself in the midst of the Christmas season with my gaze fixated in the wrong direction. Focused on the things I have asked God for, and on occasion begged God to change, to fix, to remove for good. Christmas on line gift shopping, hurried, rushed, forgetting to inhale that birth, gaze missing that bright star gleaming. The beloved carols ringing tinny in my ears. 

Until I spotted brown-haired grandson pocketing a shiny red decorative marble, telling himself it was his "thank you rock." Oh, aren't you clever, Jesus, pinning me down right here, on the spot you gently perform laser surgery on my failing vision, removing the cataracts with your heavenly truth. And you got a two-fer, you're chatting with both of us! Grandson and I, we reminded ourselves about the Mercer Mayer book we bought last year, the one the that weaves a story about kids, rocks and thankfulness. There it is, the unwrapping, the unveiling of this glorious slice of heaven.

And when blond-haired grandson noticed our domed Nativity placed atop a table, I told him about my old decoration, the one with the broken shepherd's head, how it looked out of place being busted and all. He said this one looked funny, not like his own at home, and I rubbed his soft hair, thinking I might hunt in the closet for my old Nativity scene, the one in need of repair.

Later in the evening, drawn by the glistening round pieces of cut glass, I wandered over and palmed one, letting the sounds of the season wash over all that angst. Taking a cue from grandson, I looked up, whispered an ardent thank you. Two words spilling out, transforming the broken pieces, the waiting parts, taking the hard and crafting it into something beautiful.

A baby peasant king who came to save the world. A bright star penning a love note in the inky dark sky. An outrageous love that cups the whole world in his radiant, graceful, tender hand. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Looking Through The Glass

A number of years ago, my work place hired a school bus that transported the entire medical office staff to the Body Worlds exhibit at OMSI. All those donated human bodies displayed for observers to marvel at, to discover different parts of ourselves that remain hidden to the human eye. All those tendons, bones, ligaments, organs and veins painstakingly preserved by Plastination. We are fragile humans, prone to sickness, worry, addictions, obsessions and right hard living. Now there is a current exhibit in Germany, devoted to the Anatomy of Happiness, aiming to show us the amazing effects happiness has on our bodies.

I sometimes think about that day at OMSI, much like jotting down a note on a slip of paper, tucking it in a desk drawer, finding it months later, joyfully, mainly because you don't want to forget what you hoped to remember in the first place. I think about the flesh that covers our bodies, how our choices either help or hurt our bodies. And the ribbons of red under all that skin, this life-pumping vital part of us? No matter what your lifestyle, habits, illnesses, or massive doses of daily happiness are, the living truth is the same for all of us. We all bleed the same color.

So when I flip on the radio in the car, on this wet and soggy November morning, desperately searching for a break from the pounding news, guns, unfathomable hate, Twitter and ridiculous division, I hear it for the first time. Immediately, like flowing water through a quiet forest, this rejuvenated spring of hope began to spread its colors, softening the anxiety, riddling the veins with a fragile memory.

Hope is the arrow that pierces the darkness.

The song plays on repeat at home, reminding me all over again of what I never saw that day at OMSI. Through the pristine glass, looking at the bodies on display, I stood in awe of how marvelously, intricately, the human body is created. Nowhere could I see the color of their skin.

This is my command: Love each other

John 15:17

A Rainbow In The Sky

Little children have a way of seeing life through a pristine lens, untarnished, unabashed words and actions expel from their elfin beings, often spilling opaque bubbles of joy along their innocent paths. Maybe that's why Jesus says to come to him like little children, to have faith like a child. Not an easy task when you are an adult and the world and life has left its painful scars, when the news events dim the hope you cling right hard to and maybe sometimes the sanctuary you really need in that tough moment is the presence of a tender, blameless child. It worked pure grace for me on that day.

We sat in the hallway, this little first-grade boy and me. I flipped up a flash card, eager to hear his response. It appeared he had been practicing since we met last week. We continued on in this fashion, me holding the flashcards up, and him giving all his best answers. I told him how great he was doing, and his beatific smile sparkled all the way down the hallway, leaving a trail of shiny bits of joy.

 "I'm glad you're alive," he said, his tender brown eyes gleaming bright and my mind raced to the recent church shooting, miles away from all this innocence nestled between us. I told him thank you and that I was glad he was alive also. He must have registered my distant expression, my bleeding heart for the mourners in Texas, for he continued on uttering veritable truth as only an angelic child can do.

"Because," he stated matter-of-factly, "you look old." Throngs of youthful feet shuffling on the cool linoleum. A nearby fountain spilling clean water. A cough from across the hallway. And like a magnificent  rainbow arcing across the sky on a gray rainy day, my previous sadness was washed away by this blessed, unexpected gift.

Yes, I watched movies at the Drive-in theater from the rear of our station wagon. I recall exactly where I was when President Kennedy was assassinated. I watched the Beatles debut on the Ed Sullivan Show. In black and white. I shopped at Newberry's and Lipman's and watched as black children were bused to our grade school. Vietnam and Watergate happened, Neil Armstrong walked on the moon and  I remember all of these too. And those awful eighties hairdos!

Once the remnants of laughter inside of me quelled, I took a grateful breath and held up the last card for the day. He answered correctly and I smiled wide, showing all my best, treasured, hard-won wrinkles.

This Is Us

It's coming. You can feel it in the bones, this annual gateway to fall. Step outside early in the morning before the world cries out, before the first sip of that steaming mug of coffee. The crisp morning air, it dares you to inhale deep, to stretch luxuriously into those glowing edges of summer.

The trees are about to show us how lovely it is to let go. Such a divine thought to ingest way down deep into the belly of all that that we are clutching furiously tight to the breast. Inhale the richness of grace, exhale the courageous beauty of change. Watch expectantly as the leaves begin to frolic, as the colors burst into a fashion show of blazing colors.

This is Us. When mercy and grace snuggle up close, working it behind the scenes. Knitting something exquisite, chipping off the frosty edges, dusting off the the dark and neglected soul holes, filling the heart to bursting with radiant light.

And with each daring, right bold act of letting go, we follow the trees into that triumphant victory of shedding the old, embracing divine transformation, telling ourselves over and over, this is seriously not scary at all. This is Us, as we patiently strain toward the light, sip our coffee, and wait in joyful anticipation for the leaves tell us their ethereal story.

The Path Of Hope

I bring my cloth outside, wipe off the glass side table, the tiny ash particulates collecting like obedient school children lining up for dismissal at the end of the day. There is always a straggler or two to catch up. I take another swipe and move on to the next table, the deck chairs, the patio table. Finally, I unwind the garden hose and spray off the deck, grime pools into puddles, I spray again. A song trails through my head as I rinse off a few shrubs, flecks of ash dusting the verdant green leaves.

The song drifts through my mind, and I breathe in the breathable air, follow the lyrics leading me down the path of hope.

Let the ruins come to life 

In the beauty of Your name

Rising up from the ashes

God forever You reign

I think of tireless firefighters right here in Oregon, this new hurricane threatening historic damage, earthquakes and the prayers, they wing up to heaven for loved ones in Florida and oh, Houston, their tears are still damp.

The winds might shift tomorrow, threatening the September crisp air, spread the fire all over again.  The ash may sift down from the east, Irma could wield all her power across Florida, leaving a catastrophic blow in her wake.

But in church today, my daughter and I hear it right clear. The pastor, he spoke the words aloud and we both scramble for a pen, ink it in paper, emblazon this message across our quaking hearts. She takes a quick peek at my own note. Just checking she got it down right. I hear her breathe it in, this everlasting Hope. I carefully tuck the sheet of paper inside my purse and I discover His heartbeat all over again. A steady rhythm of Grace, an unstoppable love that whispers your name in the middle of the blazing fire, the belly of the howling storm, gently takes your hand, steadies your wobbly legs. And leads you all the way down the center of that life-pumping path of Hope. Never, ever, leaving a straggler behind.

When you pass the waters,

I will be with you;

and when you pass through the rivers,

they will not sweep over you.

When you walk through the fire,

you will not be burned;

the flames will not set you ablaze.

Isaiah 43:2

Picture Of Peace

I found it on a bookshelf while vacationing a few weeks ago. I had recently taken a fall, skinned open a knee, back pain flared all over and the buzzing noise of complaints screaming for release threatened to steal the peace of this beautiful vacation with family.

And then Charlottesville. 

And then Sunday and Tuesday came and our hearts sank right down to our quaking toes in disbelief. This is not possible! We are falling backwards but maybe we never moved all the way forward? Stop this madness, please!

Each time I picked that book up on vacation, every moment I stowed away for a slice of rest, the little book opened to the same page. You see it and maybe you weep for us? You hear us and you stoop right down here in our problems and speak gentle truth. 

We avoided the news, lest violence and harsh talk met our grandsons' ears. Aspen trees whispered tranquilly outside, hushing out the chaos, sunlight filtered between the slender branches casting rays of hope, momentarily washing away the uncertainties, the pain and frustration. Little boys on bikes, new moves in the swimming pool, a baseball game on plush green grass, all splashes of joy, immeasurable grace. The feathery touches of the invisible.

Readying to pack up, I flipped the book open for the last time and that's when I first noticed it. This page that had lifted me up into the heavenly realms was earmarked, perfect proof that another soul needed this missive at some point and possibly others along the way on their own arduous journey.

There will be another crisis in this country, unwanted problems might continue, others will surface as well. But the One who lends you a small book, fixes your gaze just so, this tough guy, He can handle the cries and pleas we invoke along the way. Look up, listen, wait expectantly for the unseen. And fly high on wings of renewed hope, earmarking the gifts, sharing glimpses of heaven with others along the way. 

***

Picture Of Peace

~Catherine Marshall~

There once was  a king who offered a prize to the artist who would paint the best picture of peace. many artists tried. The king looked at all the pictures. But there were only two he really liked, and he had to choose between them.

One picture was of a calm lake. The lake was a perfect mirror for peaceful towering mountains all around it. Overhead was a blue sky with fluffy white clouds. All who saw this picture thought it was a perfect picture of peace.

The other picture had mountains, too. But these were rugged and bare. Above was an angry sky from which rain fell and in which lightening played. Down the side of the mountain tumbled a foaming waterfall. This did not look peaceful at all. 

But when the king looked closely, he saw behind the waterfall a tiny bush growing in a crack in a rock. In the bush a mother bird had built her nest. There in the midst of the rush of angry water, sat the mother bird on her nest--in perfect peace.

Which picture do you think won the prize? The king chose the second picture. Do you know why?

"Because," explained the king, "peace does not mean to be in a place where there is not noise, trouble or hard work. Peace means to be in the midst of all those things and still be calm in your heart. That is the real meaning of peace."

Out In The Garden

"Beauty surrounds us, but usually we need to be walking in a garden to know it." 

~Rumi~

I hadn't planned on anything grand, it was a fleeting effort at best, a virgin attempt at gardening. My mother was a gardener, my brother grows flowers that speak lovely. My sister-in-law received the gift, so did my sister. When I tossed a few bulbs into an over-sized pot, whispered help, please, thank you, and gave my husband the job of master fertilizer, I waited semi-patiently for the unknown. Mostly.

I practiced talking to the plant, studied every inch of new growth as if constant vigilance and  one-sided conversation provided five-star health insurance for this novice experiment. In recent years back issues have forced me to work in the yard waist-level up. Our God is quite creative in helping the weak, and ever so gentle in the grumbling moments, tenderly rerouting the focus back toward the light, to the present, to the unspeakable beautiful.

A quote I read years ago still sits with me like an old friend who knows all your secrets, and this friend doesn't squirm and look around for an escape route once your soul is lying on the hot concrete.

Trust the unknown, it's the only thing that truly cares about you, it said. On that day when I plopped those bulbs into fresh nurturing soil, with weak trust muscles and eyes looking down instead of up, God had already began the wondrous work out in the garden. He really likes to help, and He is super good at surprises.

I think I would have liked Rumi. For one day recently in a breathless summer moment, I felt the thunderous roar of heaven clap happy under my feet as I stepped out into the garden. One of the blooms opened to its full glory, and the slight morning breeze brushed lightly across my cheeks. My gaze, it swept across the yard for full measure, taking in the splashes of color sitting pretty here and there and everywhere. I breathed it in, this fresh dose of delicious joy. You are a gardener.

A Showcase Of Grace

I have not been able to write much recently. My beloved Anne Lamott has trouble lately also, she said so on Facebook this morning. I feel a smidge better. Maybe my downsizing project has hijacked the words, holding them hostage until I actually finish the undertaking. Or perhaps it's the unbelievable, chaotic political climate, or back pain that just won't behave, or unending prayers for the critically injured and seriously ill loved ones and friends. Or time spent devouring deliciously good books. 

Since I tend to hear from God while writing, I walked around our yard today, searching for the words, aching for something new to say, anything to inspire, chew on or shake a fist at. Having settled into retirement this summer, nestling into the comfort of lack of schedules, much like easing into super-soft cozy sheets on a chilly winter night, I wandered around the garden, unhurried, observing.

It was outside, stepping around our patch of earth that I heard it deep down in my bones, down to the very roots of my inner most being. It's in the ordinary that we find the extraordinary. Inhaling a fragrant breath of thanksgiving, I unwound the green garden hose, watered the raspberries.

During my downsizing, I've seen our life unfurl before my eyes, like watching an elongated documentary, one that you would view over again a thousand times, just because. And in catching re-runs of our life in photographs, children's sports awards, vacation memories, old books, and more, I see with fresh vision how God uses the ordinary moments to showcase His extraordinary grace.

Oswald Chambers wrote: " Keep the thought that the mind of God is behind all things strong and growing. Not even the smallest detail of life happens unless God's will is behind it." I survey the garden once again on this quiet, ordinary day. The words will come when ready, our political climate will simmer down eventually, the prayers will continue for the hurting and the back pain might need to be given a kind name, like Barack, or Michelle. Invigorated hope trailed me as I walked back into the house.

Soul Happy

Sometimes in life you just need to hit the pause. Hide the cellphone in a closet, unplug the television, starve the senses from all the unbelievable undone going on. Under all that wild and buzzing noise, the latest breaking news feed, the tweets and all that we've never experienced, there is a sweetness waiting to be uncovered. Like a budding crocus, making its quiet entrance after a long, hard and chilly winter, the beauty in these stolen moments, they replenish, refresh and restore what the wild world threatens to steal. Even for a few moments.

My pause came disguised in an old Nike shoe box. Continuing my downsizing project, I retrieved the box from the shelf,  lifted the lid and peered inside. This box housed a plethora of old assorted cards; birthday, anniversary, get well, sympathy, Mother's and Father's day cards. Even a few photographs.  Dating back to the 80's and 90's, notes from our children written and I can see their faces all earnest in their adolescent attempt at loving us though words. These remnants from the past, they washed over me, flooding the heart with precious memories, and I read each line, as if for the first time.

I wonder if God smiles tender, watching us taking a break from all that surrounds, all that hurries us, scares us, makes us mad even. For me that day it was in a shoe box, this flashback gift, freeing me from the burdens of the present, gentle reminders that breathless moments don't necessarily require climbing a mountain or skydiving. Later, I stepped outside, listened to the trilling sound of a bird perched on a telephone wire, one of those original tweeters. And I breathed soul happy.

"All men's miseries derive from not being able to sit in a quiet room alone."

~Blaise Pascal~

Let Heaven Come

I held it nestled between my fingers that day, looking down, my gaze transfixed by the shimmering white in the center of all that red. My ears must have closed tight to what the pastor said, my thoughts focused on the light in that cup, how it shifted with each movement, spreading its iridescent brightness toward the edges of the cup, then back to the center. With each motion of the hand it continued its dance, a spiritual light show. Until I swallowed all that life-pumping hope right down into the center of my scaredness.

I hear the news this past week in my home town, the unfathomable hate and how the sacrificial heroic acts of those three drowned out that slurring rhetoric with their bold courageous hearts. How love is pushing back at all that inky dark hate, shoving its way to the center of attention, and I think about the cup that day.

And the Pope, he gave a gift to our president, a papal encyclical, aiming to share some important news, surely not fake news, but now the deal is undone and parts of the world light up green. States will too I hear, a shared yes to our earth. And my mind, it circles right back to that cup in my hand, and the outrageous truth gleaming in the center that day, A liquid missive from above. Love has already won the battle! The dark will never win! Don't give up, good will still rule over the earth! 

The song we sang that day in church, it runs through my mind all week, much like a long distance runner, a steady rhythm of hope and purpose, of perseverance and prayer. A refrain really, and I hear it like a collective plea.

Let heaven come...

"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~

Shells And Signs Of Wonder

It's there in assorted shells gracing the damp glistening sand, these memories that granddaughter collects, stows in jars back home. It winks at you in the frothy waves lapping the shoreline, grandson running free. It caresses your chilly back, this azure blue sky, speaking beauty, promise, and for a moment you forget it was there, the pain, all that hard pressing in right now. Kisses from above these are, mercy hugs, grace baths, time with family, nature, giggles and play. Eclipsing the hard, the unknown, mad politics.

"If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your right hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast."

Some problems remain, unfixed, like mine did one day on vacation, threatening the peace, aiming to get its greedy hands on all that joy under the sun. And all the anxious text messages for prayer, help, answers, like twentieth-century worry beads, they generate more tightness until He gets you in His mercy grip. Until He reminds you gently, holy like, subtle and quiet, maybe even when you don't know what's coming up ahead. He gives you this sticky note to remember, He is alive, and that all is well. With Your soul.  He did that for me on that hard pain day. He showed up. He lit the way. 

"How precious are your thoughts, God! How vast is the sum of them! Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand-when I am awake I am still with you."

I like to think this is what He does best. And what causes heaven to do cartwheel happy dances. When the moments hold us hostage like mine did recently, He touches those scared, imprisoned places and points the anxious gaze to all that magnificent grace, past present and future. I like that, this invisible gentleness. And when the eyes focus directly on the face of grace, it does something supernatural, it caulks the heart with mercy and love, hope and more joy. Our granddaughter, she has her multi-shaped shells in her glass jars at home, tiny grains of sand visible, His thoughts laser-beamed her way. And  I re-position the work of art we purchased on vacation last month. On the day He nudged me close.

Oh my soul, you're not alone.

A Cherry Blossom Heaven

It holds court in our backyard, this tree that produces blossoms in the spring and causes my husband massive anxiety over clean up. I study the way the branches hang lower than previous springs. How I am able to snip off a stem for a crystal vase in the house, the light pink blooms drenched in rain weighing the branches down to just above the head. I think about record rainfall here in Oregon, and for this gift I am happy glad. And I think about those branches, how laden they are with the blossoms hanging down to my touch. We are like those tree branches at times. Weighed down with pain, trials, burdens we didn't ask for and will the rain stop pouring down hard on all the hurting?

Come to me all you who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest.

For thirty-five years I thought this was a plum tree planted in our yard. This gift of nature that has grown exponentially, shades the entire deck now. After returning from cherry blossom heaven in the DC area, I took a closer look at the blooms, at the trunk and the stems. And after searching the Internet my husband and I decided this must be one of those trees I had secretly coveted. How had I missed this? How did I not know I had this covert desire of mine right in front of me all these years?

Maybe it was all that ice and snow we had this winter, or perhaps it was the chronic rainy days blanketing the city that caused me to take notice of this tree that reigns beauty under patches of sunlight, adorns the color-starved landscape with splashes of pink. 

 And as the rain lets up, those branches inch higher toward the sun muscling its way through the gray clouds, slowly lifting toward the light reaching out from above. It always comes back to the light. When the darkness fades, the pain relief comes, the trial is over, the burden is lifted even for a flicker of a moment, we catch glimpses of His redeeming light slicing through the dark. Maybe without the drenchy hard rainy seasons, without the icy cold dark hours, we would never reach His full height of that radical grace. Never see for ourselves the deepest, secret desires of ours, that beautiful deposit of heaven that lies way deep within, waiting ever so patiently to be recognized, celebrated and crazily rejoiced in.

#Gracealwaysgrows

The King Of Bedazzle

I saw it on the news station, this breaking news piece on laptops in the airport, undetected bombs they say are possible. Will this madness ever end?  I flip open my suitcase, think about packing and glance at the long list of items scribbled on a sheet of paper. Leaving soon for a trip back east and desperately longing for a mind cleanse, a spiritual detox from all the latest breaking reports on all the hurt, the political chaos, the famine, the wars and all the what-ifs swirling around the airwaves, the Internet feeds, the newspapers. How can we stay sane in this environment of hate, suspicion and starving people who desperately need the aid that's having a hard time getting there? We need clean air! And laptops? Tucking a shirt into the suitcase, I inhale one of those breaths our yoga instructor says are cleansing, healthy and maybe spiritual too. Oh God, overwhelm us with majesty, bedazzle us, help us to keep walking and living upright. And this slow exhale leaves a trail of possibility, a scent of hope expelling into the room,

Later, in church, I feel His hand touching us all, a feathery brush, a gentle hello. A silent walking down the aisle, between the rows, reaching the girl up there with Downs Syndrome, the black woman across the aisle, the Hispanic couple two rows ahead, the older man with silvery hair, the whole lot of us. This guy who won the battle and never gives up on us and here today He made time to hang out with us. Heaven's aroma wafting right around our praising, pleading frames and I stand there in awestruck wonder. You hear, right? You see all the fighting, crying, greed and hate going on, right? You got it all figured out but we kind of want to know that it will all be OK.

 And I get home, open a book on the table and read a line penned by Ann Voskamp: "The answer to the problem of evil is everything that lets us keep loving God-even in the face of evil." We can pray, we can sing, we can help others, we can stay informed but not let the chaos form us.

So I inhale once again a deep yoga breath, a prayer breath really, releasing it ever so slowly, and it spills into the partially packed suitcase sitting on the bed. And I am pretty sure He hears us.

Oh God, you are the King of bedazzle.

A Relentless Love

I don't know how He does it. I really don't. How this great God of mine can commandeer my vehicle twice in one week. It's like Jesus called "shot-gun", jumped in the front seat, quietly switched the station from NPR to one of His own. And He just might have brought an army of angels, those covert, invisible helpers packed in right tight in the back seat. With God, anything is possible.

This time I kept on driving, making a mental note to check out iTunes later, maybe even youtube. My mind traveled along like it has lately, fixated on problems, health, very ill children, family, the current administration. And I started to hum, taking a few glances at the empty passenger seat. Isn't it plain healthier to live in a less fretful state? A more relaxed, trusting Jesus way? To grip His hand so tight He has no choice but to hold you upright.

For a brief moment, I dared to toss my aches and pains into the back seat, worries and fears too, adding in all the political angst for good measure. I parked the car, caught a glimpse of virgin blooms on a cherry blossom tree, its pale pink blossoms brightening the landscape, softening the hurt inside. Casting a sideways glance at the unseen friend by my side, I wondered if each act of letting go is actually more of an inching closer. And with every act of surrender, admitting I don't have all the working pieces of the puzzle, could that sidle me even closer yet?

When the song plays at home, in the quiet of my own hiding space from all the noise in the world, I press repeat, pull up a chair by my side. I talk to my invisible friend, edging nearer to this empty seat. I want to hear His heartbeat, to read His mind about the future, to thank Him for life-pumping music. I don't ask about the angels in the backseat, I let Him have that one. So, I study the lyrics to the song, winging up  prayers for that critical leap of faith, that long jump in the mind, the supernatural invasion of the heart that says OK, I get it now, I'm ready to do it your way. A sacrifice of the will.

The music fades like the remnants of a splendid rainbow, leaving bits of wonder to cloak the hungry spirit. And this is when He and I meet in stillness, in that liberating silence of the soul. Our breaths become one.

#Relentlesslovewins

A Song And A Sunrise

It's a new song playing on the radio, the lyrics, the melody, they still your soul and you have no choice but to pull the car over to the side of the road. And breathe. Just ragged breathe.The heart beats right quick as the words, they ring out, giving voice to your own fear and pain, and you know right down deep this song will be on repeat for days, maybe years,

Maybe when God says no, to my own requests for relief, for healing, and for unanswered prayer for other suffering souls, perhaps a little help comes disguised as a song. Even if the circumstances remain unchanged, and the pain steals into the night, burrowing into your soul like a festering wound, He hears, He listens, He knows, and He will make a way out.

And when that first taste of spring kisses your cheek, or when a blazing orange eastern horizon forces you to grab your husband and run outside in your pajamas to drink it in, thirstily, greedy with thanksgiving, these right then are glimpses of His bent ear. Music and sunrises, a crack in the door, keep looking, don't give up.

So I crank up the volume, sing stronger, even flex the trust muscles a wee bit more. And I keep an unwavering watch out. For even if He doesn't heal the pain, even if I limp the rest of the way to the finish line, I won't stop the life-pumping praising. Gratitude ushers in the miracle.

#don'tevergiveup

Brushstrokes Of Grace

I look at the picture, this enlarged canvas hanging in our living room right by the front door, hard to miss and I scan the details every day. The smiles on the faces of those I cherish, the kids, arms entwined around each other, as if they invented the group hug. I love, love the way it captures the essence of our family, unique, joyful, loved. And I pause once again to enjoy this memory, and it catches my eye, slips in this fresh vision, and my thoughts, they spool back to that rainy day in November, the day the clouds poured down more than that famous Oregon rain.

It was a cold day. A rainy, gray, November day. Not the most desirable day to gather for a family photo shoot. It was a Christmas gift from our daughter, this chance to all be together, to gather in front of the camera and with part of the family living in Virginia, the memories would taste sweeter, a completeness filling the frame.

A hint of trepidation snaked up my spine before we set out. How will my back manage the standing? Will it rain super-hard? Will the kids behave?And how about my hair! We donned our jackets and retrieved numerous umbrellas from our cars. And before each photo spot, we slipped off our jackets, smiled wide, then quickly pulled our jackets back on. The air tasted frigid cold, the rain dampened our shoes, parts of clothing, messed with the hair and we kept smiling, us enjoying all this love, these precious captured moments. The rain stilled at times, slices of heaven gifted our way. The photographer, a friend, brought gummy bears as bribes for the kids, and they downed those gummies all blissful and smiley face happy with each click, click. This Christmas gift, it came wrapped differently, and like most uniquely boxed presents, we unwrapped these layers of love and joy, one rain drop, one flip of the umbrella, one gummy bear at a time.

Today when I study the picture on the wall, my eyes, they spot a patch of light dancing on tree branches, illuminating those lime green leaves, how it shines brighter in that area above our unsuspecting heads. Shimmers even.  And I think back to that man who ambled over to the fire-pit just beyond this very last shoot of ours. The chairs that surrounded the freshly lit crackling fire, the delicious warmth for our chilly frames. My gaze, it fixes once again at that light projected on those thinning leaves. Maybe God is simpler than I think He is. He met us all right grand that wet day in November. Brushstrokes of grace, this beautiful light that never extinguishes, never dims, especially on the rainiest of days.

P.S. Happy Valentine's Day

Maybe it's the sun streaming through the window pane, or the vacant rain spilling from the sky. Or perhaps it's the promise of spring hugging the calendar on the kitchen wall. It could be the desperate need to turn the gaze from the news, even for a few minutes. Wash the soul clean with a little of that spiritual homework. Unplug Facebook and the cell phone. Write it out in cursive, ink it right into a fresh sheet of  college-ruled notebook paper. I will do it today! I will not grumble about politics or the excessive rain we've had. I will sing it out loud on those thin blue lines of paper, the pen it will catch the words, let them flow upward, let Him hear my ardent Valentine.

I love you, God, even when things aren't going my way.

I love you more than I did yesterday, seriously.

I love you for never turning your back, never running away, and always catching me when I fall right hard, which can be on most days.

I love you for this life, crazy and hard, beautiful and stunning, peaceful and stressful, creative, joyful.

I love that you made us all unique, individual, cherished.
I love the way tiny grains of sand glisten, sparkle even, under your toes on a glorious sunny day.
Oh and those waves in the ocean, how majestic and therapeutic, and how you calm the storms with a single touch, a breath from heaven. I love that too.
I adore my family, my husband, children, grandchildren, siblings, all this you gifted, I love you.
I love your teachings on the fruit of the spirit; patience, kindness, self-control, gentleness, joy, peace and I think there might be two more. (There is a special place in DC that might need a fruit basket soon.) I slipped this in.
I love the first kiss of spring, all the seasons you created, and birds, birds, birds, except maybe crows.

I give the pen a few shakes, the ink, it begins to run dry. Flex the fingers a little, they've grown a bit stiff. There is so much more to say, so many more endearments to share, but the page is full. I cramp it in, one last line.

I love you for forgiveness, I cannot forget forgiveness, that awesome grace that trumps all grace. 
P.S.
Happy Valentine's Day

And I carefully tear out the sheet of paper, fold it in half, tuck it in my rain jacket. Just in case I need a gentle reminder on a slippery, hard, wet and stormy day.

One Stitch At A Time

I held the fabric between my fingers, caressed the past with memories of prom dresses, blouses worn and doll clothes played with eons ago. Marveled at the exquisite detail, the lace centers, the hand-stitching and even the faded corners on a few pieces. I made her a promise all those years ago, and now, like a golden burst of sun after days of gray rain, I knew the promise never truly forgot me

It was September, 1990, the year I turned thirty-six, the year my heart, it tore in a thousand tiny pieces. My mother, she lay in a hospital bed at Kaiser, back when death was treated with sterile crisp sheets and nightly corridor noise. Before hospice care understood death to be a prayer, a sacred hymn for the family to sing together. Sadness and death co-joined until the next life.

I read to her from Trinity, our book group selection, and even though I feared we wouldn't finish the novel, I read anyway, keeping her company, loving her imperfectly, afraid to let her go. My mother sewed quilts for all the girls in the family, and when she took sick she had one in progress, this for my own eleven-year-old daughter. It rested next to her bed in a plastic laundry basket, a stack of assorted material, batting and lace. During her stay in the hospital, before she died, she asked me to please finish this quilt. I assured her I would, even given my aversion to sewing I said yes. I cannot let you go, but your quilt will stay. We never read to the end of Trinity.

A promise is a bridge between your heart and mine, I''ll carry your wish forever, and meet you on the other side.

I stowed the laundry basket in a closet, all the fabric pieces one on top of another. Brought it out every so often through the years, surveyed that basket of promise, breathing in those pieces of my mom I still had left here on earth. And each time I touched the materials, I noticed another piece of my heart had been stitched up and I never let go of the laundry basket. It survived my husband's penchant for tossing items he believes to be unnecessary. It remained unfinished, invincible, spiritual.  And the commitment I made in 1990 lingered like an incomplete chapter in a story.

Until this past year. I retrieved the basket one more time and I did not put it back in the closet. I can't give up on you! Oh, my beautiful, faithful God, He has unending mercy on those who dislike needle and thread. My sister's dear friend poured herself into my promise, showered this project with His unending grace, even sewing on certain pieces of fabric she had given my mom decades ago. She said she felt my mom's presence while finishing this quilt and this I believe to be right true.

This quilt, this beloved piece of my mom, I touched the edges and I wept happy sad. And when I handed it gently to my daughter, that pool of tears welling up in her own eyes, I saw it then. "I feel her presence here," my daughter said, her eyes damp with awestruck surprise. I did not doubt this to be right true. And that heart that tore so bad back in 1990, that aching pain from loss and grief, the missing, by God's healing touch and outrageous love, it found a measure of peace, one grace-filled heart beat, one stitch at a time.

A Sprig And A Prayer

I am in the kitchen, chopping organic sage to add extra flavor to our nights dinner. Noticing a brownish sprig, a discolored, not-like-the-rest-kind of sprig, I snap it off and toss it aside. I hear the evening news coming from the living room. A heavy sigh emanates from the center of me. The part of me that knows right from wrong, love from hate, the reports, they keep airing and I keep chopping, discarding the unwanted, the not-quite-right leaves. Fear of unwanted results drumming through my fingers, talking through my wrists.

 

The immigrants are not coming, the migrants and foreign nationals either, the refugees are not wanted, the different from me are not welcome right now and the airports, they fill with protesters. Chaos sits on the throne. I listen and that cavernous place inside that tries to follow Jesus, tries to stay upright and grateful, aims for fairness and generosity, it trembles right hard with disbelief. My mother-in-law was born and raised in Berlin, was separated from her parents for years by Hitler as part of the youth work force. She married my father-in-law later, became a US citizen and I loved her, I married her son.

I shake my head and wonder at the future, how love will trump all this fear and injustice. How long this tyranny will last. I am not political by nature but I notice these choices lately and deep concern washes over me, troubles the heart that is supposed to be at peace.

And I see those discolored sprigs of sage, how I wanted them separated from the more desirable ones and my rib cage expands with this deep breath. Gently, I scrape them from the counter into my cupped hand, and as an afterthought, sprinkle them on the vegetables, hope for the best. A pent-up breath releases into the accepting atmosphere. I think of Jesus and His upside down theology, His crazy, inclusive, radical love and I tune out the news. Freely, spirit hungry, I hum "Amazing Grace."  

And then I pray. 

Is this not the kind of fasting I have chosen:

to loose the chains of injustice

and untie the cords of the yoke,

to set the oppressed free

and break every yoke?

Is it not to share your food with the hungry

and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter-

when you see the naked to clothe them,

and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?

Isaiah 58 v6-7

The Footprints Of Hope

I don a warm jacket, tug on a woolen hat, slip on the gloves. Opening the garage door leading to the backyard, there it is, all that unbelievable historic snow, the foreign substance which poured down upon Oregon this week. Snow. Sleds for kids. No school for all. The air is still, a quiet hush tempers the atmosphere, the routine traffic noise quelled under this blanket of snow.

.

It's the second day after the big storm that I brave the cold, the chilly air and step outside to take a look, to take a fill of this unexpected delight. This event that changed our schedules, invaded our busy lives, caused us to slow, to look out in wonder at what He can do, and what we can see if only our eyes could open to the possibilities. I take a deep clean breath, exhaling into the vernal moment.

And that's when I notice the deep imprints visible in our backyard. Birds sing freely, a tree branch loosens a bit of snow, tiny white particles swirl in the breeze, My gaze catches those footprints again. That's what He does when we are blinded by now. When we can't step forward. When the hard is seriously too hard. He carries us. Feeling like an invisible snow angel hovered close, I let that thought sift through my mind for a few moments. Then I lift my eyes to the ice blue sky sensing a renewed sense of sight, a sprinkle of hope. And I offer up the age-old praise that cloaks all circumstances, planned or unplanned, wanted or unwanted, humbly saying it to Him with utmost reverence and awe.

Thank you.

How To Say I Love You

Reading the message in a blog the other day, swallowing bits of gravel with each sentence, bits of fear, and knowing the anxiety I was battling, I spit out a tiny piece of rock. I have the path back to the beginning! To the heart of God, to the weapon against the despair, the fear and uncertainty. And when I handed my sister a copy of a devotional I used to set at my desk at work on bad pain days, when I told her it might help that person in her life who suffered so, when I watched her read the message, I knew without doubt that there is only one yellow brick road. One prescription that works for pain, for suffering, for anxiety and stress. Be Thankful. Give Thanks. Gratitude sinks a bad attitude.

And it was Ann Voskamp who taught me how to count, how to wield that one weapon, that one discipline to practice which offers this soothing balm to chronic pain, that quells complaints and bathes the mind with supernatural peace. When the problems linger, fatigue and pain cause soul amnesia, isn't giving thanks the antidote? Why is it so hard to remember this for each and every moment? Why is anxiety and worry so easy to cling to when pain and struggles follow you each day like a bad ex-boyfriend? Can gratitude settle the ongoing feud between fear and love waging war in the mind? 

Gratitude teaches me that I am not alone. That He knows all about what's going on and He won't forget about me. Telling Him thank you for the pain, the uncertainty, the struggle, doesn't that show Him I don't have to understand? That I trust Him, regardless.

All the tiny bits of gravel unloose from the throat and I release them. Thankfully. And with each ca-chink of tiny rock, with every ounce of gratitude I can muster up, I hear those broken hallelujahs rising from within once more. All over again as I say thank you for the hard, the good, the mundane, I see Him grinning wide, so pleased He must be when I tell Him I love you, regardless.

The discipline of gratitude is the explicit effort to acknowledge that all I am and have is a gift of love, a gift to be celebrated with joy.

~Henri Nouwen~