Dear John MacArthur, You Chose Wrongly, my Brother

Dear John MacArthur,

You chose wrongly, my brother.

Your Two-Word answer should have been, "A sister."

Photo credit to Grace Church

I understand that maybe you answered impulsively, and that now, hopefully, you are regretting it.

I found your email address online, and I wanted to contact you directly. You are my brother in Jesus, and I think of you as someone who loves God and who loves his Words.

For us who have the honor of saturating ourselves in God's Words, though, our responsibilities are higher. A God-soaked life should radiate out of us into a love-saturated lifestyle, and a deep humility. 

When you derisively, dismissively, and dishonoringly said, "Go Home," in a word-association game about Beth Moore, you chose wrongly. Whatever your disagreements are theologically with another person, they do not lead to dishonoring, contempt-filled language. She is a sister in Jesus with whom you will spend eternity, across God's table.

At a ceremony honoring your fifty years as preaching pastor at a church called Grace, you displayed none. I am saddened, my brother, that this occasion that should have been marked with joy for you and your members is now framed in sad shame for the rest of us.

When Todd Friel set you up for this derisive comment, he embarrassed himself, and other Jesus-followers, and he shamed his title as a shepherd-pastor. When Phil Johnson called her narcissistic and claimed her teachings were self-focused, he was dishonoring to another brother or sister in Jesus, as well as incorrect.

You know that our God calls us to go directly to our brother or sister if we have a disagreement with them, not to name-call or attack them publicly. 

When nervous or complicit laughter broke out across your auditorium at the sight of three pastors dishonoring a fellow Jesus-follower, we shamed the name of Jesus. At a conference called Truth Matters, you did not honor the One Called Truth. Truth is a person, who calls us to live and walk in his Ways. Behind a website called "Grace to You," we have tripped and fallen and are not offering grace there this week.

Half of your constituents are women. Strong capable women, called Ezer Warrior Helpers by their God, the name he calls himself often in the Bible, meaning warrior, ally, comrade. Many other wise people have already answered back against your claims on women this week, though, here, here, and here.

That is not the aim of my letter to you, though. My brother, you chose wrongly. Your Two-Word answer should have been "a sister." 

Please speak up in humble gentle apology to the watching world. Our God watches. The world watches. Our words matter. Our attitudes lay naked, exposed, and our words carry power. As family in Jesus, we can always agree or disagree with each other, but our model is to do it in honoring, respectful ways, and to their faces.

I'm clicking "send" to this email to you, and Todd, and Phil, and praying hard.

Sincerely, respectfully,

Jennifer Dougan
a sister in this God-family around the world

While You Were Waiting

Photo: Moon Lee, Creative Commons, cc license

Collapsed and cubed cardboard boxes climb the downstairs couch, and scatter the floor. My gardens and landscape beds lie neglected, choked with broadleaf plantain weeds, skinny grasses, and surprise sunflowers from last year's blossoms. I don't how long we'll be here, so I decided not to plant anything this year.

I feel a little bit like Noah from the Bible, who started building the ark before he saw the rain. This week we start packing up for a move that hasn't happened yet. Labeling boxes for a new kitchen, living room, and bedrooms, we guess where they'll be and can't picture our new home yet. Paperwork that completes our house's impending sale is up in the air still, and we are hesitant to put an offer on a new house before they fully clear. So, we wait and trust, and wait and wonder.

It's an odd thing, this waiting game we all find ourselves in some days. We probably have different things we wait for and wonder about. Whether you are waiting for your kids' school to resume, or for a doctor's prognosis, a friend's call, a relationship to heal, or a job change, we all have moments to wait. What does this waiting season look like? What can it look like? It looks differently depending on the day for me.

I pull my Bible, gratitude notebook, and journal close this morning, with my french press coffee on the side. Starting with the gratitude gifts notebook, I scrawl simple things I see: #3750 summer, #3751 breeze with sweet scents, #3752 lazy white cotton seeds floating by, ...herbs growing in a bucket, hot fresh coffee, sleeping in this morning, worship floating through the house, last piece of strawberry rhubarb pie for breakfast. 

It's not until eleven counted gifts in that they start getting deeper: deep talks with a son, scary lessons learned, seeing my negative influence affect my daughter's choices too. Humility always follows thankfulness, doesn't it? Counting God's gracious gifts that stack and topple high never fails to help me suddenly see my own shadowy sins in the corner. Brought to the surface, they are carried to Him, confessed, and forgotten, though. God's kindness overflows.

My pen scratches beauty seen and captured: cotton puffs erroneously landing to try to live on my coffee cup and the quirky laughter that gives me; a friend buying a house that is nearby; and romantic thoughtfulness seen in my man. I stop and tap out a quick text to him, smiling quietly to myself at the table.

I write and count more: red-capped birds scavenging in my weedy garden; succulent jade plant thriving, a neglected garden meaning a summer of change, and suddenly the gratitude list turns personal, and I find myself actually talking to Him. Praying, trusting you, choosing to trust. Lessons of choosing to trust you, God, to believe you. Knowing you! 

The joy mounts, and I feel the peace settle in, relaxing my shoulders. I write more, realizing that it finally feels like talking to him face to face, no longer just an anonymous list. Knowing your heart, your hand, God. Waiting for your timing; heading off here now to encounter you in your word, I smile and get ready to zip open my ratty red Bible cover. That your word is active and alive; I keep seeing the gifts now for which to thank him: that YOU are active and alive! Lord, I want to meet with you, learn from you. 

And the waiting mood has changed again. Reminding myself of who he is, and of how he cares for his creation resets my mood. Thoughts shape feelings. Truth determines attitude. 

Grabbing the verse that has become a mantra lately, I'm going to heat my cold coffee and start packing books. Join me? "I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I put my hope" (Psalm 130:5).

Dance Parties in the Sunset & Life's Questions at the End of Day

Photo Credit: Sarah MacMillan, Creative Commons, cc license

A bird chirrups in long unfamiliar calls outside and we clamber to discover what it is. Kneeling on the couch, we peer out the living room window, searching for a cardinal or robin, and struggling to remember which bird sounds like this. Our ornithology science class seems further away than just a few years.

Orange twilight laps pink rose onto treetops, and a horizon of tree trunks glows red. A spring breeze blows evergreens into naked lilac bushes, and tiny buds tremor in the wind. In moments, brick twilight stains the treetops, and evening's cool slips in through the open deck door. Darkness follows.

My oldest bikes south with the wind at his back, miles spinning past, and I'm relieved when he texts me later to say he has safely arrived. Meanwhile daughter and friend chalk sunset art on the black driveway, and dance bare feet on the images in an attempt to smudge and shade the colors. Youngest sleeps, husband relaxes, and my brother calls. Wrapping up in a purple afghan, I curl up on wood deck planks outside, and carry the phone with me as we talk. He shares about his back pain, and we wonder about physical therapy, before talk turns to grilling and supper recipes. Soon his chicken is done, and we say goodbye, and I remind myself to pray for his upcoming appointment this week.

A friend drops by this evening, and we update each other on our families, our wonders, our worries. Her sweatshirt is still on, and her foot stays lifted mid-step on the stairs. The conversation is short, but our eyes meet, and we share an encouraging hug. She heads home, a whiff of sunscreen still in her hair.

The evening passes quickly, and after laughter and hugs, my fifteen year old sneaks up behind me.

"Mom, will you pray for me?" She has an end-of-year oral presentation tomorrow.

 I pull my tall fifteen year old onto my lap, and lean into her cheek as we pray.

And this life? It is normal and ordinary. Brown matted grass wrapped in crimson twilight that fades to black. And this? This is community. Whether with our kids, or neighbors, siblings, or friends, we can unfold our lives, peel back the colors to share and pray, worry quiet in the soft sunset together, then dance laughing on the picture, adding dimension to what is there.


(Learning to see and count God's gifts each day, I link tonight with Ann at A Holy Experience.) 

A Cosmic Wager: A Dare Thrown Across the Galaxies

 And that's the cosmic wager. A dare thrown across the galaxies, between two ethereal spirit beings. Like dice in a cup, the stakes are set, and humanity tumbles into the bowl. With swift inhales, the invisible spirit world leans in for a better angle.

Before this, the parameters were set. Striding into God's throne room, the devil laughed off God's invitation to see his human friend, Job.

"He just loves you, God, because his life is good. Take it all away, though, and he'd curse you to your face" was the wager.

And poor Job. He gets to be a token human to answer this cosmic wager. Will Job only thank God for the good things, the easy things? Or will he still trust God's heart when all of life falls apart?

I was wrong before, by accident. Well, incomplete, maybe...

In an earlier post about "How Do I Thank God For That?" we wrestled with the hard things, you and I. We accurately explained I Thessalonians 5:18 which says "IN everything give thanks" but I forgot about a verse in Ephesians...
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His teeth glint red from the light of the tiny black palm recorder shoved against his mouth. Thumbing the record button, my son growls and chirps phrase after phrase into the plastic device, then grins at the playback feature. Garbled and staticky, his words ring out each time. There's a sense of satisfaction in that for him, this five year old, to have his story spoken aloud. He giggles and whispers more.
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I finished a new book today, a slim blue memoir fresh off the shelves from a Minnesota author. I was curious to read her work. Addie Zierman writes vulnerably of a teen journey of faith, of aching loneliness and depression, and of disappointments in the church community. I respected her candor and wished that we had had the chance to meet then, in those twists and turns she wrote of. The youth pastor's wife heart in me tore for the adolescent version of her and wanted to take her out for coffee. I took note too of how to compassionately reach out to teens and young people in similar circumstances. Zierman writes at the end of her book, "So I began to write about all of it...and, in the writing, I found structure... I saw connections I hadn't seen before..."
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Two years ago I started scrawling out thankfulness lists in a gratitude journal, counting gifts from God-- both the easy good gifts, and the hard gifts, in which I remember that God is big enough to use even this, and that his heart can be trusted. My list soon spiraled inconsistently into any writing surface: my journals, here on this blog, and in the Gratitude Notebook itself.

Last week, I pulled out Ann Voskamp's book One Thousand Gifts again, reading it anew, wanting to learn and relearn the habits of finding joy in the everyday life, of seeing even more intimately God's heart and love for the people he made. Ann dares us "to live fully right where you are" and to know that joy is always possible.

I've lost that daily practice of naming gifts and lost my original Gratitude Notebook, so today I grabbed pen and paper, and started a new list. In her arguments for retraining the mind in this way to stop, see, and name the gift, Voskamp compiles quotes from:

- the apostle Paul where he twice says, "I have learned how to be content...  I have learned the secret of living in every situation..." (Philippians 4:11-12).

-Erasmus who said, "A habit is overcome by habit" and

-Writer Annie Dillard who wrote, "Seeing is, of course, very much a matter of verbalization. Unless I call my attention to what passes before my eyes, I simply won't see it. It is ... 'not merely unnoticed, but...unseen'... I have to say the words, describe what I'm seeing...If I want to notice the lesser cataclysms of valley life, I have to maintain in my head a running description of the present" (Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts, 127, quoting Dillard).
                         
Words are powerful. They shape our perceptions, our memories, our identities. I choose how to see and frame my day, my family, my life, by how I stop, notice, and summarize my feelings, and by my response to the things around me.

Like five year old Daniel who is emboldened and authenticated by hearing his words repeated back to himself; like Zierman who found greater structure and connections in her life from the perspective of seeing it written out; and from my renewed challenge to see all of life as a gift from God, I'm writing it line by line.

Because what I missed last time? What I forgot, was this cosmic wager and this command in Ephesians: "Always give thanks to God the Father for everything, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ" (Ephesians 5:20). FOR everything, not just IN everything. This is new territory to me, a truth I forget all the time, and work to re-learn.

Today is my chance to get ready for this cosmic wager, to train my mind to see, to note, to respond in trust. So I scrawl out thanks across the pages, thanking God for:
-sun splashing across my children's faces as they study
-hot coffee in my favorite mug
-a stable job
-9th grade science experiments at the stove with Morgan
-orchid buds swelling pregnant with life
-cars that run
- a warm house in Minnesota November

May writing out these words, these gifts, give me new perspective and train my heart to see His.

(Linking with Imperfect Prose.)

Revised: I've wrestled with this blog post throughout the night and throughout today again. My blithe easy gifts above seem incomplete and naive without addressing the hard gifts too. Hard things in our lives, and in our family's and friend's lives, like cancer, young deaths, hard marriage seasons, addictions, relationship issues, and more. And through them, I have become convinced of my God's loving hand, even while not understanding everything he allows to happen. And for that, I am stepping tremulously into thanking Him in everything, and learning to trust Him in trying to thank Him for everything. But, please extend grace, friends, as I still learn this? Maybe we can together walk this journey.

Photo credit: Creative Commons; Christmasstockimages.com 

The French Were Wrong

Two blonde veterinarian students review for a large exam at the coffee table to my left. Tucking their hair into long pony tails, they discuss bovine disorders and throw out rhino-something terms that leave me in the dust.

Nestled into a corner beside me, a slender woman with short silver hair and a teal parka rustles papers about World War II nurse rosters, and I glimpse attendance sheets and columns of names. My curiosity mounts and I try to restrain myself.

In the hair salon yesterday, I sat under a black plastic shawl as the stylist cut my hair. The beautiful Lebanese-American with a striking nose and tempestuous black curls tied behind a yellow bow told me stories of a five-year old her, moving into a step-mom's home who "never wanted kids."

I blinked back tears, too embarrassed to cry at Great Clips, while my stylist matter-of-factly said, "I just tried to be gone a lot. I watched the people at my friends' houses to see how relationships should be."

I bit down tears, and opened up too, saying how thankful I am for God's gentle love for us and work on me. We talked of our families and hopes and I remarked on her compassion and involvement in her sisters' lives.

A day later, and she still comes to mind. I smile and think of her resilience, and pray for her.

Growing up as a young American in West Africa and France, I soaked up those cultures. Returning to the United States twenty years ago, I still find myself a product of those rich cultures and experiences. One French social law that slips into my actions some days says to not engage in extended conversations with strangers, since it may trivialize or cheapen the concept of friendship. (Can you see why the French are mistakenly perceived as aloof or cold sometimes to foreigners?) The French themselves don't mind breaking this rule now, though, and I remind myself to also.

Stop and see the people around you today, friend. The coffee barista with the Austrian accent, the college students with their upcoming exams, the tired mom in the checkout lane who may visibly relax at the comment of how cute her toddler is, and your lovely hair stylist with untamed curls.

Stop. See them. Smile into their eyes, and receive the gift of meeting them. 

Linking with Ann, I count gifts of people today at A Holy Experience. 

Forgotten Arts in a Sweltering Underbelly Week

Chip bags crinkle and closet doors squeak as family members grab evening snacks behind me. Condensation coats my narrow glass, puddling on the desk below, and ninety-degree weather hangs heavy on the twilight.

"Watch the trees," my friend advised me earlier this week. "When the leaves go belly-side up,there's a storm coming." Peeking out my windows tonight, I catch sight of a few maple leaf bellies, but most are demure, hidden.

In a week of ninety-degree weather and one hundred percent humidity, we have moved college boys onto campus, and carried couches up and down flights of stairs, and in and out of a shiny black pick-up. Different friends graciously shared a couch, a pick-up, and their strength on a sweaty night.

Dropping off some college textbooks yesterday, I stepped into my son's new home on campus. Bunk-beds, dressers, and three desks crowd a brown and white dorm room, and on his desk, I see it. Familiar writing catches my eye. Propped up in the center of his desk, my son has a handwritten card and note from his little sister. Sloped writing speaks out a promise from the Bible for him, and a nearby card speaks of love and pride in him, and thanks him for being a brother that she looks up to, learns from, and misses already. On a desk with few papers on it, these stand out. 

The Huffington Post, in an article entitled U.S. Postal Service Survey Reveals Personal Letters at a Record Low, noted that for a "typical American household these days, nearly two months will pass before a personal letter shows up" in the mail. In addition to the increasing rarity of handwritten notes in a world of email and texts, Kentucky Living.com wonders about The Lost Art of Writing Thank You Notes, and CBS Minnesota's television channel asks Good Question: Are Hand-Written Thank You Notes Extinct?

Similar articles continue to catch my attention this year, convincing me further that my mom was right. Growing up, my parents gave us construction paper, crayons, pencils and notebook paper, with instructions on how to write thank you notes. We labored over them, our hands cramping up at times until we stopped to shake them out, and then resumed. Christmas or classical music played in early January as we wrote to grandparents, friends and families about the presents they gave us. Lively music flowed in early May as we sent out birthday present thank you's. My parents' reasoning was persuasive: if someone took the time to send you a note, give a gift, or extend kindness in some way, then our time was just as meaningful to spend on telling them thank you.

It stuck, and affects my parenting. At my house now, after Christmas and birthdays, or graduations, we pull out cards, slide out pens, and set the mood. Scrawled writing, shaky from disuse, and mounting lines of prose climb up the page, but gratitude seeps out more--and studies show that joy does too. This discipline of joy and thanks-- to my Maker, to the people in my life-- I desire it and strive for it.

So, tonight, as humidity and ninety-degree weather reminds me of this week's couches and moves, I pour another glass of ice water, pull out my basket of cards, and scrawl messy up the page, muscles still shaky from disuse. "Dear..."

Hi, thank YOU too, for being here, for reading and sharing your life. Thank you for the quiet solidarity of knowing you are here, whether you comment or not. And for you who slip comments in from time to time, thank you for that. I love hearing from you.

Linking with Ann Voskamp at A Holy Experience.

Photo credit #1 from bhmpics.com.

Who Doesn't Want More Joy and Energy?

In a flurry of pastel crepe paper, the pinata shattered and candy rained down on the four children. From the sidelines, we watched as they eagerly reached in to pick up glittering wrapped chocolates. New to pinatas, my four year old happily snatched an M&M's packet and then came to me to open it.

"Hey, you can pick up more candy, if you want," I suggested, handing him a plastic baggie. Intent on his mini bag of M&M's though, he was satisfied, and simply wanted to eat them. I gathered some candy pieces for him to enjoy later with his siblings, but his actions had captured my attention.

Credit to Nature Mapping Foundation.org

On the walk home from our friend's house, I pushed his green stroller through wet streets, and pointed out bird calls to him. "That's a red-winged blackbird," I said, as I squatted down to point out the bird in the branches above. Vivid crimson and yellow flashed on the wings of a black bird.

Credit to Mother-Daughter Press

A screeching blue jay swooped overhead. "That's a blue jay. They warn other birds that people are near," I taught Daniel. We followed the jay's flight with our eyes, and I described the white tummy, blue head and jacket, and black painted eyes of the vibrant Midwest blue jay. Pausing under a tree, we craned our heads up to see the bird that swayed in the crisp breeze on branches high.

It takes time to see these birds, and to train our eyes to watch for them. I am a novice at bird-watching but six or seven birds catch my attention, and I listen for their calls, or stop to watch their splashes of color in our trees.

Walking home from the pinata party this afternoon, I thought I was the one training Daniel's eyes to stop, see, and savor. As he quietly munched M&M's, hunched over in the green stroller, though, I realized that he was teaching me. Grabbing a bag of M&M's, he turned away from the pile of candy, and was satisfied, stopping to savor what he had.

I'm training my eyes. It's been a year and a half journey to stop, see, and savor God's gifts. These joy lists, these gratitude journals, this process of counting His gifts, bring joy and perspective. Statistics show that counting gifts, one by one, brings greater happiness, greater energy and attentiveness, greater joy, greater emotional health, closer relationships and happiness in life, and who doesn't need that?! They rekindle in me a love for my God, and a love for my husband and family.

 (Thanks to Ann Voskamp at a Holy Experience for her statistics above. Check out her post here on "15 Happy Ways to Teach Kids to be Grateful.")

I link with Ann today to count gifts.. 

-preschool hugs and bird watching
-seeing beauty and new variety in the hues of brown along the highway
-the joy of meeting new women at Moms-Next this morning, in my session on Talking to Our Kids and Teens about Sex and Sexuality, and the joy of sharing together.
-being able to speak with women, and it feeling like worship between me and my God
-pinata lessons from my four year old

Have you seen these older posts?
-Conspiring Teens Plot Joy (Want their Secret?) 
-Five Seconds Away from Joy, Better Health and Peace of Mind

Pick up pen or keyboard, friend, and join me. Who doesn't need more joy and energy?

A Scary Privilege: How We as Moms Set the Tone

This Saturday, it fell apart.

"Why is it that the day before a Youth Sunday, everything somehow goes so badly?" my husband asked, sliding a hand through his hair in exasperation. "It never fails."

Toddlers dissolved into tears; teens argued; but mostly it was me. I argued, raged, and dissolved into tears. In an embarrassing grocery store incident, a stranger snapped at us -- I responded-- then he apologized and gently hoisted kitty litter into our cart. My daughter and I flushed an embarrassed crimson and bagged rapidly, wanting just to be away from watching eyes. Stacking blueberries and lettuce heads, I heard his soft apology, and offered an embarrassed one of my own.

Changing my default of discontent to doxology, described by Ann Voskamp, author of "One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are," is not easy to master. I can so easily fall into complaining, whining, or indignant behavior.

At home, surrounded by a bounty of groceries and a wealth of old resentment and impatience, my family and I stopped, apologized, and started over. Choosing to see good in the day, in each other, in the gifts from our Creator, we stopped, apologized and started over. 

Peace settled slowly into our home, joy creeping in. 

Oh friend, can you relate? Have you noticed a direct co-relation between your mood and your family's moods some days? What helps you and your family in those times? (Those in email can click here to join the conversation.)

Linking with Ann and Emily.

Conspiring Teens Plot Joy (Want their Secret?)

The teens exchanged glances, eyes flaring, shoulders keeping time with the rising drums. “Ready?” was the unspoken question, as grins split open further to sing, “You are hooooooooly.”  Spiked blonde hair rose above a striped teal and brown shirt, and shorter brown-haired male in tan sang out with abandon, in a line of young men in the front row. Behind them, female teens smiled wide, glanced at friends nearby, and dropped jaws to sing with rich tones. “Hoooooly, Holy, You are hooooooly, holy.” 

Drums boom, the church families, singles and grandparents all raise voices high, but it's the teens who grab my attention. I love their joy, their “Ready? Let’s go” glances to each other as the recognized chorus appears, and then their disappeared abandon to the words, as they close eyes, lean in, and sing out.

I can't comprehend your infinitely beautiful and perfect love
Oh I've dreamed dreams of majesty as brilliant as a billion stars
But they're never bright enough after all

You are Holy
Oh Holy
Holy, Holy, Holy

I will sing a song for you my God with everything I have in me
But it's never loud enough after all

You are Holy
Oh Holy
Holy, Holy, Holy

Heaven and earth are full, full of your glory, glory
My soul it overflows full of your glory, your glory
Oh blessed is he who reigns, full of your glory, your glory
My cup, it can't contain all of your glory, your glory
Hosanna we are found after all you are

Holy
Oh Holy
Holy, Holy, Holy

I can't comprehend
You're infinitely beautiful  (After all (Holy) by the David Crowder band) 

Sing with me this morning! “My soul it overflows, full of your glory… my cup it can’t contain all of your glory.” Linking with Ann and Shanda.

I love getting to know you. What has your weekend been like? Where have you seen joy this weekend? Those in email can join the conversations by clicking here. 

Photos courtesy of Microsoft clip art. Video courtesy of the David Crowder band, found on youtube.

"Plotting Murder?"

Dark dirt mounds litter my yard, evidence of a mole or gopher infestation. Mini mountains crest my lawn like volcanic islands being born. My landscaping beds, garden flowers, and plants have been frequent summer snacks for the rodent population. In a fit of murderous critter-rage last night, I spotted two entry tunnels – a rare find—and rushed into our garage for the gopher traps. They weren’t there. 

My plastic bag of dirt with the two metal gopher traps was nowhere to be seen. Overturning tent tarps, lifting bocce balls, and sliding garden supplies to the side produced no results. The yellow poison pellets were gone too. 

Spewing poison myself, I spoke impatiently to my husband, and then to my son. Racing against time, I grabbed my car keys and wallet, and squealed out of the driveway, muttering to myself. 

The sun sank lower on the horizon, and the orange box superstore glowed in the twilight as I parked. In front of me, a veiled matron ambled calmly through the doors, wrapped in muted blacks and greys, except for one bedazzled zebra and fuchsia purse that matched the black in her head covering. Pink spots in her shoes poked out from the long robe, and I grinned in quiet connection with her. Her son and husband walked gently beside her, intent on their projects as well. 

Inside I strode to the critter aisle, scanning the shelves for my traps. My poisoned words echoed back to me. The sharpness of my words sliced in. Wounds and gashes could be dealt so quickly. Items in hand I retraced my steps to the front of the store, scanned my purchases, noted the sharpness of the prongs, and quietly walked out to my car. 

Tangerine, rose and grey-violet streaked the sky, layering high. Crimson trees stood tall against yellow, blue and rust backdrops. Changing gears, I pulled into my driveway, mounted the stairs, kissed my man, and apologized to my towering son. “I’m sorry for spewing poisonous words. My anger is at the moles and at having to buy the traps again, not you. Will you forgive me?” 

Darkness fell refreshingly cool as we read cardboard instructions and tramped across tunneled grass together. 

Linking with Ann, Duane, and Emily, I count gifts, note sunsets, and chronicle stories of grace and redemption.

Confessions of a Robbed Robin Hood

At an abandoned gas station across the street, they loitered. Cheeky round things, peeking through the foliage, blushed in the sun.

While land battles were waged through pocket picket signs on yards and election-year newspaper articles about possible big box super stores, these coy ones loitered, blossomed, and hung out silent in a forgotten corner.

Knowing they were unclaimed and the land long-forsaken, I bounced happily across the street, assuming they were mine.  What abandoned gas station cares about apples on a small lone tree? In an area that may soon be demolished for a parking lot, who was planning on these pommes?

Throughout the summer, I popped over for a juicy green apple, thrilled to have "my own" tree finally. Seeing landfall apples neglected on the ground confirmed my conclusion. These could be mine, I sighed happily.

 Hearing of the wonders and necessity of frost on apples, I restrained myself for a number of weeks.  This morning in the brisk morning air, needing an apple for my Korean Bulgogi lunch, I skipped across the street to my apple tree.

They were gone. High branches, low branches, even the windfall apples had been scooped up. Empty leaves and silent swaying branches stared back at me.

The mystery remains, and makes me blush slightly. Had local neighbors watched in amusement and awkward worry as I justified my Robin Hood moments of taking apples from a faceless parking lot and gas station conglomerate? Or had passing vehicles harkened upon my find, and profited too? Worst, had the business tycoons been notified of their rakish unaware rogue?

Blushing in Minnesota, and apple-less... I humbly join Ann in counting gifts:
-for ill-gotten apples, apparently
-for blushing acknowledgement of guilt
-for an afternoon of building raised garden beds with my dad and husband
-sunshine dripping cold off September leaves
-crisp morning air rushing in windows, cuddled blankets with four year old
-fresh cookies and coffee hot
-for his help in choosing peace, calm, kindness and the resulting joy and unity that brings!

Good evening, you. I am glad you are here. What was your day like today? What gifts are you counting as thanks today? Have any weekend confessions to laugh at with me too?

Photo credits to Microsoft clip art.

How to Stretch Summer Long

Photo credit

At seven am this morning, loud electronic chirping echoed through our house. Narrowing it down to the fire alarm near the kitchen, my husband perched on rickety wooden chair, pushing buttons, searching for a battery plate, and unwired it from the wall. Nothing worked and he eventually had to race off to worship practice, with the issue unsolved.

We ignored it through breakfast and showers, extracted bikes from the garage, and biked away to church, leaving the repetitious chirps behind.

At church, my teen daughter and I cared for three babies and toddlers in a nursery room filled with plastic foods, naked dolls, and race cars. In pink shorts and sleeveless shirt, one curly-haired preschooler fed imaginary applesauce to her baby brother. He instinctively opened his mouth each time the empty plastic spoon approached his lips. Her brother was expectantly obedient each time, and she was delighted with her live baby doll. My daughter and I watched this interaction and laughed, while sipping imaginary soup from yellow plastic cups. 

After church over parmesan ravioli and corn on the cob, we perched on wooden chairs again, pulling wires, hunting fire alarms throughout the house, trying new batteries, and flipping fuses. An hour later, we solved the mystery and dissolved into laughter at a nearby carbon monoxide detector – the culprit hidden away and guilty. 

The afternoon stretched deliciously long, summer shadows stretching lean across crisp yellow grass. Friends came and went, the driveway full of cars parked haphazardly, and new players were dealt in. Spaghetti spread on plates stacked high, and towering young men bowed heads low in prayer. Laughter and hours flew by. 

Later, my niece, son, husband and I grabbed terry cloth towels to sit around the fire pit. Juicy cherries spilled sweetness; marshmallows roasted caramel and melted chocolate squares; and son pulled guitar close, sprawling paper lyrics wide. “Choose the songs,” he said. “They’re alphabetical. Just keep the wood coming, please, Mom, so I can see.” 

I snapped twigs, and the three of us sang. 

"When the music fades
And all is stripped away
And I simply come
Longing just to bring
Something that's of worth
That will bless your heart

I'll bring You more than a song
For a song in itself
Is not what You have required
You search much deeper within
Through the ways things appear
You're looking into my heart

I'm coming back to the heart of worship
And it's all about You
All about You, Jesus
I'm sorry Lord for the thing I've made it
When it's all about You
It's all about You Jesus

King of endless worth
No one could express
How much You deserve
Though I'm weak and poor
All I have is Yours
Every single breath…"

Joining Ann,  Shanda, and Duane, I am counting God’s gifts:

-chances to serve Jesus clothed in toddler pink and in baby angst

-calm laughter through hours of electronic beeping and mysteries

-family, friends, laughter, friendly game-competition

-long summer afternoons

-shared suppers

-evening bonfires, cherries sweet, marshmallows golden

-worship from my family’s throats

Song credit to Matt Redman. 

Hello friends, what are you thankful for today? Or, what was one delicious thing you ate this weekend?