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~