A Walk Along the Way

Oh, the Wonder

2011-12-25T20:21:00.000-05:00

Infinite, and an infant. Eternal, and yet born of a woman. Almighty, and yet hanging on a woman’s breast. Supporting a universe, and yet needing to be carried in a mother’s arms. King of angels, and yet the reputed son of Joseph. Heir of all things, and yet the carpenter’s despised son. Oh, the wonder of Christmas. ~Charles Haddon Spurgeon

The Weakest Link

2011-12-23T11:57:00.003-05:00

Jesus Christ founded His Kingdom on the weakest link of all—a Baby. ~Oswald Chambers

Waiting and the Winners

2011-12-05T10:00:00.000-05:00

For the greatest, most profound, tenderest things in the world, we must wait. It happens not here in a storm but according to the divine laws of sprouting, growing, and becoming. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer

The two winners of The Circle of Seasons are Audra (commenter #1) and Jane (commenter #4). Please email your addresses to me, and I'll send the books out this week. Congratulations!

Fanning the Flame: Advent & a Giveaway

2011-11-29T08:35:00.000-05:00

The books stack up next to my bed and on my Kindle. A new kind of season has been brewing for years, starting six years ago when we fessed up to our kids about Santa, and it's been a slow snowball rolling ever since. There is a deep longing for something real that I've been feeding for a few weeks. Here is a glimpse into my feast.

Using for the first time and diving deeper into the Word: The Daily Lectionary

A beautiful read: God in the Manger by Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Follow Mark Roberts on his own personal journey into Advent: Discovering Advent: How to Experience the Power of Waiting on God at Christmastime

We're using this for our family lighting of the Advent candles and for a little perspective: Waiting for the Light: An Advent Devotional

Our family read aloud found through Noel Piper, Behold the Lamb of God is a lovely narrative retelling of the birth of Jesus. Just. Beautiful.

Still awaiting this little book recommended in Kimberlee's book (see below): The Vigil: Keeping Watch in the Season of Christ's Coming

Just starting Madeleine L'Engle's The Irrational Season and can't wait to get into it.

And now for the giveaway. This lovely book, The Circle of Seasons: Meeting God in the Church Year, came across my path, and I devoured it in a couple of days while waiting for Little Bug to finally crash hard at night. For someone raised in a non-liturgical church, Kimberlee's walk through the church year is a refreshing look at the seaons, giving me a whole new perspective on our year as a family, as a Body.

I am giving away not one but two copies in honor of our twin daughters' birthday. Their lives did more to make us cling to our Savior during this season, and I can't think of a better way to remember them than to help others find their way into a Jesus filled year.

To enter, please leave a comment. Two winners will be randomly chosen on Friday. The giveaway will close on Friday, December 2 at midnight EST. Winners will be announced on Monday.

500 Miles

2011-11-15T00:18:00.003-05:00

[There should be a video to The Proclaimers' 500 Miles, but, alas, You Tube is not my friend tonight.]

I threw my head back and belted out a good laugh every time it came on the radio. Eighteen years ago, this was the song we grabbed hold of. Silly as it was, it seemed define the start of our story. He was well over 500 miles away and fought every chance he had to get to me, burning the road along the way.

We had to separate in those early days, me with only an emerald ring on my finger. Purity begged for one more day while Passion pounded hard at the door. So, he took to the road, back to his home where Distance could stand guard over Purity's heart. But, when the road shortened and curved back to me, the vigilant watchman weakened, and we struggled on our own to stay within the lines that separate the smooth ride from the head on collision on the other side. We swerved and drifted and hit the bumps that sent us spinning and by grace avoided the crash until we met in the middle and made a home in each other.

We're still on that crazy ride. The road that now takes him 500 or more miles to work always twists in the oddest, most poetic of ways to lead right back home. And Purity, she still pleads for another day, but Passion joins her cause, closing the distance. It's the hope of that beautiful collison that burns up the road home and drives us time and again headlong into one another.

Sancta Simplicitas: Spontaneity

2011-10-26T22:36:00.000-04:00

Through the Looking Glass

2011-10-25T00:20:00.001-04:00

It's all tumbling down, and I'm feeling much too much like a nursery rhyme, falling off my high wall and cracking. The fissure started small enough but has slowly crept along until a simple question I couldn't walk away from forced me to stop and answer. Out of nowhere, right there on the church sidewalk, I shattered into pieces so tiny there was no hope in the best efforts of all the king's men. The decibel of genuine concern was enough to break the barrier I had erected. It left me frantically crawling on the concrete in a desperate attempt to sweep up the pieces while people stepped around unaware. I pulled myself together into a Picasso, just enough to walk away with bloody hands and knees and a feeling I couldn't identify or shake.

I'm looking through this glass of brokenness and just beginning to see how far from together I've been even on those days when my reflected image has told me otherwise. For years, I've connected the mismatched bits in the pattern of false pretenses of strength and competence and sat aloft with a well placed smile, quickly replacing pieces that slipped out of place with a temporary glue.

But this shattering freed me to seek out the King who can pull me together and hold me fast amidst the quaking earth and the falling sky. I've lost the illusion of perfection only to gain the reality of the Perfect One.

On the Light Side: Real Men

2011-10-14T18:41:00.000-04:00

have pink, preschool man caves

He Tells Me to Write

2011-10-10T15:07:00.003-04:00

Over the phone late one night, I muster enough courage to ask about his last visit to my blog. I tell him I quit. Days ago. I'm feeling sorry for myself, wallowing deep in a pit I can't surmount. But, he throws me a rope and pulls me out with all his strength when he tells me to write. Keep at it just to practice. That seems good enough to me, and the seed stirs a little.

It all feels so unspiritual in a space I thought I'd created to glorify the Master storyteller. But maybe the Glory is right here in the middle of these Play-Doh encrusted, high school struggling, baby snuggling, week day single parenting days on which he writes His signature grace. So, I think there will be no greater joy in the now than to be His scribe.

The Song of Fall

2011-09-16T21:32:00.004-04:00

Autumn is a hymn today, a low, gentle tribute to Greatness. The trees sway along, arms raised high in their slow rhythmic worship. Back and forth. Back and forth. Swish. Swish. Until I am carried up into their praise. Have I been so silent that they must cry out? The small seeds drop. Their masting is thunderous, punctuating the song as the best of percussionist. Do they know they are falling to their death?

We all know the story, that one of redemption of the lost. We know the losing isn't the end. But, when it's your own story and it takes dying and winter before spring, you think that death is the last word. And what you learn is that it also takes one word to remind you that the long, slow growth to sprouting limbs and leaves and fruit of your own requires an active trust, the kind that abides in the hope of spring tucked away under cold earth. The promise is planted deep, and we only need watch with bated breath for its arrival.

End of the Road?

2011-09-14T10:13:00.000-04:00

Dear friends I believe I may have reached the end of the blogging road. Perhaps this is only a short detour off the path. I pray so. I am blessed and delighted and continually encouraged by your presence here. Thank you. Until we meet again...Beth

Journeying On: A Puritan Prayer

2011-09-12T12:50:00.000-04:00

Lord of the cloud and fire

I am a stranger, with a stranger's indifference;

My hands hold a pilgrim's staff

My march is Zionward

My eyes are toward the coming of the Lord

My heart is in thy hands without reserve.

Thou hast created it

redeemed it

renewed it

captured it

conquered it.

Keep it from every opposing foe

crush in it every rebel lust

mortify every treacherous passion

annihilate every earthborn desire.

All faculties of my being vibrate to thy touch

I love thee with my soul, mind, body, strength

might, spirit, affection, will

desire, intellect, understanding.

Thou are the very perfection of all perfections;

All intellect is derived from thee

My scanty rivulets flow from thy unfathomable fountain

Compared with thee the sun is darkness,

all beauty deformity,

the best goodness faulty.

Thou are worthy of an adoration greater than my dull heart can yield;

Invigorate my love that it may rise worthily to thee,

tightly entwine itself to thee,

be allured by thee.

Then shall my walk be endless praise.

~"Journeying On", The Valley of Vision

Dancing in Godlight

2011-09-09T10:55:00.004-04:00

The Navigator's home early for the weekend, and I'm trying hard to keep up our early morning opening of a week's worth of bottled up events. But, the squeals from the other room are drowning my every word. I am annoyed. I can never carry on a conversation.

"Bubbles. Bubbles. Bubbles. Coming through the window!"

I finally give up when the corner of my eye catches him dancing, with arms wilding waving overhead in that sunbeam, common dust sprinkling divine beauty over the room. It pours in just like he said, through the small half glass perfect for looking at morning Glory. That boy is lost in the wonder of the Infinite in the infinitesimal. And I almost miss it in all my self-important, wild, hand-talking activity.

I learn this lesson well: when "patches of Godlight" rain down on you, the only thing left to do is dance.

In the school of adoration the soul learns why the approach to every other goal had left it restless...In the prayer of adoration we love God for himself, for his very being, for his radiant joy. ~Douglas Steere, Prayer and Worship

Visit Desiring God for more on focusing on the View.

Come to the View

2011-09-09T08:00:00.002-04:00

Legs ache as I push my way up to the next narrow plateau of moss covered rocks. Lungs barely able to take in another gasp of thin air. I survey the path above, gaging the remaining journey. Not much farther.

The laurel and rhododendron narrow the path and create a canopy above, leaving just enough room for streams of sunlight here and there. The opening at the end of the trail is in view.

As I push aside small branches, I feel the ground beneath my feet change from soggy soil to rock, but my eyes are not below. I blink and squint as my eyes make their adjustment. My whole being has been captured by this place.

I stand. Awed. Rolling green tapers off into a soft blue. Grey shadows meet the clouds beyond. Every direction in the panorama is filled with delight. I close my eyes, throw my head back, and fill my lungs. Wind brushes against my cheek and whirls around to whisper in my ear the secrets of the mountains.

I look long at the photo. I look longingly. Only memories. They are a weak substitute. Yet, somehow my mind still holds the full experience. Sight. Touch. Smell. Even the taste of a juicy apple eaten at the summit is linked to that view. It was more than just scenery. It beckons me to come again.

I come to this place not to do, to gain, to seek praise or instructions. I come merely to see, to know, to be engulfed in the place. The view, the object of my attention, holds me there. Binds me not for what it gives me but what it is.

I wonder. How much of my worship is like this? Do I come to Him to see Him? After all, to get one real glimpse of God is to be transfixed by the worthiest of views. If I am not, I have to wonder if I have seen Him at all.

Genuine worship, God-centered worship is about transforming why we come to Him.

I am challenged. Encouraged. Beckoned by a gentle whisper, "Come to the View. Stay."

*a repost from the archives

The Hours

2011-09-06T20:00:00.008-04:00

Gratitude exclaims, very properly, "How good of God to give me this." Adoration says, "What must be the quality of Being whose far-off and momentary coruscations are like this!" One's mind runs back up the sunbeam to the sun...I have tried, since that moment, to make every pleasure into a channel of adoration. ~C.S. Lewis, Letters to Malcolm

Somehow his words echo against the hollow of my heart, that place where emptiness growls and rumbles for more. Gratitude has started the journey toward seeing Him in my mundane, but there has remained a deeper longing for more. More of Him, of the Sun from which these beams come.

And so at the last minute this morning He calls me to a simple discipline: to wear my watch with the hourly chime*, one, quiet beep, set and to turn my face towards His and worship what I see. No requests. Not even gratitude. But simple praise. Genuine adoration.

And this practice awakens me to the painful knowledge of how little I seek His face. I think I have done something in my "quiet times" each day or in my rush hour prayers, but when the dawn of every hour is appointed to be His and only His, time becomes my judge.

The insignificant chime is the call to the Significant. He takes my small thoughts and meditations and makes them arrows straight to Him, the place where adoration is the business of the soul.

8:00am    I am a bit unnerved at the first call, and in that fear of fake, contrived worship I find my first glimpse of genuine praise. It is in failure that I cry out for a heart that backs my words. And here is where I see that You are the MAKER of HEARTS.

9:00am    Watching my husband work with the boys outdoors...You are the amazing FATHER, the grace-filled parent.

10:00am    Dwelling on my weaknesses in creativity...You are inexhaustible creativity, the ARTIST who knows no bounds.

11:00am    Reading this one thought on parenting, that our efforts don't always result in what we want...You are the PERFECT one, always accomplishing your purposes.

12:00pm   Sitting down to a steamy bowl of soup...You are the STOREHOUSE without end and the generous owner who freely gives from the abundance within.

1:00pm My untamed thoughts wander beyond their rightful place...You are the FAITHFUL ONE.

It is here, in line at Sam's that I realize how small the call is amid the noise of the crowd, all that vies for my attention.

2:00pm You are the TRUE LOVER, the proper home for my desires.

3:00pm The baby, tearful, crawls over and pulls up to grab hold of me...You are the ARMS that take hold of me, secure and strong.

4:00pm The Navigator, on his way back to work for the week, calls at the chime...You are the ONE WHO CALLS to me, who initiates intimacy.

5:00pm Screaming three year old in the back of the van; blood pressure rising...You are INFINITE PATIENCE.

6:00pm Seeing changes in one prayed for...You are the REDEEMER of things old, the creative hand on the very souls of Men.

7:00pm Stressing over work changes and the unknown...You are the CONDUCTOR over this symphony, perfectly planning to the smallest note.

8:00pm Feeling the weight of my sins, the impurities of heart...You are the REFINER.

9:00pm Struggling with my own moodiness...You are the CONSTANT ONE.

10:00pm Feeling the weight of the day....You are REST for the weary.

At the close of the hours when I normally feel that rumbling, when I try to cram a full day's worth of meals down, this day of slow, consistent feasting, this progressive dinner gives me a unique feeling. I am full. Satisfied.

*Thanks Ann Kroeker and Ann Voskamp, who led me to your lovely book, for the idea of using a watch with an hourly chime.

Fanning the Flame: To Teach You Must Be a Student (a Repost)

2011-09-05T20:37:00.000-04:00

Under a golden canopy we walked, seeking treasures for the approaching Advent season, and amid the lingering evidence of fall, a harbinger lay.

Overcast. Cool. Air so heavy with moisture we could hear it dropping through the leaves. The earth crackled and snapped under our feet. We found more than we came to see. One small delight after another. Tiny hidden treasures. A resident disturbed by our presence scurried off to safety. A lost cap. A tiny reservoir.

I whisper, "Look as closely as possible for surprises you may walk over if you aren't careful."

Near the end of our short journey, we came upon an unknown . Strange but completely engaging. We were spellbound and lingered over this mystery.

Once home, the computer became our guide to unlocking our new find. Tremella Fuciformis! (Snow fungus: a delicacy in Asian cuisine) I was completely hooked. Not on the tremella. On learning!

I've known the spark before in scattered moments earlier in my own formal education. But this spark is significant because underneath it holds the real jewel: a transforming discovery.

After darkness fell and hid our world of treasures, over grated cheese and ground beef, it came to me, not as a slow drip as so many of my thoughts do over a long simmer but as a flash. My tendency along this road of home education has been to think that I teach by teaching, by knowing, by being master of a subject. I have been involved in the education of my children but only from a distance, as an administrator of assignments, information, and "constructive criticism" all with an end product in mind.

But, our Guide has graciously been revealing a valuable truth to me over the weeks: We teach most through learning ourselves, being a student with our children. Always. They will watch our enthusiasm, join with us, and take in all we are learning as we share it with them. Life long learning is the process of discovery, learning, exploration, stumbling over an unknown, and, yes, making mistakes together.

Learning, after all, isn't confined to twelve years in "school"...or to academic subjects. Education really is about our walk with Him, and we are each His disciples along the Way.

He whispers to me, "Keep your eyes open and be careful where you walk. You don't want to trample any treasures."

*a repost from the archives, an appropriate way to enter the new year

The Call of the Chorus

2011-09-01T13:19:00.001-04:00

He ran into the kitchen fully animated, "She came out! Come see." Even at three, he's still growing into his first language. At times, we wish we had a preschool translator. But, this morning there was no missing his meaning.

I followed him to the porch knowing just what he was talking about and trying to calm him a little, "Maybe she was just waiting for us to leave...until she felt safe." The cicada that had taken refuge in the Hunter's bright orange cap had flown away but not far. She was still trapped inside the screened porch and had landed on the other side.

I could hear the deep chorus of her peers. Hidden from view high in the dense woods, their collective hum was so intense even those hard of hearing could feel their vibrations. And, yet, she sat on our porch. Silent. Motionless.

Why? After all, she had just pushed and fought to come out of her shell and stretch her wings, her means of responding to the love song.

My son grew impatient and a little fearful of her presence, so I scooped her up gently in a green, plastic shovel and carried her outside. She was shy, almost resistant to my insistent attempts to encourage her to grab on to a leaf on the Rose of Sharon.   She just needed a little nudge to respond to the call.

When she finally let go, I left her there. And waited. And listened. Maybe she'd find her voice out in the open air. Maybe she would find her wings, too, and let them carry her to her place of belonging.

I, too, know something of silence. Of fear.   Of paralysis. Of holding back in this love song to a Savior.

I slipped out back again as the sun began her descent. Our cicada was gone. Against the night stillness, the chorus reverberated a little deeper.   And I'd like to think her single small voice amid the corporate love song made the difference.

The High Calling is holding a writer's retreat and has asked you why you need to be there.   Jump on over to see what it's all about.

Morning Visitation

2011-08-28T21:57:00.000-04:00

Photos are for those times when you have no time for words. This is what has captivated us these recent mornings. We wake and my boy watches motionless until they appear and we squeal as quietly as we can at the delight of their gracing us with their presence each new day. And, yes, I try hard to stifle the harsh irony that in a matter of weeks my boys and these gorgeous creatures will be enemies.

The Tongue's Anchor

2011-08-23T00:04:00.000-04:00

A pretty typical morning led to an extraordinary moment. We gathered for family time. The baby was down for an early nap. Each child grabbed a spot and waited for the reading from James.

Little Bug, on the other hand, was intent on staking his claim on one that was already occupied. He rolled. He bit. He nudged. Whatever it took, he was there to stay.

Tensions rose. I began to speak through clinched teeth and finally abruptly popped up, nursing babe and all, to remove the culprit from the room.

But, the damage was already done. The mood had turned ugly. Words became weapons, and I, myself, was on the brink of spewing technicolored arrows all over the room.

I closed my eyes and silently begged, "Lord, help me to hold my tongue," then started over, "Lord, you are gonna have to hold my tongue."

And with great gentleness, as always, He replied, "The way I'll hold your tongue is for you to put my Word on the tip." And my heart melted.

We broke open the Bread together, and the book of James held three little verses, right where we left off a few days before:

My dear brothers, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry, for man's anger does not bring about the righteous life that God desires. Therefore, get rid of all moral filth and the evil that is so prevalent and humbly accept the word planted in you, which can save you.

Which. Can. Save. You. Those four words took hold of my tongue and left me speechless.

No will power or deep breaths or counting to ten or even pleas for help to get ourselves out of our mess will anchor the tongue and save our souls from slamming hard against another. Holding His Word on the tip of the tongue secures it to a weight sure enough to hold.

Morning Music

2011-08-15T22:45:00.001-04:00

We've been working in recent days on new habits for a new year, and my favorite starts early with the two little ones. Little Women is by far the best morning soundtrack, a way to set the tone for the day. I plug it into the DVD player, light the candles, and we share a gentle waking to a new day. And on the days I "get it right" we gather around the Word. A small celebration of redemption. A reminder before the hard tools of sanctification chistle away at all that is not Jesus that the promise remains. All things new. All things new! And then those tools take on a different feel, a whole new meaning.

The Woes of the Web

2011-08-12T21:16:00.000-04:00

I must admit with a bit of a blush that this web we're all using baffles me at times. If it's not a predetermined template, clearly I'm lost. I've tried to respond to all your lovely comments, and Blogger, in all its quirkiness since I moved, won't let me. So, please know that I am delighted to have you here, each and every one of you. Every comment blesses me beyond measure.

And if anyone knows how to help me and all my technology-challenged ways, I would greatly appreciate an email. 'Cause if you leave a comment...well, you get the picture. Thanks for being here, my friends!

On the Light Side: Dry

2011-08-10T15:41:00.000-04:00

Just because I am in desperate need of a good laugh right now, the Master sends these kids to me with their grandfather's dry sense of humor. Cue the drum.

After grumbling and musing over a few ant bites, my son proclaimed, without missing a beat, "I wish they would come up with an ant-tivenom."

Little Bug was decked out in an oversized camo top that covered his arms down to the hands.
"Don't worry. He's an unarmed man."

His grandmother declared that his brother had retained all his math after a long summer break to which he muttered from the table, "That's because I have a retainer."

And just because I can't post without a photo, here is a completely random picture for your viewing pleasure of boys being boys. I learned the hard way when hoping to hang around a skateboard park practicing your craft it's best to leave your motherly comments to yourself. "Just don't get hurt," will be met with an exponential measure of teenage angst.

Sancta Simplicitas: Home

2011-07-27T11:46:00.000-04:00

My soul sighs. We're home. Snuggling in our beds. Enjoying the garden. Exploring our own town as though it is our first time here. Everyday is an opportunity to discover something new. A search for helicopters-planes (a one word creation with a sharp rise in intonation at the end by Little Bug, whose new name, I think, will be The Pilot) led us to some amazing discoveries.

In this hanger, we found of whole group of folks restoring Cobras, something the Navigator saw through these bars and from afar. They warmly invited us in to watch their work.

An urban sustainable farm complete with a tilapia pond, beehives, and a Chilean chicken that lays green eyes was tucked away right next door to the small airport.

A walk through a cemetary dating back to the 19th century lends itself to some interesting history discussions and hunts for the oldest tombstone.

The very bricks his Nana and Papa walked as students...and where they fell in love.

I now have a Kindle, a gift from my mom! Waiting for my husband to arrive after midnight, the cool of the night and my Kindle kept me company. Ahhhh, home.

Fuel for Celebration

2011-07-21T22:19:00.002-04:00

He wouldn't tell us a thing, but he set out with purpose in the kitchen, creating a picnic feast.  He even made sweet tea just the way I like it. We packed the van out. I thought I knew what he was up to. I was wrong.

We chatted along the way about dolphins in the bay.  The kids continued to probe and guess our destination. It was the fourth, after all.  Maybe we were getting an early seat for fireworks.

After a quick stop at a convenience store for ice and a Twix, the revelation began as we made our way down a quiet, country street far from the beach and prime firework territory.

"Kids, what do we do on the fourth? Other than shoot off fireworks?"

Silence from the backseat.

"OK. What should we do?"

My own thoughts breathed their voice silently, "Remember." Now,  I know.

"We remember those who fought for our freedom. Who died. Who sacrificed for us." Yes. That's it. I know this road now. Seven years back we drove this back way to his graduation from EOD school.

As I floated back in time, he pressed on, weaving the connection. Sacrifice. Death. Christ. Freedom. LIFE.

He leans over as we made our way down a remarkably empty road to the memorial, "I want all holidays to be like this. Pointers to Christ."

And we ate and drank under the shade of a tree. In the quiet of solitude, our son bowed low and fingered their names, those who ran into the danger and took the blasts for others.

Later that evening, we would join the celebration. We would lift our heads to the skies and be awed by shower of light against the darkness. And I wondered: is this it? Is remembering meant to fuel the celebration. Deepen it. Our celebration of freedom, our joy begins with bowing the head and fingers tracing along the deep lines of sacrifice in Word made flesh. Then, and only then, can our heads be lifted to see the light of His glory. And perhaps it is the seeing that leads to living everyday lives of a celebration that flames and burst with His glory across the darkness.

______________________________________________

Won't you join us and wear red every Friday?

Making a Move

2011-07-08T09:53:00.001-04:00

Clouds hanging heavy out the window reflect the mood inside. Bags are stuffed with swim suits and sunscreen. The car is packed out with the tricolored beach umbrella and boogie boards and a small bag of sugar white sand. We are making our way back home. Bittersweet is the flavor of the day. Time for normal again, whatever that is. I am thankful that memories, too, built alongside those sand castles with Daddy, are squeezed in next to the buckets and carried home to put in a jar on the heart's shelf.

I'm also making a short move this weekend to my own domain at http://www.awalkalongtheway.com/. Blogger promises to forward me, but if there is a hang up, now you know my new address. You are always welcome. Come on over for a visit and a cup of coffee. Have a blessed weekend as you build your own sand castle memories.

Tokens of Love

2011-06-30T08:07:00.004-04:00

What an infinite pleasure must it needs be, thus, as it were, to lose ourselves in him, and, being swallowed up in the overcoming sense of his goodness, to offer ourselves a living sacrifice, always ascending unto him in flames of love! Never doth a soul know what solid joy and substantial pleasure is, till once, being weary of itself, it renounce all propriety, give itself up unto the Author of its being, and feel itself become a hallowed and devoted thing, and can say, from an inward sense and feeling, "My beloved is mine," (I account all his interest mine own,) "and I am his:" I am content to be any thing for him, and care not for myself, but that I may serve him. A person, moulded into this temper, would find pleasure in all the dispensations of Providence: temporal enjoyments would have another relish, when he should taste the divine goodness in them, and consider them as tokens of love, sent by his dearest Lord and Maker... ~Henry Scougal

(I don't own a Kindle but have discovered a vast library of delicious, old books for the Kindle for PC application, which is free. Most public domain books are free, and many others are only 99 cents. What I really like about this application is that I can highlight passages, make notes, bookmark a page, or, and this is a real jewel, quickly highlight a word and get its definition. Invaluable when reading old books by well-educated folks. You know, words like concupiscence, which, believe it or not, I have come across twice by two different writers.)

Sancta Simplicitas: Green

2011-06-30T08:00:00.011-04:00

homemade by the Dancer

When I bought this, my husband and kids asked why I chose "puke green". "It just doesn't look like something we would expect you to buy." Never underestimate the power of a sassy handbag in shaking things up a bit.

If I had my way about it, I would rather have one of Ellen's bags. Maybe when I get home, I should to talk with her about this little gem instead, just to complete my sassiness.

On the Light Side: Playdates

2011-06-29T12:51:00.000-04:00

Preschoolers, Peacocks, and Playgrounds make for interesting playdates.

Sancta Simplicitas: Red

2011-06-28T12:53:00.001-04:00

Windfall

2011-06-23T09:15:00.000-04:00

The greatest honor we can give Almighty God is to live gladly because of the knowledge of His love. ~Julian of Norwich

May you throw your hands in the air under the windfall of His love today.

Sancta Simplicitas: Blue

2011-06-21T09:43:00.001-04:00

The Symphony

2011-06-20T11:19:00.001-04:00

In the ebb and flow of tides, I am learning to listen. The demands of daily existence rush in hard against me far too often, and all I hear is a cacophonous roar. I want to cup hands to ears and run for cover. But, it is in the shelter of His hands cupped around me that I can hear the symphony. The rhythmic surge and crash is meant to tune my ears to hear a little more of Him in the noise.

How it is His hand that reaches into the deep tumbling current to lift me out.
How it is the wonder of His nature that raises me to ride high on the crest of the wave.
How it is His love breaking over and over that softens jaded edges.

My words are few these weeks at the beach. May I ask that you indulge me a little and allow this space, for a short while, to speak more through image than word, as I learn this sancta simplicitas, a holy simplicity?

A Lesson from the Crabs

2011-06-15T10:09:00.002-04:00

Our first night here, the boys discovered the delights of nocturnal life on the beach. Crabs!

Not so long ago, I discovered the joys of Thornton Burgess, a naturalist who had a masterful way with words. If you haven't picked up on it yet, I have a thing for writers who combine my love for the outdoors and writing- and happen to be dead. Burgess weaves a biology lesson into story, and before you know it, you are learning the natural way. A relationship of life and learning is formed.

That first night after the sand was washed away, pajamas were donned, and all were snuggled down, I pulled out Mr. Burgess for Little Bug in an attempt to calm his overstimulated state. Having never read this book, I no idea the orchestration of a new relationship that was about to take place. In the first page, we were all, including the teens, engrossed in a story about a country mouse visiting the beach, and his first night was a discovery of the world of, you guessed it, crabs.

Little Bug was fast asleep, but the older kids were interjecting their own story line:

"That's just what we saw!"

"Yeah, when I found that one crab, it looked just like that."

"Oh, that explains why that crab did that."

Masterful!

Just a note: I am struggling profoundly right now with schooling and our upcoming year, with two entering high school. Often my fear leads to my overloading my children with busy work and more traditional methods of "school". These five weeks away are my husband's gift to me-to step away from it all and get some perspective. Our first night was just what I needed. Natural learning engages even the most stubborn of minds, no matter how old.

Sancta Simplicitas

2011-06-14T10:20:00.001-04:00

Day 15: Fireworks

2011-06-04T22:05:00.000-04:00

Timing.   It's everything. Releasing one explosion of vibrant color at just the right moment, just after the one before makes all the difference. I've watched him over the years perfect the timing of fuse lighting, turning it into an art.  Brief moments of delay with anticipatory silence before the next, whoosh, bang, Wow! Wonder splashes itself across the darkness.

Family, bought with the same blood, found themselves in the midst of a fire this week. Lightening hit with such force it knocked her off the sofa and took out a wall.  Forced out of their home for a few weeks...can you see it, too? Perfect timing. Our home is free to be theirs while we are gone. When I caught a glimpse of it, that moment of connection of the fuses, my heart whispered, "Wow!"

These are the seasons of life when God's glory floods the expanse of your heart in such great measure that you don't think He can possibly trump Himself, display more. And at the very moment you are convinced the show is over, as the last sparkle dies down, the next wave begins, leaving you breathless, completely awestruck at the Beauty exploding before you.   His blasts blow out the walls, creating room to receive more of who He is.
_____________________________________________________________________

This week I celebrate seventeen years with the man who continually makes me see fireworks. What an adventure, a joy, a treasure these years have been! No matter how far apart we are home is always where he is.   I can't wait to see what the rest of our life holds.

And she. She was {on} fire this weekend. An amazing performance, a telling of Luke 15, of the two sons and a Father's love for both.

on the far left

on the far right

Day 14: The High Calling

2011-06-02T09:07:00.000-04:00

If you haven't already discovered them, stop by The High Calling today. THC is an online magazine and incredible network of writers and bloggers (you can join us, too!) in which "Honoring God in our daily work is much more than mere evangelism. Our work itself should be a testimony to our creator. That is why we encourage each other to remember the high calling of our daily work."

The kind folks at The High Calling are featuring my blog among nine others today. You will be blessed as you visit each one and perhaps even find a few kindred spirits in the mix.

Day 13: Full to the Brim

2011-05-29T23:50:00.000-04:00

That room was full to the brim of something beautiful, and Betsy knew what it was. Its name was Happiness.
~Understood Betsy, one of the most delightful books I've ever read

Within a week's time, our Father has graced us with a move from counting down the days until we would take my husband to the airport for a three month job in Iraq to counting down the days until we hop in the car and head to a small place where we can all be together with him on a short job. We are indeed full to the brim with the Beauty to which all these little strands point. Even in our temporary blurred vision, we can trace along the lines, fingering each one, and feel His face in the darkness.

Day 12: Flying

2011-05-25T12:32:00.001-04:00

Continuing to celebrate the end of the season as the day approaches where we mark the Ascension with a poem by George Herbert, my favorite seventeenth century man. May you find your greatest joy in flying upon the wing of His victory this day and all the days ever, my friends.

Easter Wings

                          Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,
                               Though foolishly he lost the same
                                  Decaying more and more
                                      Till he became
                                         Most poor:
                                         With Thee
                                      O, let me rise
                                   As larks, harmoniously,
                                 And sing this day Thy victories:
                            Then shall the fall further flight in me.

                           My tender age in sorrow did begin:
                                And still with sickness and shame
                                  Thou didst so punish sin
                                       That I became
                                          Most thin
                                          With Thee
                                        Let me combine,
                                    And feel this day Thy victory;
                                  For if I imp my wing on Thine,
                            Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

*imp=a falconry term meaning to mend a damaged wing of a hawk by grafting to it feathers from another bird. (source: Warnke and Witherspoon)

Day 11: Pink Silhouette and Ponytails

2011-05-23T23:47:00.000-04:00

Two weeks ago Lemon Tree Creations, a wonderful crafting blog, hosted a giveaway. The loot was a shirt or onesie from one of the cutest little etsy shops, The Monkey Shoppe. I fell in love with these lovely handcrafted appliques and entered and WON. Well, Baby E won.

Her shirt arrived just a week after I emailed my chosen design and was wrapped in pink and ribbons. I love how it turned out. It even has puffed sleeves that would make Anne of Green Gables proud.

The shop owner, Suzy, has been a delight to work with through the entire process and has a real eye for the little details that matter, like tucking in a matching gingham bow for Miss E's ~~peach fuzz~~ hair.

I'm amazed at how perfect the stitch is around the silhouette.

She's dreaming. Someday, baby girl, that luscious ponytail will be yours.

Day 10: The Surprising Twist of Beauty

2011-05-20T10:56:00.000-04:00

Ah, our Weaver has been at His delightful work these past twenty-four hours, tucking and pulling through our story these surprising little strands of pure, vibrant grace. His attention to the detail of perfect timing created this abiding sense of wonder that has yet to leave us. I think part of the lingering awe comes with every retelling.

The greatest twist came yesterday while my husband sat in a clinic at the start of a physical required for his next job overseas. The Lord opened wide the door for him to remain in the southeast for work! My heart drinks in relief and excitement that when he drives off to work it won't be for months this time.

Day 9: Chasing Eden

2011-05-17T21:41:00.000-04:00

My stomach is in knots. He was just a week out from leaving for an extended job, a return to a war torn land, and what does he do but throw himself full force into hard labor. From the window I watch him, beat red and dripping salt into the resistant earth. He strains hard against the curse that sent us guilt ridden out of Eden.

He says I will bear the more difficult job in his absence, but I beg to differ. I know what lies ahead for him. The unbearable heat. The sand in his teeth long after work is over- every bite of supper crunchy with grit. The small metal connex box with a room no bigger than my luxurious closet. The danger that naturally comes with his job not to mention that which comes from a country ill at rest with itself. The lack of communication or the rising hours before the sun just to get a call out to me. And all right there between the Tigris and Euphrates. A far cry from paradise. And all his thoughts are on creating one for me, an Eden.

That evening when all the work is done he pulls me in close, and we survey a job well done. He leans in to quietly speak purpose, "I wanted to make something for you so that every time you saw it you thought of me, how much I love you."

Paradise.

But he just reflects the Lover of our souls and turns my eyes to the One who labors His love out into the open, declaring His deepest heart for us in every blossoming gift. Some scream, others whisper the sweetest, softening words into our hardened hearts,

I love you. See how much I love you.

They rain down, the words and gifts. He tends the soil, for He has broken the curse that keeps us out. And Eden springs forth.

Day 8: The Beauty of Giving Up

2011-05-10T21:41:00.000-04:00

As I opened the car door this morning, there it sat. An empty reminder of a full experience.

A couple of years after we gave up television I gave up coffee (the devil's brew, as the Navigator calls it). I switched briefly to decaf before going cold turkey, which apparently is the only way I can give up an addiction. But, I lost my taste for it. Completely. And then my freedom from my addiction became a cause for pride. For being stubborn and impassable.

The Dancer, on the other hand, has developed a taste for the drink, and because of my weakness, I rarely give in to her request for coffee.

Last night, it was time to pick her up from dance. It was late. The two little ones were heavy eyed. But, what a lovely time to surprise her. To make a move to share something with her that no one else in the family will.

I pulled into the parking lot, walked through the door to order two cups of decaf, and gave up my resolve to not drink for the sake of something better: just a few quiet driving moments over a shared cup of fellowship. A good measure. Pressed down. Shaken together. Running over.

Day 7: Acoustic Beauty

2011-05-06T08:00:00.003-04:00

I love this artist. She wears her theology through her guitar. So lovely. Captivates me every time I watch this video.

Day 6: The Beauty School Drop Out

2011-05-05T18:31:00.001-04:00

I must admit it. Here, as publically as possible: I'm a beauty school drop out.

This book~

The Word

Bread

Water

Sword

Mirror

~is the tool in His beauty school, where He labors to make me not me. To tug and pull out the tangled mess. To purify clogged pores. To straighten the twisted. To burn away the unwanted weight. To open sealed eyes, closed ears. To pump blood into dead hearts.

Here, He doesn't brush on a cosmetic solution, creating a false, temporary beauty. He does the real work, the hard work we want to avoid. The work that makes us, honestly, run for the ease of blush and hair color.

So, why do I drop out continually? Push the Word aside and grab for others through my day? Allow my failures at memorization to create a bondage from returning, trying again and again and again?

Could it be that I really don't understand after 35 years as His what His school really offers me?

But, I read about its importance anew. And I am challenged and enlivened as I read, am reminded that the goal really is about wanting Him more. Falling in love. Finding Him the most satisfying joy. And I can see now that as one that belongs to Him it isn't so much about pointing out my flaws and imperfections and lack of measuring up (though at times there is some of that) but training me to see His beauty. And maybe something even more amazing.

He invites me to sit in the chair then pumps it high for me to see and turns me to face the mirror. And there I can ever so faintly begin to see the reflection.

Day 5: Wearing Easter Clothes Year Round

2011-05-05T09:33:00.002-04:00

I started this post two nights ago, and when it was all said and done, I hated it. Too cliche. But, I'm battling the need to write and post in spite of my misgivings. Just get it done versus making it just right. Risk creating the mediocre until something more extraordinary comes along.

With a crack of hardened flesh they awaken from their short slumber, unfurl and stretch. Then rest comes for a while, waiting for wings to form just the right arch for flight.

We discovered them huddled together on common ground in their brilliant new clothes. Dull asphalt transformed into canvas for a most extraordinary art. We were caught up in wonder by their design. By their presence. By their flight that defies the earthbound life they knew only days, hours before.

How I ache for beauty. To be beauty. To be the end product of His fashioning me into His likeness. But, there are days that I can only see the grave clothes, the twisted, hardened shell of the flesh. And I let my old dead image govern my living until I go to the mirror and read that the hope of restoration, of my remaking isn't just for my tomorrow, some far off revealing. It is for my today. He walked out of that tomb, leaving behind the grave clothes so that I may live wearing His glorious Easter attire year round. So that I can leave my dead weight behind, can defy my flesh bound life of old, and fly into His arms.

Day 4 : Delicious Rowdiness

2011-05-03T00:09:00.000-04:00

The walls echo with a delicious rowdiness. Some days feel like those walls might not hold, and the girls and I wonder what kind of world we have been transported into. A world of tumbles and hard knocks and deep guttural laughter and cries of "Uncle!". A world where stinkiness is a sign of manhood and fire and guns and arrows and tools hold an unearthly mesmerizing quality. A world where danger, risks, and circling just this side of death itself is the only way to live. And though a tomboy myself, I never really learned in our house of girls the secret life of boys. I admit I am lost.

So, I send them outside to the place where the clouds accept their noise without question and give them a soft cushion for all their explosive energy. There is no better sounding board than nature who hoots and hollers alongside, beckoning them to go on ahead and kick it up a notch. Here they are free, without civilized walls closing in on their impending manhood.

I am still learning this mothering of boys with all its letting go and giving more rolled into one package. And I have a piercing ache that longs to be this kind of a place for them...and weeps for the times I haven't. But, I love that I have been given the privilege of a front row seat to each metamorphosis because there is great delight in watching a boy grow into all he was made to be.

Day 3: The Beauty of a Girly Girl

2011-04-29T10:30:00.000-04:00

I am determined during these days of beauty to not only see it but to create a little. I have admired these sweet flowers since I discovered Emily's blog and finally had supplies in hand to make one for the baby.

It must be said that my boys were unbelievably excited about this craft. What's not beautiful to a boy about being allowed to burn fabric?

You'll notice that I was too lazy "to simply cut and melt again" the burnt parts.

And I think she noticed.

Day 2: Beauty on the Screen

2011-04-28T16:26:00.000-04:00

While we have been television free for five years now, I still love a great movie. Most of my favorites, OK all of my favorites are based on novels. British novels. Jane Erye. Anything Jane Austen. Horatio Hornblower. The one exception to the British rule is Anne of Green Gables.

With me kicking and screaming the whole way in 2009 we bought a Wii. (Can you tell that I have a real love-hate thing with technology?) Not long after that purchase Netflix started instant streaming, and I discovered a few beautiful movies I don't know how I missed. Now if I can squeeze in some time to read the books.

Day 1: Where Beauty Lives

2011-04-27T15:07:00.003-04:00

I was completely enamored. Somewhere around 8 or 9 was my first visit. It was a special trip, not something we did often. We could still drive right up to the house and park. Oh, to get out of the car, throw my head far back, and let the wonder of it all wash over.

My mom and I were just two of a handful of visitors. No big crowds or hype. Very few barricades and ropes. No coffee shops or winery or barnyard or outdoor center. Just this house that would forever ruin me for the ordinary.

Every room held some new delight, another cause for wonder. And, as we wandered through the heavily curtained rooms, I remember how my fingers danced along the ropes itching to touch those objects so strategically placed just out of reach. I felt as though one little contact might transport me into another life.

Most of us live like my childhood self. We walk through this new life in Christ with our hands behind our backs, fearful of touching what we believe isn't ours. We dance along outside, itching to cross that line into the beauty that feels confined to the extraordinary. Roped off. Meant for special occasions, special people. Just beyond the reach of our ordinary existence.

But the promise, the point of Easter is that Beauty Himself tore through the curtain, reached across and led us by the hand into the wonder of His life. Everyday. In the ordinary and not just for special occasion.

On the Light Side: On Having Children In Your Forties

2011-04-25T20:57:00.001-04:00

We took a long weekend away. Together. All seven of us. Out of town. For three days.

Once I catch up on sleep, I'll slip back into this little place.

In the meantime, here is another rarity. A photo of all of us. Try to overlook the fact that we took about seven pictures and none of them have all of us looking at the camera and the flip flops paired with jackets. It was cold, baby!

Oh, and one more thing. I was asked this weekend by the sweetest dulcimer playin' Tennessee man if those (Little Bug and Baby E) were my grandbabies. Yeah. I think it's time to head to Walgreens for my monthly box of "natural darkest brown." And to the gym. And back to 1994 if possible.

He Is Risen!

2011-04-25T16:46:00.000-04:00

The Days of Beauty

2011-04-19T12:47:00.001-04:00

The scales fall one by one.
Lashes flutter in a slow opening to the light.
Sometimes we squint and shut fast when brightness, when beauty hits our soul retina.
But His blood drops at Calvary and works on sealed eyes to correct the sin-darkened dilation that makes it impossible to see in the light.

This month starting with Easter Sunday I want to see more clearly with these new eyes and bring you along for the ride stepping stone by stone. Some days may hold art. Others poetry. Beautiful reads. Food. But, all are good gifts flowing from His hand. All lead the eye back to the Giver, move us deeper into the Light.

On the Light Side: Eat Your Heart Out Jackson Pollack

2011-04-18T22:59:00.000-04:00

'Cause there's a new abstract expressionist on the block (and his media is nummy)

Masterpiece

2011-04-15T15:21:00.000-04:00

God saved you by grace when you believed. And you can't take credit for this; it is a gift from God. Salvation is not a reward for the good things we have done, so none of us can boast about it. For we are God's masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago.
~ Ephesians 2:8-10 (NLT)

Making a Masterpiece of Me

2011-04-14T09:44:00.001-04:00

Creation is all around right now.

The gentle whirring of machines sewing.
The weaving of tales.
The releasing of books.
The kneading of bread.
The splashing of paint on canvas.
The carving deep into soft wood.
The pushing of tender shoots through soil.
The click, click, clicking of the shutter.

And yet, my hands can't seem to get here to my small space to tap away my words. The creative world spins, and I am not allowed on board as my life twirls to a unique rhythm.

I wonder why I can't get at my creating. And Sunday's sermon does a little gentle tapping in my thoughts: "The Object of Worship-the Lord Our Creator and Re-Creator."

I seem to fancy myself a creator of sorts. A weaver of the intermingling of life and words and, I hope, some Truth. But, as I gaze back across these two weeks, I come into focus a bit more, not as the creator but the created.

My Re-Creator has been hard at work in making a new canvas of me, and he means to make a masterpiece. He set out clearing away the old junk that resembles a velvet Elvis in a gallery of high art and replacing the faded colors with a fresh pallate and medium, a new heart on which His life, His desires are splashed across every inch of taut fabric.

The breaking of the old frame and stretching tight the clean fabric across expanded, healed joints isn't comfortable, but, oh, how I have longed for the change and have echoed the cries of Po in Kung Fu Panda, "How are you gonna make me NOT me?"

How would He choose to make a masterpiece of my low end, cheap imitation of His holiness?

Not through books or blogs or some comfortable armchair way. Not even through some high and lofty exhibition of great sacrifice. But through the discipline of service in the small things. The uncomfortable things. The simple things. The smaller daily constant sacrifices, little deaths to self as the creator. The things we most avoid because they kill the flesh that fights tooth and nail to survive another day.

But I am learning that the promise of resurrection is hidden within the death. That while I see all that isn't, He sees all that is, all He is making of me. A masterpiece.

When Your Inner Poet Goes Missing

2011-03-29T14:56:00.001-04:00

My inner poet has gone missing. I know she is still close by. On occasion, she pops in through the door unannounced and joins in the conversation at the most surprising moments. Or I'll hear her clear her throat from another room in the inner recesses of my thoughts. She wants to speak but withdraws, shrinks back behind her well designed utilitarian cover. There is safety in usefulness. In ink stained hands hidden under kitchen gloves.

Perhaps the bold reappearance of Spring has made her shy. His masterpieces mesmerize and steal the show, as they should. But, she forgets. She, too, is His work.

So, today I will not force, cajole, or shame her out of hiding but will let her simply be until the warmth of the Son's rays melts her fear away and gently awakens her own Spring emergence, His handiwork.

I will quietly keep the conversation going on about work and play and all things practical.

Sunday Supper has continued in the Compass house the last two weeks. We kept it simple with hoagie rolls and deli meat for lunch and fifteen bean soup for dinner. My first attempt at soaking beans taught me that overnight soaking just doesn't cut it. I found myself hungry enough to eat crunchy beans.

Confession time. This past Sunday was a big bust. We had guests for the weekend and ended up picking lunch up from a restaurant. The irony: my food never made it into the bag, and I had to eat leftovers. I cooked pork loin Martha Stewart style and green beans (soft, thankyouverymuch) and potatoes in the pressure cooker.

A couple of tips:

Use paper products when company comes on Sunday. I know. I can hear the rumblings as I type this. I, too, have a bit of an internal nudge about all the very good reasons not to go with paper, but for the moment, it is simplifying our attempts at both rest and hospitality.

Make cookie dough ahead of time and keep it refrigerated. On Sunday, line your cookie sheet with parchment paper for easy clean up, pop the globs (at least that's what they are around here) of dough in the oven, and enjoy hot, soft cookies.

If you want to join us in our pursuit of reclaiming a bit of Sabbath rest by cooking for Sunday on Saturday (or any other day), leave a comment about what you are planning or your practical tips. I'd love to hear from you.

_____________________________________________________________________
My favorite daily reads for the season, some for the year:

My mom, an amazing woman who taught me by example to love reading, brought this jewel to me one day as a gift. A delightful collection of daily readings that include a work of fiction, Scripture, and nonfiction from the author, this book sits by my bedside.

Another bedside read. I am always moved by these devotions.

Divided into 365 readings beginning with the first day of Spring, this book is a rare treasure. The kids and I have been reading through since the Fall. I am so often amazed to find that naturalists are some of the best writers.

If the links don't work, all three books can be found at http://www.amazon.com/

Photo credit: The Dancer. Man, that girl has a gift!

A Prayer for Spring

2011-03-21T23:15:00.000-04:00

The Dancer is growing into a photographer in her own right. I captured her in a state of wonder last week. My heart smiled large. And wept just a little at the child she is no more. At the woman she is fast becoming. At her seeing the greatness in the small movements of Spring slowly stretching and yawning and wiping Winter's slumber from her eyes.

A Prayer in Spring

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;

And give us not to think so far away

As the uncertain harvest; keep us here

All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,

Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;

And make us happy in the happy bees,

The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird

That suddenly above the bees is heard,

The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,

And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,

The which it is reserved for God above

To sanctify to what far ends He will,

But which it only needs that we fulfill.

~Robert Frost

My Favorite Walks

2011-03-17T23:10:00.000-04:00

Enjoy a few beautiful walks this weekend. This is just a taste of my recent favorites...and a couple of oldies.

There is wonderful Audra who wrote this and this.   I haven't stopped thinking about her words. Perfection. She has a way of holding deep things up to the light, and I always, always feel like her writing was meant just for me at just the right time.

Emily as always has a disarming way of writing that just melts into every pore. This is hers. This is a guest post at her place equal to its temporary space.

Tonia wrote this, and I had to read it over and over and let the truth of it wash over this hard heart that seems to choose more often than I want to admit to not read Truth.

Tammy, oh my! If you haven't found her, stop by and be blessed. She is a poet theologian.

Amy is my sister from the past (IRL) that He saw fit to reconnect in the present, and what a blessing she has been, even over a distance.   She is a kindred spirit through and through this lovely mother of eight blessings. I loved this and this, but it is her most recent post about her physical struggles that blew me away.

Ellen.   I had no idea this ultra talented lady was out there. I stumbled on her blog through a comment she left at Life in Grace. I noticed she lives in my town and emailed her on a whim! I have been blessed by her honest, beautiful writing about her life, her family, and her faith. And, yes, there is a little sewing in the mix, too. Check her series on waiting.

Sunday Supper: Reclaiming a Small Bit of Sabbath Rest

2011-03-12T15:54:00.001-05:00

Rushed and hurried, we push out the door and pile into the van. There is barely enough air to breath on Sundays as we try to squeeze in fellowship and time with the Navigator before he leaves for the work week.

We settle far too often. For the pushing. The shoving. The bruising that comes from allowing ourselves to be pulled into the world's easy way of doing Sabbath. And conviction touches down, presses its gentle thumb into the bruise to heal and not to harm.  The discomfort has its own draw. It's a tug back into His heart for the Sabbath as a day of rest.

One practical way the Navigator has longed to see fleshed out each week is to make all our preparations for Sunday meals on Saturday. The reason goes beyond making our lives easier. When we eat out or shop on Sundays, we realized we are requiring someone else work.

I, we have failed more than we would like to admit.   I need accountability.

In that spirit, I would like to start a Saturday link up, Sunday Supper, from the southern tradition of large, after church meals.   Here you can share recipes and traditions that help you prepare for a day of rest.

This is not a food blog, and I make no pretense of being a great cook.    I won't be sharing recipes that will rock your culinary world. I'm just a real mom with real interruptions and real time constraints, and the meals I post will most likely reflect that. I think, selfishly, I am hoping to glean some great recipes from y'all along the way.

This week I am making Pioneer Woman's Lasagna. Y'all, when she says "the best ever," believe her. And me. I have picky eaters who clamor for this lasagna. Visit her and learn from the master. (We used venison sausage in ours. Yes, indeed, my ten year old's first deer.)

Now it's your turn.

The Puzzle

2011-03-09T23:26:00.000-05:00

It was my loneliness or maybe unadulterated selfishness that sent me to her with a toddler and baby in tow. The Navigator had just left, and I've been, of late, struggling with a profound sadness at the sight of his car pulling away.   I've always missed him. But, this is a different kind of missing, a fog that rolls in unwanted and unannounced. It's puzzling.

I plopped into the chair, weighed, heavy with longing, and memories washed over.

Her first week of life we spent locked away in our room. I needed time to heal my midwife advised. I'd done this before with Little Bug. But, this time, this time my whole being seemed to rebel against the imposed isolation. After all the times I had wished for time to myself, one would think I would have treasured a little time alone.

Instead, I was anxious, weepy, and, yes, lonely. The kids stayed away. Visitors were scarce. And, it hit me in a moment of tears. This is how she feels. All. the. time.

I vowed to be more committed to visiting her in her room at the assisted living facility.

But, a week later I came out of that room. The clouds cleared away. Life began to pick up a new normal with five kids. And I completely forgot her. The plight of her four walls dissipated with the mental fog burning off in sunlight. Until Sunday.

The three of us walked into her room where she sat in her high backed chair, feet propped up on the recliner. I carried the baby in and sat next to her chair. Little Bug set out immediately to explore. She popped right up, and we visited.

Wrinkled hands, worn from a lifetime of hard work and service to others intermingled with tiny, dimpled ones. They fingered a toy tractor, danced around in hand rhyme games, and pieced together bits her puzzle. She made tractor noises, and he searched for old Christmas candy tucked away. The baby smiled and bounced and made her smile big, delighted her to no end.

No more than fifteen minutes. It was enough to figure out the puzzle. The pieces only needed to be matched, and it all came together. The way out of a fog is to move into someone else's. Selfish? Maybe. Or maybe He uses the fog, creates it even, to push us where our selfish hearts normally wouldn't go, out of ourselves.

We both walked with a spring in our step, as she used to say, as she followed us to the car.

"It's such a joy to have you all visit."

"It's a joy to us, too."

And I meant it. And the sun beamed down. And the puzzle came together in just the right way.

Escaping to the Realest Reality

2011-03-08T09:26:00.000-05:00

I'm trying my hand this morning at some free writing, which terrifies me to no end. No editing. No tweaking. No photos. Certainly improper grammar, as always. Just writing in the raw from a raw heart. From last night.

These days of separate living during the week are hard. He off to work in another time, another place. Me in my usual zone and space, this place we both call home. I miss turning to see his face, feeling his warm breath on my skin as we lay together, sharing life together as we talk across the short expanse of white sheets.

I slip alone into bed, the baby breathing in perfect rhythm in her space across the room.

In the soft quiet I laid still myself but unable to sleep. The evening Coke I knew I'd regret was working on me. So, I turned to face Him, who was there, is here. The conversation was one sided as I shared my day. My frustrations with myself. My fears about schooling. About parenting.

Then, my honesty finally blurted out what I most wanted. Just to see His face. To leave it all behind and get lost there instead of drowning here. I don't really want a problem solver. I want a love story. A happy ending to my end of the day. A happy all day. I want an ever present Lover of my soul.

Is this some kind of wild escapism I'm running after? Just a way out of my problems? Or...or am I seeking the realest Reality, one I don't want to escape, when I reach for His face across the space of my life?

(OK. I'll admit a little editing. Just couldn't help myself.)

The Best Blue {Ribbon} Banana Bread Ever

2011-03-05T15:14:00.000-05:00

I happened to have three, bordering on gross bananas in my kitchen today, and what better way to use them than banana bread? I have been eating, baking, using this recipe since my sister made it for the state fair way, way back when we were kids. She won a blue ribbon and rightly so. It is by far the best banana bread out there. Always moist and always, always brings the family peering around the corner questioning, "Is it ready yet?"

I wish I knew the origin, but around here it's known as Aunt Ginny's Blue Ribbon Banana Bread and here's how it's done:

Soften one stick of butter or margarine.
In a mixer, mix in one cup of sugar.
Add two eggs.

Now the next part really depends on your personality. If you are a gotta follow the way my mama taught me kind, then sift the dry ingredients before adding them. If you lean toward being a cooking rebel, just dump it all in hodgepodge-like with the creamed mixture and mix away.

Whatever your style, you will need:

2 cups of all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. baking soda

Take three mushy, brown bananas (mushy=sweet banana goodness) and mash them with a potato masher. If you like, enlist the help of your two year, who will take great delight in being free to destroy. You can fold them in with a spoon or use the mixer.

Pour into a pregreased loaf pan and bake at 350.

Now comes the hard part. Let it bake and bake and bake until you think you will go crazy from the aroma. Then, let it bake some more. About an hour. One maddening hour.

Test it with a toothpick. If it is still gooey in the center, endure a few more minutes. Feel free to stick close by with your nose close to the glass if it helps you through the torturous additional time.

I don't advise letting it cool. Just dive in. Cut yourself a couple of slices (or four...or five) before you call the troops down and you are left with only this and a memory...

A Life Happens Space

2011-03-03T22:38:00.002-05:00

Be forewarned. This is not my typical kinda post. Not my style. Not my usual topics. I apologize, I think. I'm a little nervous to be honest. The last time I deviated and wrote about homeschooling I lost several readers. So, this time I'm combining decorating and homeschooling which may be the coup de grace for this little blog. I'm feeling a little housy this week and thought I'd let you in on some of it if you're into that kind of thing.

Five and a half years. It's taken that long to get this space (almost) right. It has been through many evolutions and migrations throughout the house. The truth is we learn all over the house, all the time, so confining our day to one room seems, uh, confining.

But...

I dreamed about this space when we first set out well over eight years ago and lived in a tiny two bedroom apartment. Three kids shared the master bedroom, stacked one atop the other in bunk beds and a make shift trundle. School was everywhere. Books, books, books.

Not much has changed except that everywhere just got bigger. (Another story of growth in my understanding of God. Someday). We bought this house with the open loft upstairs intending for it to be a school room, but who was I kidding? We were never gonna use little desks lined up around a chalkboard.

Right after we moved in, the Navigator left for Iraq for two years. Not to worry. He was a contractor and came home every three months or so. Anyway, he started our bookshelves on his two week leave. Then, he left. He came home again and tweaked them. Then, he left. Oh, you get the picture. It's tough to work hard and still try to squeeze in a little more hard work on your vacation.

In the meantime, the room really was neglected. No one wanted to be in it. If it weren't for the computer, she would never have seen a soul.

Several years later. They were done and stunning (thank you, honey!), and I've been moving furniture and spray painting like a mad woman. She still isn't finished, but now life happens in this little one-window space. All the way down to the oil pastels (lellows, as Little Bug calls them--nope, no idea) on the slipcover and the dragons pacing for their meals.

A little slice of our life happens space:

(Somebody please help me with my exposure issues with my camera skills)

My husband's gorgeous handiwork. See the scorpion third shelf on the right. Yeah. We're trying to be friends. If only he would stop clawing at the cage behind me while I type at night. Also, note the lellows on the ottoman. That red chair was in my mom's house growing up. Love it.

Can you see that cute Little Bug tucked away? There is no extra charge for cuteness.

My thrifted spray painted table next to my thrifted still-awaiting (three years)-a-proper-slipcover chair.

Some spray paint and a template from Emily at Jones Design Company transformed this frame the Archer dragged up the hill from a neighbor's trash pile. I've trained that boy right. Homeschool days well spent.

The girls greet you as you come up the stairs. (again with the lighting...and the pacing)

Cute baby toes.

On the Light Side: Your Dog Might Be a Princess If...

2011-02-24T23:02:00.000-05:00

She eats from the table, and your son eats from her bowl (and think it's "Mmmmm").

She is walked by the slowest person in the group, the one least likely to require any real measure of physical exertion.

She has her own personal cycle rickshaw.

The Most Exquisite Pain

2011-02-14T16:04:00.000-05:00

If you are new here, start the story here and follow the links back to this post.

The last two weeks have been full of illness and sleepless little ones and interruptions galore. Even now, I type with a stuffy nosed six month old reaching for the keys. May I still be able to finish well this story and honor our daughters and Him, not profane the sacred. Thanks to my sisters-in-Him Amy and Audra who have walked alongside and encouraged me.

____________________________________________________________________________

It seems such a strange title for a Valentine's Day/birthday/gratitude post. But, what an appropriate day to complete this labor of love and bring it to delivery, a day where love and birth swim sychronized around my life creating concentric rings of grace, the kind that demands thanksgiving!
It is a most exquisite pain, to hold your daughters close the moment hello mingles with goodbye in the most bittersweet of ways.

We were left alone with them, Alexandra and Christina. And in those brief moments we loved on those two babies a whole lifetime of caring and longing and nurturing and dreaming. We took turns holding them, heads pressed together over them. Tracing the outline of each hand and foot. Caressing the details of tiny faces, eyes that would never open. Running our fingers over the familiar curves of elbows and knees. Loving how much they looked like the Dancer. Washing them with salty tears. Memorizing. The salt that burns in an open wound heals and preserves, seals the memories into flesh. And every last bit a gift.

We kissed them.
Then, let go, christening them both with the middle name,
Grace.

Never before had I experienced the sweetness of simple time, just being all there. My hard, cynical heart in the breaking and unbearable crucible of loss was softened. The softening led to remaking, renewing, a healing of the old Edenic wound that bled out the belief, "God isn't good." And this is grace, not that the flame is doused but that while we walk the circle of grief's blazing furnace, He is with us. His glorious presence rewrites the old script and reads, "He is good! He is good!"

Since that early, dark morning, I have learned that this story isn't ours at all but His. We've had no choice but to declare His sovereignty. But more, His goodness. But what a wonderful thing to be bound to, a lifetime of sharing Him and seeing how from this one thing a thousand blossoms spring forth!

Today, a day of gratitude, I remember their lives and all His graces on that Sunday after Thanksgiving. I am certain I will miss something. #'s 558-586

two ultrasounds
arms and legs rolling, flutters beneath my heart
the scent of their newborn skin
every touch
a diagnosis - Twin-to-Twin Transfusion Syndrome
time together as a family during the pregnancy
our family and friends who shared their homes, their time, their love
our pastor, Bill, who worked to get the Navigator by my side
the K's, who were there the moment I cried the first time
my sister sitting with me
sharing in their dance
love letters
the offers of grave sites
the use of a beach house to spend time together as a family at the Christmas Exodus
the sensitivity of the doctors and nurses and hospital staff
a small white heart with a blue tear drop on my door
the local church who supplied dresses and bonnets for the girls
the polaroid photos the nurse took, the only ones I have of our girls
the shells filled with their footprints
the staff at church that played music and printed the bulletins for the memorial service
the Dancer and Hunter whose sweet snuggles filled my empty, aching arms
all who prepared meals and sent flowers and cards and emails
all those who walked the path before who came alongside to cry, to comfort, to offer what they had
the community of women who have lost children
my parents- are words enough? They were there through every last bit and revealed his grace in ways I can never fully share.
the Navigator's parents traveling many after their births and for their memorial service
the Navigator's arms and words and loving me and walking with me
peace that truly defies understanding
His walking through the fire with us
sharing Him with the general's wife at the Navigator's graduation from basic training
two Novembers years later, the conceptions of Little Bug, then Baby E, whose name means "whole"

What a song! Our song. His story. (Thank you Christa Wells.)

You’re gonna cry yourself to sleep
Your’re gonna soak the pillow
for many weeks
You’re gonna cry
Why?
Why me?

But in spite of the ache
that doesn’t go away
You’ll be sharing your story
one rainy day
And at the next table somebody catches your words
He hear’s a truth that he’s never heard
He takes it back to the marriage he’d given up on
Hands it down to his daughter
who writes it into song
You didn’t know

A thousand things are happening in this one thing
Like a thousand fields nourished by a single drop of rain
So honey, wrap yourself in promise
while you wait the morning light
A thousand things are happening tonight

You’re gonna cry yourself to sleep
‘cause for the moment all that you can see
Is what you’ve lost , lost
Why me?

But in the midst of the most exquisite pain
you’re drawn into a peace that You cannot explain
and the praises you sing of a sovereign God
reach the girl whose last hope is gone
she never thought there was purpose in anything here
now the seed has been planted and it’s taking root there
You didn’t know

Chorus

A thousand things are happening tonight
You’re gonna cry yourself to sleep
A thousand miracles you’ll have to wait and see

(Song written and performed by Christa Wells. Lyrics found at http://inspiredtoaction.com/2010/11/giveaway-motivation-monday-music-im-thankful-for/)

The First Wave

2011-02-03T22:47:00.001-05:00

Read the threads:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7

She hooked up the fetal monitors. Moved them around several times. Hunting.  Expressionless, she left the room and reemerged with an ultrasound machine. And the OB.  I was completely oblivious. Just excited to get an ultrasound again. He took one swipe.

The look on his face. It remains forever imprinted in my mind along with His grace-ink spilled there to color, interpret all that was coming.

I read it wrong, the doctor's face.

Then his words pierced with their honesty.  The truth he spoke with as much sympathy as one person could offer to another.   There was no way to misread them. No way to sit in a false hope.

"I'm very sorry, but both babies are dead."

He had no idea but he had given me a gift in those words. He had called them babies. And he knew his words were going to crash hard against my very being.

"I need to...I have to figure out how to... Get to my husband."

He was only fifteen minutes away but a mile of paperwork, late night phone calls, prayers had to be mounted, raised for him to get out. He slept peacefully, in his own quiet oblivion of Army barracks with other soldiers-in-training, most fourteen years his junior and with no concept of the weight he was bearing. That he would bear.

The nurse immediately unhooked all monitors and whisked the ultrasound out of the room. The OB left. Neither said a word.  Their absence, their silence was a gift. And I sat there motionless.

Since that day, I have often described grief as a tide schedule we don't have. The undulating currents move and swell, and we have no idea when the next wave will crash over our days.

I was alone with Him as I groped and flailed and fought for the surface as that first wave slammed hard against my heart and sent me rolling.

___________________________________________________________________________

He bolted awake. Sat straight up in his bay bed. He was led downstairs by the soldier on watch.

The first sight brought him to tears. Our pastor and a dear friend, who had watched our toddlers while my parents were with me in the hospital, stood waiting for him in the open air first floor. The air was bitter. He knew before a single word was spoken.

He was released on emergency family leave. Somehow our pastor started making calls to the base chaplain after visiting me in that sterile room.   In record time, we're told, just a few hours, he was on his way to my side for the delivery of our daughters.

His grace-ink continued to write our story in bold, red letters that bled into our pain.  "I'm here with you," they whispered and wrapped us warm in His love.

By the time he reached me, I had been moved back to labor and delivery and had an epidural.  We were waiting on him.

They told me he was on his way up, and I watched the door until he appeared with a newly shaved head. And a smile for me.   Another stroke of His imprinted grace, etched clear and deep into me.

Love Letters

2011-01-29T15:17:00.001-05:00

Start here to begin the early threads

I moved day to day from one letter, one rare phone call to another. Hoping for a call. His voice over the phone was golden. Waiting for letters. Writing them daily. That cheap, plastic Walmart-bought box now sits on a shelf collecting dust most of the time, but its content is now a treasured link to those days apart.

I unfold our hearts in each envelope. Run my fingers over love infused ink. Try hard not to let pain seep into those ordinary moments.

My attempts to hold back the tears when the sergeant told me that he had just left after we had traveled across town for a brief visit. The Hunter's sweet smile as I wept and hoisted him into his seat.

The afternoon the babies wouldn't nap.

The way my belly and tired body kept me from caring for them as I so wanted.

The daily routine as my parents' house, three adults and two toddlers.

A day trip to a craft fair.

Little lips ritualistically touching a photo of him.

Their small hands on my belly, feeling their sisters' play.

My stomach knots and twists a little as the date draws near on the postage stamp, an expiration date for the mundane. Life apart was hard, but the days were normal. A rhythmic flow gently guided us through the hours. And each movement was a gift, a love letter from Him, ink that leaked into the deepest recesses of our hearts and left its permanent stain.

__________________________________________________________________________

But, I knew. Twenty-four weeks. My belly was too large. My sides hurt. The babies were slowing down with me. Their dance no longer a frolick but a slow waltz. A sweet little elbow would stay in place when rubbed. A larger bump would roll not bounce.

I bent over the freezer and prayed as my stomach tightened. It was Thanksgiving and my appointment with the new Department of Defense OB-Gyn was the next week. If I could just hold on.

The next night I finally called. She told me to drink orange juice and lay on my left side. It wasn't enough.

For hours in labor and delivery, I laid in bed, the same bed I was in with our first two when they told me I would be whisked away to a larger delivery room, as they stopped my labor. Their heartbeats were stable in spite of their safe cocoon squeezing and shaking uncontrollably from the drugs.

I woke through the hours to a succession of visitors in a chair across the room. My sister with her note cards preparing for exams. My parents, a constant, my rocks. Our friends bringing a book to pass the time. I told my parents not to let him know if he called. I was certain he would leave without authorization. And this was nothing really. It was all under control.

The babies and I were upgraded, sent to a bed in recovery to rest and be monitored. And I slept deeply with His letters echoing in the dreams.

Until a nurse came in to check our vitals.

Finding Theology in the Grocery Store

2011-01-18T21:00:00.000-05:00

I just needed to rush in for five things. Beef for stew, celery with the leaves, carrots, spinach, and waffles. With only Little E on my hip today, I moved along the aisles. Basket in the other hand, I scooped up all I needed for a big pot of comfort.

We made it to the check out counter. Ten items or less. Grabbing a Snickers bar, I congratulated myself on the fact that the cream puffs I really wanted weren't in the basket. An older gentleman chatted with the cashier and then stopped abruptly. Smiled large at the baby clinging to my shoulder. Commented about how she had made his day. Nothing prettier than a baby. I smiled back oblivious to the whole process as my five items ran over the scanner and into a bag. I simply swiped my card, said "thank you", took my grocery bags, and headed on my merry way. Except...

She had checked me out and bagged my groceries the day before, and I noticed her more then. She doesn't smile. Barely says a word. Again today. And as I pulled out of my parking space, I noted that I would be sure next time to go to Charles's lane. He always makes my day. Talks to me about what I am cooking, his family, smiles.

Then, out of nowhere, He intrudes on my thoughts. He's a bit pushy like that.

Isn't that why He sends me out each day? To be light to those in the darkness of no smiles, no concern from others, no "have a nice days?" And I, I only wanted what I could get from the grocery store.

And I have to ask. But the answer turns my blood cold and my cheeks hot. How much of my life do I live this way?

Then, the challenge came. What if I only went to her lane? Every. Single. Time. Stopped living for myself and seeking others who will fill my bags. My comfort and my happiness are not bound up in the Charleses, in making sure that I am looked after and fulfilled in the grocery lane. He fills me in His bounty so that I can be poured out for others. So that that cashier can know the smile that will make her life, will fill her bag to the brim in the middle of a world that demands and expects from her. All this is because it's not what I take away from the grocery store but what I can leave behind.

Look Up at the Miracle

2011-01-16T20:55:00.000-05:00

Look up at the miracle of the falling snow-the air a dizzy maze of whirling, eddying flakes, noiselessly tranforming the world, the exquisite crystals dropping in a ditch and gutter, and disguising in the same suit of spotless livery all objects upon which they fall. How novel and fine the first drifts! The old, dilapidated fence is suddenly set off with the most fantastic ruffles, scalloped and fluted after an unheard of fashion! ~John Burroughs

Earth mirroring the sky

The clouds dropped in the dark

White upon white
Above

Below

Within

When He reigns down

His exquisite perfection

through ordinary trappings

the Servant

into the Fall

Covering

Setting off

rust

dirt

flesh

the fallen

with the most fantastic fashion

we are clothed

in the same suit of spotless livery

Look up at the miracle of the falling snow!

"wash me, and I will be whitter than snow" ~Psalm 51:7

The First Goodbye

2011-01-14T18:28:00.001-05:00

Start the story here.

Deep breath. I write with the haunting tune from David Nevue on Evlogia spinning around me. I should be cleaning. I should be. But, here I am. Here I AM is with me as I press on.

In the cloak of early morning, we made our way, fingers threaded across the seats. I drank deeply of the smell of his skin, the only scent he wears, the lines on his face in the flickers of street light, memorizing all that would be gone from my senses for weeks.

The babies we both had held in our arms, rocked, danced to sleep for over a year slept peacefully in bed while he leaned over to touch their heads with gentle lips. The babies only I had the privilege to hold within danced their pas de deux. All were oblivious to his leaving.

We passed through the gate. My heart dropped into my stomach. I wondered if they felt it hit hard. I walked around to the driver's seat. We had already decided. No hard good-byes there in the dark drop off. I nuzzled close for only a moment, one sweet moment, got in the car, and drove away as he carried his burden into the building. He now belonged to the government for nine weeks. Really for four years.

The Girl I Just Couldn't Hate

2011-01-05T17:44:00.000-05:00

My words always seem to fail. How can I possibly squeeze my heart out into twenty six little letters like icing oozing onto a cupcake? The pastry bag just isn't deep enough to contain it. But, for Edie, today I will try. If you haven't met her, stop by her blog and meet this amazing woman. You will be blessed.

I found her a year ago all tucked away in blogland. Or maybe it was I who was tucked away, peering from around a corner at the party in the other room, wondering if I dare have the courage to take that step inside. She caught my eye and her southern blog hospitality made me feel comfortable enough to move forward.

While her gorgeous painted cabinets may have been the way I was introduced (and the Nester the one who linked us), it was her penetrating spirituality, her passionate love of her Savior and His Word that grabbed my attention. I started at the head of the trail on her blog and worked my way back to her beginnings. She was, to me, the popular, stylish girl in class that I wanted to hate but just couldn't help loving. And this affection has only grown with each post. I, the plain Jane introvert, had stumbled upon a most unexpected book loving, theology reading, Charlotte Mason homeschooling kindred spirit. (Perhaps she is my blonde, perky alter ego.)

Happy (belated) birthday, Edie! You inspire me to seek my grace-filled Savior more deeply.

(I ~~stole~~ borrowed this photo from her blog.)

The Quickening

2011-01-02T20:14:00.000-05:00

Read here to start the story.

I fell in love with them, too, those two sweet little babies that He knit within, my body, my heart.

The days grew shorter as my belly grew larger. The corn was harvested. Heavy coats were pulled tight around to shield from autumn winds, and they danced and rolled and tumbled in the warmth inside. And, I soaked up every moment of their play. It was a gift to feel the quickening so early, a gift I would treasure.

I would laugh when given the familiar shocked expression. Two sets of twins under two! My heart caught up to the gift and skipped along. The Weaver was untwisting the warped, cold, hard strands, softening and molding them in the warmth within His hand. He was quickening me.

Grace Falling

2010-12-31T22:39:00.000-05:00

There they were in black and white, those words I've never dared to utter: I wasn't sure I wanted this. Those are the words I trip over and walk around and try to ignore, but there they have laid for years right in plain view. They have held me back in this storytelling because "this" really meant them.

Before I had any clue of what was about to happen to my neat, safe world, I had said "no" to these two gifts, put a job and paying off debt above them. At least in my heart. And my heart, it twisted a little that day.

Or... maybe I just finally saw the deformity that was there all along. We often live under the delusion that we shape and fashion our idols, hammering them out into lovely, presentable things. But, with every strike of the hammer on the heart's anvil, we are twisted and molded into their image, dumb, deaf, and blind, unable to see Grace falling into our laps.

And this was one of those moments of Grace falling. I, the good girl, had fallen hard into the full knowledge of my own need, my own sinfulness. My eyes were opened to the truth that I was the wicked hag in Grace's audacious story, but, even more, Grace had fallen before me in such a way that I could not help but see more than myself in the story. Never had I been so in love with the beauty before me, the Savior, my Savior.

Avoiding a Hard Crash

2010-12-27T14:01:00.000-05:00

It was inevitable, I'm told, that the crash would come. Hard. Every year before the sun even began its descent on Christmas Day, she hit a wall, a meltdown.

The sugar from the two-foot-long-stocking candy would lose its sweetness. The presents lay in a bed of wrapping paper. The tree's skirt hidden for days made a reappearance all crumpled and sparkly. Family had come and gone, bellies full. Hearts fuller from laughter and tales and time together. The whistle and cheers from a distant football game serve as a sort of lulling background music for the end of the day.

Anticipation had given birth to delight and now the crash. A fury of emotion. Crying. Fatigue. Maybe a small tantrum here or there. All ending in sleep coming on her without warning, at least to her. My parents knew though.

It wasn't that she didn't get what she wanted. It was that what she wanted didn't bring the satisfaction she expected. All the hopes had come to an end.

I felt my own crash coming on last night. The rare gift of snow at Christmas here in the south began to drip away and a slow meltdown seeped into my heart with the giving thanks. I practice indirection and realize His arrival means hopes without end and what I want meets its satisfaction to the full. His white in my heart transforming the ordinary into cause for joy.

This Monday after Christmas I echo Robert Herrick's lines, whisper them softly into the sweet remains of a white blanketed gift:

Lord,'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand
That soils my land
And giv'st me, for my bushel sown,
Twice ten for one

All these, and better, Thou dost send
Me, to this end,
That I should render for my part
A thankful heart;
Which, fired with incense, I resign
As wholly Thine;
But the acceptance, that must be,
My Christ, by Thee.
"A Thanksgiving to God for His House"

#376 SNOW!!!
#377 whipped cream for hot chocolate
#378 snow boots
#379 a Japanese snowman
#380 Tobblerone
#381 red berries dressed in white and ice
#382 the muffled sound of falling snow
#383 large flakes
#384 nature's glitter and bling
#385 watching the dance out the church window
#386 snow play as worship
#387 an invitation to lunch and fellowship
#388 the remains of a day of a million gifts
#389 water dripping from the melting roofs
#390 Mom's delight in flakes falling from the trees and glittering remains on the road
#391 choosing the back way on purpose
#392 the ordinary transformed by white
#393 catching his eyes on me out of the corner of mine
#394 snow in the recycling bin

When Honey Sticks

2010-12-16T10:29:00.001-05:00

When the ugly idol of self rears and demands, I wonder out loud to Him. Why do I write? Why should I write?

And He answers.

Take words with you
and return to the Lord.
Say to Him:
'Forgive our sins
and receive us graciously
that we may offer the fruit of our lips.' ~Hosea 14:2

My heart pulses hard. But, I pass them on, shoot them across cyberspace certain they are meant for another.

But, these honey words dripping from His lips into my heart stick in a way I can't brush off.

I want to write like others. I really do. I can't. I don't. But, He tells me not to worry, not to, because these words in this space are His gift to me to return to Him, a sweetness returned. To Him. And that, right there, changes everything. And this sticks.

The Secrets of Storytelling

2010-12-11T22:22:00.002-05:00

Read here and here.

The best kind of story is always saturated from start to finish with Grace. While I am far from the end of my telling, I must pause to say that this birthing has not been easy and that perhaps the hardest part of my story's plot is the ugliness that surfaces from within this weak character. I am, after all, the type of character who desperately needs redeeming, and that truth isn't comfortable.

But, when things fall apart, Grace really is the punch line, the kicker that blows away all our misconceptions and misgivings. And not the maid-turned-into-a-princess kind of kicker but the ugly-wicked-hag-transformed-into-the-lovable-bride kind. It rushes in unexpected and breathes light into the darkness, beauty into the ugliness, life into the death. Grace is the hero, the One who forgives and heals those self-inflicted soul wounds and then writes a whole new beginning, not one that necessarily wipes out the old but uses it, redeems it. He is a skillful yarn weaver, taking the worst kind of character, the worst kind of ending to produce something beautiful. Those threads we would rather cut out and tuck out of sight become the stuff of his great workmanship. And we dare not critique him with a disapproving eye for His choice of materials. After all, we only see from our side, the side with all the knots and unharmonious mix of colors. Our dislike for our view of the picture is only natural. But, our Grace God takes our hand and guides us around to the His side, the right side where the glory is revealed. And we are left, yes, breathless.

Breathless

2010-12-09T00:41:00.002-05:00

Read Part I here

Sometimes it is the silence within that holds us back, those moments when we are taken by surprise by our own darkness. It knocks the wind out of us and leaves us lying breathless, gasping on the ground wondering who in the world we are.

I do hold back. Now. Then. It seems to be my way. And I remember the then, so many years ago now.

That day I walked into the room for an ultrasound alone only because we had just moved half way across the country and had no babysitter. Our firsts, twins, were a year. Spotting gave way to worry and led to the ultrasound. I wasn't far along.

As the technician squirted the warm blue gel over my belly and took one swipe with the wand, I blurted out half joking, half afraid, "Just don't tell me it's twins again."

With a stunned expression her face turned from the screen to me, "I can't tell you that because it looks like it is."

Breathless.

A quick visit from the radiologist confirmed her findings only he added, "It appears they are identical."

Breathless.

A strange mix of emotions took over on the drive home, that seemed to be an eternity. Joy. Concern. Worry. Excitement. Fear. Traffic slowed me down. I needed to slow, to breath because while this was great news it also meant huge changes not the least of which would mean losing our jobs. I wasn't sure I wanted this.

Breathless.

The babies were sleeping when I got home. I looked him in the eyes.

Breathless.

Read the continuation here.

Because This Is Where I Am

2010-12-02T14:02:00.002-05:00

My praying lips today mutter breathless over
a baby not sleeping
and a two year old making messes and throwing tantrums

and a kitchen piled high

and laundry piling higher,

over my nerves made more raw and patience less when the lights on the monitor flicker
and olders make noise and won't work and beg for more electronic time
and my stomach twists into knots and my head wails along
and I just wish for quiet and a few minutes.

I survey my life with one sweeping disgruntled stroke and sigh.

I just need You to come into all this. Be with me in these moments of unrest and no control and no sleep and no quiet and no "me time" and...no self-control, patience, no gentleness, no kindness or faithfulness, love, joy, peace. No. [Ah, yes, there it is my real need naked and open before me.] I need to come into You in all this because this is where I am. This is where I AM lives.

And You do remind me that You have come. You are with me gently whispering an invitation into my life bruised heart to come into Your life, to be with You. And I am slowly getting it, this way of indirection, the way that says we don't have a new kind of life by fighting harder but by responding to Your invitation to a love affair with You.

How to Stop Hydroplaning

2010-12-01T12:07:00.001-05:00

It was a cold, wet day. I was only a teenager making the long drive home from school. The rain steadily increased. The roads blackened.

In an unforseeable flash, a sea of red appeared closer than I expected. I slammed on the brakes. Hard.

Before I knew it, I was water borne, sliding almost gracefully across the asphalt. My little Toyota had been taken from my hands into another realm. I was looking the side of the road head on while still moving with traffic. I could turn my head to the right and see the faces in the car behind me.

Somehow, instinctively and with white knuckles, I gripped the wheel and turned it in the opposite direction from where I wanted to go. And with the same ease with which the water lifted my car, it relinquished control back to me.  I was righted as though nothing had happened, returning to my place on the road home.

I know that feeling well, of being carried along in the wrong direction. For months now, I've been hydroplaning, heading along contentedly looking for a Christmas change in our family. Reading. Pondering. Tossing around ideas. Enjoying wonderful posts here. Longing for more than superficial facelifts. Praying.

The red lights came suddenly tonight, and I made a sharp turn in the opposite direction.   If what I want most is a real change, then it must come from somewhere, someOne other than me.   I need to practice indirection.

Indirection affirms that spiritual formation does not occur by direct human effort but through a relational process whereby we receive from God the power or ability to do what we cannot do by our own effort.~Richard Foster

Maybe the best way to PRACTICE Christmas is a life of hard returns, to turn toward God and not toward change. Returning to Him is to change.

I need

A return to that time and place where God and Man walked together in intimate relationship, that time before the first drop of crimson was spilled on Man's behalf

A return to that tiny, obscure place where the birthing blood flowed as the Gift entered this world in our skin

A return to that dusty, darkened hill where His blood poured a path for His enemies, His eneME, to come back to Him

It is in the returning that we receive the gift that our hearts yearn for: this back-to-Him life.

So, a hard return this season turns me right where I most want to go, on my way Home.

Return to the LORD your God
for He is gracious and compassionate
slow to anger and abounding in love
Joel 2:13

Coming!

2010-11-29T13:13:00.006-05:00

The darkness has long settled in by the time I whisper to him what he waits all day to hear. My words send him into a fury of excitement, and he runs through the house the herald.

"Coming! Coming!"

Ending at the front door, he waits for bigger hands to open the way to see, takes his place of waiting on the stairs, and watches. Waiting and watching are our Friday night ceremony. Anticipation builds and gives way to dancing and singing. Until...

Those two eyes light the way, flash, signaling the arrival. The long awaited coming.

And he runs to meet those arms reaching to scoop him up. He comes with unabashed squealing and delight to the one who comes for him. This boy responds.

Can I respond to His coming for me in kind with unhindered, unapologetic squeals of delight? Today, this day of advent, I think I can feel it coming on in the quiet darkness--a return to childlike ways. A return to Him.

And it all begins with thanksgiving:

#301 a day at the zoo
#302 French onion soup
#303 hot steamy shower
#304 long warm bath with a good book
#305 holding a chubby baby--one I thought I might lose months and months ago
#306 found immunization records
#307 Baby E finding her voice
#308 hot breakfasts all week made by the Navigator
#309 small hand reaching across the white expanse of covers to touch his baby sister's hand
#310 good girl friend for the Dancer
#311 shea butter!
#312 tree decorating
#313 sentimental ornaments and storytelling
#314 Richard Foster's books--a new find at the library
#315 lights!
#316 the gift of memories--even if only in my tummy--of two tiny baby girls, twins we held in our arms and loved but for only a twinkling of time, 24 short weeks

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It's a mystery why the gratitude graphic won't show two weeks in a row now. Please visit Ann's blog for more of those in the Gratitude Community.

Desert Blossoms

2010-11-21T23:14:00.009-05:00

(photo by the Navigator taken in his former desert home)

This post was started around 14 weeks ago...

Years ago now he took the picture. He wanted people to see that not everything is a wasteland. Beauty can be found in the most desolate of places. War torn. Ravaged. Barren. Places none of us would choose to live.

Two weeks old, her sweetness seeps into my every waking moment. All but one. Well, six to eight moments each twenty-four hour rotation of this orb. This one thing, this one thorn I prayed about regularly during my pregnancy. I remember it well from Little Bug's first weeks. Pain. At times agonizing, bloody pain with nursing. How I feared the unanswered pleas and war raged within this territory, battling doubts, unbelief in His goodness, bitterness, anger.

Where is the blossom among the barreness of seemingly unanswered prayer? When those darker thoughts harden and the ground cracks, splitting between us and Him, how do we battle, wrestle, have any hope of victory?

In the gratitude. The praise.

In the depths of physical pain, songs gradually swell from within. I set a hymnal by the nursing chair, leaving it open as my memory. The hurt gives way to hymns. Set times, eight a day, praising is guaranteed, appointed, a healing salve softening the cracked, bleeding heart. Pain is transformed by praise. This thing I prayed against and didn't want became His tool for perfecting a grateful heart. Waters flow and the desert blossoms. And I take my own snapshots to remember.

A smattering of gratitude since July numbers 121-300:

an oversized chair

good milk supply

a second birthday

a visit from Mema and Popa

a peaceful day of fellowship with family at home

healing in spite of a poor latch

a fat, lazy dog who is great with kids

time with my parents

diapers

crickets and cicadas

normal iron counts

seeing older children hold their tiny baby sister

watching them care for Little Bug

a warm blanket fresh from the dryer

praying friends

warm baby smiles

God, my peace, my memory, my cause for praise

(Gratitude graphic is not showing this blurry Monday morning...hop over to Ann's site for more gratitude seekers.)

Three Months to Zero

2010-11-18T16:02:00.003-05:00

Fear grips hard sometimes when perfectionism guides. The grip tightens and strangles and squeezes the pulsing life from every thought until paralysis sets in. I stop. Hard. A new baby is a convenient excuse for silence. Really, though, it is the fear.

Last night, I checked. Three months of silence brought me to zero. No subscribers. I thought I would be sad. Instead, He breathed new life into this space, these words. He used her words to prepare my heart's soil for such news. It is her posts that give me the courage to write today, right here at zero.

"Zero is a good place to start anew." His words whispered into my deep resonate.

Indeed. Zero is the place to be when you want to write from the heart and not for praise.

It's fall around here with its explosion and losing. The trees are scabbing and healing and releasing their coverings. As the colors drop and dance and settle, only the silhouettes are left against the sky. Starting at zero leaves space, openings for a view to things hidden.

I too release, let go of my old source, and am left at zero with a great view of what...who was hidden amid all the accolades and the swelling of self that comes with numbers.

When I release, fear loses its grip and I can breath long and deep His words. Words of about Him. Words of Life. And He heals.

With zero comes abundance.

Borrowing..."Weekends are for"

2010-11-13T15:37:00.000-05:00

Finding your way back to creating.

Baby Butterfly Has Arrived!

2010-08-11T17:32:00.000-04:00

At 7:01 on 8/9/10 Baby Butterfly made her grand entrance! We are so in love with this little girl.

Walk with Me- Caedmon's Call

2010-07-18T11:04:00.000-04:00

This is what the Lord says:
"Stand at the crossroads and look
ask for the ancient paths,
ask where the good way is, and walk in it,
and you will find rest for your souls." ~Jeremiah 6:16

Freedom

2010-07-05T11:04:00.004-04:00

He prepped and trained and counseled and supervised. And eventually it was time. To let go. To watch. To be amazed and awed. From a distance.

To give a little room for a boy to grow into a man.

For a girl to grow a little more like Christ. To sacrifice personal comfort for the eternal freedom of another. To share Good News of real sacrifice. Of real liberty.

And if you ask. Yes, I am ever so grateful. And, tears did well up at the sight. And, I am awed by our great God, the One who designed all this...

#108-120

fireworks

food from the nations represented in our little cul de sac

the pleasure of the company of our wonderful neighbors

help cooking

a stress free block party

safety

fellowship and prayers

building relationships

conversation and delight in a good evening

help cleaning the aftermath

an opportunity for early Sunday morning conversation

13 years, two children

healing of premature lungs 13 years ago, for breath to finally come as we watched breathless and helpless to one born breech

70 years (though only 40 with me)

a godly father, an example of grace

family gatherings

talents shared

time with grandsons sharing a passion

five amazing young ladies

sleepovers

spontaneous, wholesome fun

birthday cake

our "Aunt of Cakes"

On the Light Side: Shock and a Little Awe

2010-07-01T17:03:00.001-04:00

George Mason University called today conducting a survey on local news issues for our city.

"How often do you watch the local news on TV?"
"Never."
"Never? Really?" (shock and maybe a little awe)
"Well, we don't have television at all." (I must insert no cable or local channels. We still own two televisions.)
"None?" (continues to be stunned)
"None. We do read the newspaper. Does that make me ineligible for your study?"
"Yes, it sure does. Wow. Well, let me go through this, just for the fun of it." (He rattles off the fact that I am ineligible and how much they appreciate my time.)
"That was fun."
"Yes, it was. Have a great weekend."

Storytelling and Silence

2010-06-30T20:01:00.003-04:00

This is not a story I tell often. Often enough. It is uncomfortable for everyone but me. So, I sit down tonight at the least convenient and thoughtful of times to write between the noise and chaos. After all, that is how our story, their story is usually told. It pops up out of nowhere, inconvenient but beautiful. In the grocery store check out line. Meeting someone new at a home school group. Talking with a soldier who was deployed when his wife miscarried. I carry it in my pocket always an accordian of snapshots to unfold our past, our grief before perfect strangers.

I have discovered how uncomfortable grief really is for those who are not walking the journey. I discovered it first from the listener's side while I was in college. I was young. Cool. Too insecure in myself. Too comfortable in my safe world.

A couple, dear friends in ministry, lost their first. They called her Sarah. I never said a word to them. Not a word. Of encouragement. Of sorrow. Of sympathy. Silence. Until years later. Seven to be exact.

To be continued.

Whisperings

2010-06-29T00:25:00.007-04:00

Quiet fills the house. Fans hum gently. Crickets on the front porch sing their sweet lullaby to my children. The rhythmic breathing of Little Bug can be heard over the baby monitor. I lay in that space somewhere between sleep and awake.

He slips into bed and moves in close, gently rubbing my head. And whispers. His song is a lullaby. His love for me. My beauty to him. The delight of these sixteen years. And I melt deeper into the pillow, dozing off into sweet sleep. Secure. Content.   In his love.

I never realize how much I need these words until they wash over me unexpected. How much more I need His love lullaby echoing into the chaos of my days, into the drowning cacophony of contrary words that question my Lover's intentions and feelings and my beauty to Him. As I listen to the anti-songs, I rush to fashion myself into their demands. The frenetic pace set by their tune leaves me weary and in need of intimate bedroom whisperings.

I grope amid the storm.  He takes my hand and silences the day, the noise, the chaos, my soul with His whisper.   He is my hold fast. He holds me fast. Only when I feel the strength of His grip, do I melt into rest and take hold of Him, secure and content in His love while He gently works on drawing me deeper into love with Him.

Deep calls to deep
in the roar of your waterfalls;
all your waves and breakers
have swept over me.

By day the Lord directs His love,
at night his song is with me
a prayer to the God of my life.
~Psalm 42:7-8

"The Windows"

2010-06-18T22:00:00.001-04:00

Lord, how can man preach Thy eternal word?
   He is a brittle, crazy glass;
Yet in Thy temple Thou dost him afford
   This glorious and transcedent place,
    To be a window, through Thy grace.

But when Thou dost anneal in glass Thy story,
    Making Thy life to shine within
The holy preachers, then the light and glory
    More reverend grows, and more doth win,
    Which else shows waterish, bleak, and thin.

Doctrine and life, colors and light, in one
    When they combine and mingle, bring
A strong regard and awe; but speech alone
   Doth vanish like a flaring thing,
   And in the ear, not conscience ring.

~George Herbert

On the Light Side: Surviving Target...

2010-06-18T17:32:00.000-04:00

sometimes requires violating your nutritional convictions and standards of cleanliness.

Weightier Things

2010-06-16T09:58:00.001-04:00

Emily and Ann have shown me practical ways to see beyond the ordinary to the sacred in every moment. Seeing and gratitude cure discontentment, gumbling, criticism. Yet, it is far too easy for me to take delight in my toddler's adorable ways or my daughter's dancing, but what of gratitude, considering joy in the less than beautiful? Jesus had eyes to see through the mud and murk of inconveniences and frustrations. He attended to the weightier things of life. (Try reading The Message version)

May He give us vision today.

The shiny handprints carelessly smeared on the walls and trail of Cheerios left behind by the little one who snuggles and brings joy.

The bags and purses left lying around anywhere they are dropped by one who sends sweet notes, offers a tender touch of compassion, and is always ready with an encouraging word.

The muddy footprints left on clean carpet by one who was out playing with unbelieving friends, sharing the Good News in word and deed.

The toilet left unflushed by one who gently, graciously, and without complaint cares for those weaker than he.

May the temporary fade from view as we attend to the greater.

Cravings

2010-06-15T15:38:00.002-04:00

Chocolate chip cookies. Brownies. Ice Cream. Coke (soda for you nonsoutherners like my husband). My body craves all that is so wrong for it, especially during pregnancy. Left to my own devices I would happily bake and devour an entire pan of butterscotch brownies all in one sitting, which is why I can't stay up too late after my young (and might I mention noncommisioned) accountability partners are asleep. They fear me spawning another ten pound baby, whose birth weight was the direct result of too many Reece's and hot fudge cakes.

What I need and what I want are diametrically opposed. And these are no mere longings, a wish list of sorts. They are cravings. Gotta haves. Will do anything to ensure I get. Hunt down. Actively seek out. Make it happen. But, my cravings misguide me. Unreliable. They need to be retrained so that they work in harmony with what my body needs. This takes time. And a constant feeding on the right stuff all the time until I crave what is good. Crave the best.

Our fallen nature was born with inbred cravings for anything and everything other than God. From the beginning, we come crying into this world. Sick. Abnormal in our desires. Addicts of the worst kind of fare. Convinced that our souls will most be satisfied by the lusts of the flesh, the pride of life, by every idol that waves to us on the path. Whispers our name. Whistles a compliment.

He came to break our addictions. To restore us to health. To retrain our tastes so that we crave the only One who will satisfy our souls. On this sanctification walk, we lose our tastes for this world's fare by feeding on Him, and He will awaken our souls to the immeasurable delight of heaven's table. And we will wonder how we ever longed for anything else.

But, like in sickness, did I loathe this food,
But, as in health, come to my natural taste,
Now I do wish it, love it, long for it,
And will forevermore be true to it.
~A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act IV, scene i

Grace

2010-06-09T08:54:00.001-04:00

Hears what is not said

Sees what others cannot

the need

the brokenness

the helplessness

In the cold and unloving

The unlovable

And does what others will not…cannot

Comes as a gentle breeze

A cool drink

A balm

An encouraging word

A small thoughtful deed

And plants Himself deep in the ungraceful

Taking root in the unlovely

Until they become like Him

(written for Nana on Mother's Day)

Welcome iFellowshipers!

The Gift of Emptiness

2010-06-08T15:52:00.002-04:00

The white expanse stretches before me. It's really the expanse within that frustrates.    Complete impotence.   Writer's block has been the bane of my existence from the beginning.   The desire, the topic are there. The words, however, take on a will of their own and refuse to follow. The page remains blank. Empty.

Sometimes, it seems, the gift is wrapped in the emptiness. The quiet in the wee hours of the morning. The rest in the symphony. The lack of work for months. The blank schedule.   The silent phone. The empty inbox. The delay in the checkout line. The absence before the reunion. Winter barrenness just before spring. The empty womb after birth.

It is the emptiness that creates. Longing. Desire. Anticipation. Hope. Passion. Seeking.

The white page is my gift today. It pushes me beyond...me.   Slows me down enough to seek Him.   The lacking allows me to feel the fullness, the sweetness of His presence. In the silence, His voice is heard. In the stillness, His Spirit quickens. In the emptiness, I know the joy of being held in His arms.

Finding My List

2010-06-07T09:59:00.003-04:00

This list gets lost sometimes. For long periods of time. I allow it to be drowned out by the mental cacophony of my own ideas of important until it, walking around in the simplicity of the ordinary, finds me. Heaven in ordinary pops around the corner in the most obvious places, but it takes new eyes to see. Peeping through the crib. Grabbing a hand for the simple pleasure of the touch. Working to build for the love of another. Sharing God's love with those who have hurt you.

#79 three journals: my spiritual, and favorite; life long learning; decorating/crafting

#80 holding hands

#81 16 years

#82 an anniversary dinner

#83 a walk through the state house grounds at dusk

#84 pacifier sucking sounds in the middle of the night

#85 flutters from Baby Butterfly

#90 fans and air conditioning

#91 new candlesticks, big and chunky, to fill the perfect mantel spot

#92 poetry

#93 an unplanned history lesson with an outdated globe

#94 learning to cook from scratch

#95 freshly painted, DIY shelves and closet made by the Navigator--the BEST

#96 books, books, books for the shelves

#97 a daughter's growing love of photography

#98 water handed out at a bus stop for weary children (the same children who have hurled insults and rocks)

#99 the love of Christ

#100 toddler toes poking through crib slats

#101 toddler hands carefully bringing me my hot tea (and tea that was not so hot)

#102 a finished ottoman slipcover, imperfections and all

#103 Martin Luther and Edith Schaeffer, my favorite reads at the moment

#104 the book of Deuteronomy

#105 a week off work, cause for trusting God's provision and enjoying time with the Navigator

#106 a back porch for short summer naps

#107 great neighbors

Heaven in Ordinary

2010-06-05T08:00:00.001-04:00

Prayer, the church's banquet, angels' age,

God's breath in man returning to his birth,

The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage,

The Christian plummet sounding heaven and earth;

Engine against the Almighty, sinner's tower,

Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear,

The six days' world-transposing in an hour,

A kind of tune, which all things hear and fear;

Softness, and peace, and joy, and love, and bliss,

Exalted manna, gladness of the best,

Heaven in ordinary, man well dressed,

The Milky Way, the bird of Paradise,

Church bells beyond the stars heard, the soul's blood,

The land of spices, something understood.

(sigh) ~ "Prayer" by George Herbert

I think if I could rename my blog, I would call it Heaven in Ordinary. What a lovely image!

The Apprentice

2010-06-04T08:00:00.005-04:00

She dances. In moments when she thinks no one is looking, she spins and leaps and stretches. She hasn't always. There was a time that dance took her away only once a week and was forgotten the other six. Now this worship dance consumes her. She can't help herself, naturally moving, practicing, making it her own. Deeper purpose directs and leads and moves.

The audition took an hour. All the girls with hair pulled tight and dressed in blue and numbers on their backs practiced in the warm room. She jumped right in. They are sisters to this one who has none in a testosterone home. Sisters in His blood family.

With one year under her belt, we were certain of the next level. She had worked hard, earned a greater role. The invitation came after a week of tortuous waiting, but it was not what was expected.

One more year. An apprentice. Disappointment hovered tangible. Crestfallen she retreated to her outdoor sanctuary. I watched from the window as questions circled overhead.

What did I do wrong?

Was my performance not good enough?

The role seemed so small until, later, another word came from the director just for her, for she had taken her hurt and questions to her teacher who knows the Dancer. Knows the dance. Knows best. She is pleased with her and delighted to have her in the company. Her dance, after all, isn't about her, about greater roles, or about advancement but about the delight of worship. Sharing Him through dance.

Just an apprentice myself, I am still learning the Dance into which I have been invited. The steps. The movements. The music. My partner. I judge my worship, my place before our Choreographer by my performance. Am I good enough? What have I done wrong? Right? But, purpose in this Dance goes far beyond self. It is one in which self is swallowed up, and He consumes. Me. My focus. My delight. He longs simply for my participation and whispers to me His delight that I am in His company dancing out my pleasure in Him.

On the Light Side: You might homeschool if...

2010-06-03T19:23:00.003-04:00

you look out your back window to find an algebra problem scratched into the dust.

Thanks, Nana, aka the best math teacher around!

Note: Something in this might also be a sign that you are a redneck. Just sayin'.

Poopy Diapers and Praise

2010-06-01T08:00:00.002-04:00

He is our little August Rush. Music is everywhere. The vacuum cleaner. The blender. The dog shaking her fur. The garbage truck outside. He will run from another room or pause whatever his hands are doing. Smile. And dance. Where we hear only noise and clatter, he hears a song, beauty, cause for dancing. We can't help but join in. His delight is contagious. The common is transformed into beauty. Our hearing is transformed, able to now enjoy what was once disguised.

The mundane day-to-day moments have a way of repeating themselves. Dish scrubbing. Clothes washing. Meal preparing. Floor cleaning. Teeth brushing. Poopy diaper changing. Again and again. They begin to take on the far too familiar tone of a song we would really rather forget. They run through our minds, our bodies in an annoying self-run repeat cycle.

We run the risk of getting swept along in the march. Of becoming robotic as we follow the rhythm. Unless. Unless we can feel the beauty of the pattern as a gift, a cause for dancing. For praising. All for the love of God the duty becomes a delight.

...[You] shall rejoice in everything [dishes, a broom, poopy diaper] you put your hand to because the LORD your God has blessed you. ~ Deuteronomy 12:7b