When You Feel Like You're Just Hanging On

It had been hanging by a thread for a while.

Silver filament too flimsy for such a pendulous weight. Mark had even warned me.

"Jen, are you sure this chain is strong enough?"

"It's fine," I said, sliding the round silver Courage pendant onto the silver chain.

This morning in the dark hours before full wakefulness, I had flipped and turned. Thoughts of our upcoming Vow Renewal flashed happy in my mind and I mentally made a list: tea light candles, a miniature amplifier to boost volume in my parents' backyard.

Wide awake but trying not to be, I had switched to my stomach, stretching chest smooth and tall against the bed, and swinging right hand under my neck to sweep long hair up across the pillow.

And then just like that, my courage had fallen off and slipped away.

Mark stirred beside me.

"Mark, my necklace broke!"

"Oh no," he murmured, voice husky and drowsy.

My courage had slipped away and fallen from sight, and the irony is not lost on me. My sweet silver-haired Dad on hospice has recently been coughing and breathing in shallower breaths, and thoughts of him inhaling and exhaling, and looking all grey and ashen are never far from my mind this week.

And did he lose weight in his face since I saw him two days ago? His temples gape empty and I pressed my fingers in them wonderingly yesterday, gently caressing his stubbly face.

"Je t'aime, Papa," I had murmured then, brushing my fingers across his cheek and short hair, and leaning in for another hug.

I had kissed my mom goodbye as well, and driven home in a daze in evening rush hour. The sun sank orange and crimson behind Interstate 35, cars moving in stop and go patterns. A crashed car stacked up the left lane for miles, and a caravan of cars snaked careful through crushed glass and I prayed heavy for the people and police on the side on the road as I passed.

And then this morning in dark pale light, I swiped hair aside and tore the last filament of Courage from my neck. I find myself reaching unconsciously up to slide my finger in the silver ring's center, ready to brush fingertips across the burnished edges and fading Courage font, and then stop when my neck is naked.

And perhaps it's best this reminder now of where my courage lies. It's not in a faded pendulous pendant on too flimsy filament.

And I hear it in my mind, and scramble to find the full verse and reference. "For the eyes of the Lord range throughout the earth to strengthen those whose hearts are committed to him," and I grab it and trace the empty neck, and for today, this is enough.


Welcome! I've missed being here with you. Sorry. My Monday night college-level class that I'm teaching takes up much of my time, besides loving being a mom, wife, home schooling mom, and daughter to my dear family members. I think of you though, and am glad to be popping back in here today to greet you. How are you? How can I pray for you this week? (Feel free to comment here.) 

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Living Two-Handed and Two-Faced

"Where's the video on college dorms?" she asked.

We clicked computer screens until the welcome week college video started playing. Smiling faces toured the university campus, music pulsed, and Morgan and I watched footage of dorm room move-ins and bunk bed assembly. Joy welled in me, and I thumped her back.

"I'm so excited for you!"

"Me too!"

Her long ponytail trailed her back and we sat in chairs pulled close to my desk. Music throbbed and the short film ended. We laughed to see that we were both wiping away excited tears.

Photo Credit: Flickr user COD Newsroom, Creative Commons, cc license

"I think it's the video," she stated.

"Well, I'm just so happy for you," I exclaimed.

She stood up, her enrollment deposit paid, the move-in date now written on our calendar. Bouncing downstairs, she was gone and the kitchen was silent.

I've been learning this week the dual truth that joy and grief can be simultaneous. Nine days ago, sad family news stopped my world. Since then we have walked numbly to doctors' offices, pens scrawling notes in solemn vigil. We have scrolled medical websites, estimated timelines, and stared silently into space.

And he said it once, a wise friend of ours, "We rejoice with those who rejoice and we mourn with those who mourn, and sometimes we do it back to back."

I am learning this week what it is to hold grief in one hand while navigating life with the other. In wanting to live transparently, I have been sharing our family news in occasional prayer emails and to friends in person, crying against their shoulders. But I also see the need to interact and to be present with sensitivity to a variety of settings. At Wednesday night youth group, junior high teens bounced energy as we played zany games of Pictionary Telephone and Four on a Couch. Their joy was evident and legitimate. Seeing their sweet faces that are so loved by God and us, I looked deep into their eyes and chose to be present, to be there, to be playful with them.

And we can hold grief and zany laughter in one body. I am learning this surreal and complicated reality: that joy and grief can co-habitate and that I hold them in honest hands before me.

I can mourn. I can rejoice. And I'm trying to honestly, transparently, let myself hold them in two hands, in two faces, back to back.

Photo Credit: Flickr user johnjodeery, Creative Commons, cc license

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For When You Don't Feel Like You Fit and You Just Want to See the Cover

A cement mixer rumbles and churns on white-washed sidewalk. Grey rivulets swirl silver along the gutter. I step off the sidewalk, afraid of falling stone, and sidle beside trucks and cars parked out from the two-story metal scaffolding and men in hard hats, until I reach Spyhouse Coffee's entrance.

Photo Credit: Flickr user Neil Moralee, Creative Commons cc license

Photo Credit: Flickr user Adelie F. Annabel, Creative Commons cc license

A hot Honduran coffee scalds my tongue and condenses droplets beneath a plastic lid.

He had said it to me and you this weekend in a wooden chapel filled with four hundred squirelly middle schoolers and their coffee-toting leaders. Flashing photos on the screen of his little seventh grader self, and displaying an email from his seventh grade teacher who had found him just recently, youth speaker Cesar Castillejos spoke to you and me as he spoke to my teens too.

God will use everything in your life to make you who you are. Cesar spoke of growing up Filipino with a Latino name in a white suburban American school. He spoke of not feeling like he belonged; of divorce; of senior year basketball captainhood ruined by underage alcohol at a party; of a lifelong love of words; and of his seventh grade-heart's hope to help kids see their value and potential.

"Oftentimes we see the puzzle pieces of our lives, and we just want God to show us the cover," he said.

"I was praying for you," his seventh grade teacher told him in that recent email, and Cesar looks back with new eyes at his middle school and high school years.

God sees your puzzle pieces, my friend. He is shaping and molding all the circumstances and experiences in your life -- even the hard ones. He is crafting, cutting, and creating your passions, heart cry, and skills. Weaving in invisible people who pray for you and invest in you, God is at work. 

"Now, I get to speak to and teach teens, and preach at a church on Sunday nights, and do some writing too," Cesar said, smiling wide, and his heart for teens to hear the truth that they're valued and loved by the Creator of the world has been obvious in each chapel session all weekend.

God clicked Cesar's puzzle pieces into place throughout his life, creating beauty and purpose, and he is clicking your pieces into order too. 

At Spyhouse, I sip my Honduran coffee and notice the walls. "You changed the art," I crowed to the barista handing me change.

Photo Credit: Flickr user Clint McMahon, Creative Commons cc license

"Yeah, we do that every month or two," she said as I dropped my change into the blue jar.

Through double-wide open doors, warm October seventies air flows in, unscreened. Two coffee house employees grin and waddle past, hefting a large barrel container of flowers between them. Setting it on the sidewalk, they mark the boundary of their sidewalk terrace, while the cement mixer churns half a block away.

Spyhouse's street signage is not back up yet on the bare-faced stone building where mortar waits to be chinked, but progress is being made. Bare brown bricks stand two-stories tall with gaps for next week's mortar, and beauty remains.

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When Prayer Looks Like Soup

Sitting beside my squirrelly seven year old, I helped him sound out long-vowel words and watched the clock, the seconds flying past. At eight-thirty in the morning, I was at the kitchen sink, swirling yesterday's coffee grounds out of the French press and into my compost bucket. Time spun and circled down the garbage disposal with the last of the fine coffee crumbs afterwards.

Photo Credit: Flikr User Frinthy, Creative Commons cc license

At nine, I called, leaving a message for her, stammering and saying in soft words that I was thinking about her and praying. The line rang long before the machine picked up. Ominous words had hung in the air all weekend, and this morning's appointment would bring answers.

Prayer looked like silent vigil at the sink, poured and slurped freshly-made coffee at the table, and wrangling in a first grader's attention again and again.

"Okay, with the long vowel o, what comes at the end of this word?" I'm waiting for him to draw a silent e, this quiet letter at the end of all his words today. The silent vowel sits quietly at the termination of each noun, directing, changing the sounds, and creating new words from the shy short vowel words who hem and haw and twist toes bare-naked in words surrounded by consonants.

Daniel draws graphite pencil down and around, and I sip more coffee, trying to trace out patience across my life too.

I check email throughout the morning and afternoon, awaiting word and praying for her and her family. Medical diagnoses can change so much, huh?

My parents due in an hour, I slip outside, down the deck steps, to a raised garden bed in the backyard. Surrounded by gaunt bony tomato plants from last year, shriveled and awaiting tomorrow's garden clean-out, I kneel next to the three surprises this spring. Three kale plants survived a Midwestern winter and curl purple leaves to the sky. I slice scissors across emerald and violet stems and then retrieve the fallen leaves from sandy soil.

Upstairs I submerge the vivid kale leaves in a chipped blue porcelain pot and run cold water high. Brown russet potatoes feel dense, earthy in my hands. I wash, rub them, and slide my green-handled knife deep into them. Drawing long the blade, lifting, slicing, repeating, I trace lines across them and into the white plastic cutting board.

Resting in God's presence and speaking out my love for him looks like this today, I've decided.  Trusting in his ability to bring beauty from crumbling soil, from gouged purple life, and from gashed earthy spheres, I rip apart raw Italian sausage, and pour in newly-chopped onions.

The aroma of browning sausage and onions seeps fragrant into me. Shaking out dried oregano, I watch the green flecks speckle into the jumbled meat and onions. Red pepper flakes tumble crimson. Stirring with my brown wooden spoon, I swirl silent praise and prayer, inhaling deep into this Pneuma Holy Spirit who describes himself like Breath.

I pour out the water that had immersed the kale. Droplets radiate light and life off purple-green stems and curling leaves.

I still don't know what news my friend has received, and I whisper her name to our God. Silent prayer and praising rises like steam from my simmering soup, an incense of sausage, kale and potato soup rising up before our Artist God, who is Enough. 


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Just After Hitting "Send" to God

"Nalia, look!"

I called her over and we both stared into the rumpled earth.

"I planted these last year and they hid under the snow all winter."

"What are they?" she asked in ten year old curiosity, as my seven year old Daniel peeked over her shoulder too.

Photo Credit: Flickr User: See-Ming Lee, Creative Commons, cc license

"They're parsnips; kind of like a white carrot," I laughed. Plunging my fingers deeper into cold spring soil, I traced dirt away from the white round vegetables in the ground.

Feathery green plumes marked each veggie treasure. I tugged and gently loosened them one plant at a time, before ripping them out of the ground. Black dirt crumbled and tumbled from the round tubulars and I laughed to see food and life burst from underground.

Because the truth was I had forgotten about them. Twelve months ago I had eagerly torn open the paper packet of seeds and stared in dismay at its contents.

"They're so tiny!"

Round brown flakes swirled and mounded inside the seed packet. Pouring a handful into my palm then, I had been afraid the seeds would blow away in a May breeze or be snatched up by cardinals and sparrows. Poking tiny finger holds into cool soil up to my knuckles, I slid one or two lightweight seeds inside, hoping at least several would grow.

Like a Bermuda Triangle in my garden, that corner of raised beds stayed stubbornly bare that spring, while Queen Ann sugar snap peas, Early Contender bush beans, and the butterfly-seedling life force of morning glory flowers had sashayed out of the ground.

In early summer, tall fern-like plants had stood up and crowded that corner of the garden, bowing heads conspiratorially, and I had hoped parsnips were fattening underground. Summer had swelled, crescendoed, and abated. Autumn's trees had dropped reds and yellows that crumpled into browns and tangled in the parsnip greens.

"Parsnips are better after several frosts," I told Mark as we peered out the living room windows in November and December. Snows fell.

This week, the soil warmed and ready, my red tulips bobbing in the breeze, I walked barefoot to my garden and tugged curiously on a parsnip's green top. Wiggling, prying, I pulled up a plump white parsnip.

"Nalia, come see!"

A small mountain of white parsnips mound up on my patio table now, the rain washing them nicely for me. And the parsnips suddenly remind me of my prayers.

Like tiny tremulous seeds I shake out and hold in small hands, they feel so paltry to the task. I plant them and wait, and time seems to slow some days. There are days when I wonder what will grow to fill that space. And as I wait, wonder, and trust the Grower's instructions, seasons pass. 

Life unfolds beneath the surface. In the dark, treasures swell and mature. In the time I've forgotten them, God hasn't. They are sweetening, ripening, growing better by the day. It's in the frost that kills and in winter's long nights that the parsnips grow the sweetest.

After winter's thaw, petite purple crocuses and grape-like hyacinth clusters mark the passing time. Greenery emerges new life from the parsnips corner and I'm suddenly reminded of prayers and plantings from a year ago.

Crouching to my knees, I dig and pull, finding the treasures God has been growing all along.

When You Really Want to Read Past the Christian Jargon

"It would be okay if I got a shot today," he announced this morning, hopping on one leg and peering at me with his head cocked sideways.

Above Photo: David K, Creative Commons cc license

"Oh! Well, good job. I don't think you'll need a shot today, though. It's just a dentist check up," I assured him.

Daniel shrugged and resumed playing, "But I could," he said. His fears had dissolved since last week.

Lemon juice and coconut mix with garlic, fresh ginger, and onion to hang fragrant in the air now from tonight's Vietnamese Lemon Soup, and the onions still prick my eyes. Bath splashes and seven year old boy noises emanate from the bathroom, and my seventeen year old is downstairs typing away on high school homework papers. Last week was a different story.

"I don't want a shot!" he had begged, and it made sense. None of us really like getting shots. I held his hand, tried to talk him through it, and his big sister had chimed in. "Want me to go first, Daniel? It goes by really fast!"

Swinging his hand as we stepped over grey and white snowbanks and crusty plates of ice, I had tried to squeeze comfort through my skin to his.

"Can I pray with you, bud?" He had nodded and I prayed, talking aloud across the parking lot. Although peace slipped in then and he had calmed, anxiety still flared up throughout the visit, especially when the nurse brought in a silver tray of vaccines.

Two minutes after we had persuaded him to climb up on the brown leather seat, where he had squeezed my hand and tried to negotiate a release, he suddenly stopped, confused.

"It's done," the nurse said, and we exchanged conspiratorial winks.

"OH! Already? That wasn't too bad. Morgan, that wasn't too bad. It was fast!" He slipped off the high bench and rubbed his fingers over the round green camouflage sticker.

And the picture seeps into me now... I have been reading Galatians chapter five and six this week, wondering what it looks like to "live in the Spirit,"wanting to see practically how that's done. I really wanted to get past the Christian jargon to the details of what this revolutionary new way of living can look like. Sometimes I get tripped up. A later line in the chapter caught my attention, though, and gave me an image I've been mulling over all week.

"...Let us get in step with the Spirit." Get in step with. An image flashes in my mind of my husband walking hand in hand with me. Inevitably there is a moment when he skip-steps a pace or two to get his legs into rhythm with mine, until we're walking, lefts together, rights together, in steady cadence.

"Let us get in step with the Spirit" and I picture my seven year old's fears, my hand in his, and our striding into peril together, the words on my mouth speaking comfort, truth, strength, and direction for him.

And I can look back and see God at work in my life, striding along, guiding me over obstacles and perils, breathing his truths that bring comfort, strength, direction, and relationship with him. 


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What We Are Drawn To in Uncertain Times

"There's something about a man or woman who has loved God for a long time that is peaceful," she said aloud.

Photo: Ed Yourdon, Creative Commons, cc license

We were stabbing forks into slippery red cherry tomatoes and coaxing precarious bites of spinach salad into our mouths in the hospital cafeteria.

She told me again. "My friend Art, he just commented on how peaceful it was to be around older people who had walked with God for a long time. 'There is a peace about them, a gentleness that just shines out from them. You want to be near them,' he told me. He enjoys spending time with my parents," my mom said, wiping her mouth.

She smiled, and lifted a fork with green olives and grated carrots from the salad into her mouth. I tried, and failed, to get crumbled goat cheese onto my fork.

Her bite finished, my mom spoke again. "He's right. I watch my mom and dad together. He holds her hand, helping her down hallways now, and patiently explains each time she forgets and asks a question again. There IS a peace and gentle kindness about them." She paused and chose another bite, pushing food around her plate unconsciously.

I watched her. This black-haired, blue-eyed Irish mom of mine who just returned from seeing her parents on the west coast, arriving straight from the airport to the hospital here where her husband awaited scary prognoses. And I saw it in her.

Mixed in with the uncertainty and the risk of painful loss was a peace that came from years of walking with her Creator. This peace didn't negate the valid fears, but it simmered and rode the waves, a constant in all change.

In hospital room 4550, four shuttered windows revealed city lights turning on outside and reflecting off the rain. We rubbed our hands with the sanitizing foam found everywhere, and walked inside. My dad sat upright in bed, his navy-striped gown tied in the back, revealing the colorful tattoo on his shoulder.

"Hello, handsome man!" grinned my mom, rubbing his shoulder and bending over to brush back silvery hair from his forehead.

She sat down and pulled out her slim blue Bible, creased on the edges. Opening it, she read silently, smiling at parts. My dad and I had read from Luke together earlier. "I love the gospels," he told me. "They are my favorite parts of the Bible right now."

There is a Peace that flows from men and women who have walked with God for a long time. I see it, and it draws me nearer. He draws me nearer too, actually, this One whose name is peace.

So, it's pancreatic cancer, friends. It was caught early and is only stage one, but it's scary. Sometime in the next few days, my dad will undergo a serious surgery for this and I'll join them often in the hospital. Join us in prayer, will you, please? Thank you, friends.

The Thing To Know on a Day (or Month) of Firsts

 Ahh, this feels good, sitting down to tap fingers on keys. There have been a variety of firsts these last few days.

First night to sleep in the new home on Thursday.

First shower in the new place -- nope, sorry, it wasn't Friday morning. I left grungy and ready for a morning of cleaning the old house and returning the Uhaul truck.

(Don't even ask about the toothbrush. You won't want to know. Apparently, toothbrushes and deodorant will be the items left behind at the old house when moving, in case you wanted to know.  ...Um, Friday evening, if you were wondering.)

First time I brewed coffee in this new house, after ransacking cupboards and boxes to find the beans, the grinder, and the glass French Press.

First sunrises, first sunsets. First time to fully watch where the sun traces shadows and light across the backyard, and calculating where we'll put the raised garden bed frames, still caked with black dirt from our last house's yard.

"Are you excited?" one of my youth group girls asked me, as I drove her to the other house to retrieve her green backpack.

"Well, we like this new house and are thankful to God for it, but we love the old house too. When we moved into the old house we thought we would be there for years, so we settled in, creating memories, dreaming of the future, making plans.

It's like stopping a book, halfway through," I grinned at Michael, glancing over at her as I shifted up in gears on the quiet road. A fellow book lover and artist, she gets this.

"Now I'm in a new book, and it's a great book, but it feels odd to have stopped reading the other book, only halfway through." Our two years in the other house felt like introductory chapters, with the plot just starting to pull together.

"This will be a great book too, I know," I said, smiling at Michael as we pulled into the driveway, "but we're feeling mixed emotions and some sadness too at saying goodbye."

Wednesday morning and afternoon, my parents and close friend Shari and I dug up raspberry, strawberry, and rhubarb plants from the old house. We hoisted out withered-looking ferns, white shasta daisies, and yellow-budded flowers. Fingering through moist soil, we combed and fretted out innocuous gnarled bulbs of tulips, crocuses, and tall purple alliums. Hauling buckets of dirt and plants into our vehicles, we drove them to the new house. Before any tables or couches saw the inside of the new house, we spent the day slicing into soil and grass, burying roots and fragile wisps of life, anticipating their future beauty.

Along the side of a grey metal shed now stand eight crinkly-leaved raspberry plants. Three rhubarb shrubs lean awkwardly nearby. Each day we soak their roots in water, knowing this stage is tremulous.

In our mind, though, we know what they look like full-grown. We have seen them in good health, resplendently red and green, giant leaves like elephant ears, crowded and abundant. We have seen these plants in their glory, rooted deep in the earth, watered and soaking in the Light, and we know what's coming.

The days pass, our excitement mounts as we settle into this new home, and the sun has just risen, arcing a few hours ago over the maple and fir trees to my left. Those raspberries and shasta daisies? Their leaves are unfurling in the Light, roots sinking lower.

What You May Not Know You're Telling Us

Photo: Chad Cooper, Creative Commons, cc license

Photo: Yen-Cheng Li, Creative Commons, cc license

When I peered out last night, they caught me by surprise. Standing crowded together, they stared to the right, fascinated by something in the west. I laughed and wondered what I was missing; and how did they know to all turn and watch?

In the jumbled garden beds, a crowd of sunflowers stands tall in a jungle of weeds. Strays from last year's structured vegetable gardens, the sunflowers are not yet fully grown. Their flowered faces are small, more like sleepy full-lashed cyclops, and last night they stood in silent vigil after a setting sun.

I laughed yesterday at the sight of them. This morning, I stepped out to study them again. In perfect precision, they had changed during the night, and now they all faced east. Heavy-lidded tiny eyes following the light. Yesterday, peering into evening's twilight, they remained still, staring at where they had last seen the sun's face. Waiting, quiet in the night, they stood. Until this morning, and how do they know? These stray wild flowers on a cloudy grey morning, how do they see the sun's face when I have yet to? How do they know to turn to the light, to turn to the place where they know they'll see his face? How do they know to wait? 

And I see that in you, and in other dear friends, this ability to follow the Light. I see you, standing... some in meticulously-ordered sites and the watching for the sun is easy, ordered, expected. You know where he'll appear because he did yesterday and the day before, and you stand and you wait, knowing the light will come. Other friends, we've talked, and you share it raw and honest over coffee cups or cyber space that the waiting is hard, this life is jumbled, disordered, and not as structured as you had planned. The days are cloudy, and you don't quite see his face yet, but you remember where you saw him last and so you stare and wait, convinced that since you saw him here last, this is where you'll wait, watching, until you see him again.

The sunflowers amaze and delight me, moving me to laughter and joy on a day with both grey thunderous rain and splashing sunlight. I watch the way they follow him, the way they follow the light despite the changing weather. Their faces keep time with the movements of the sun and their eyes never waver, following his light.

I see it in you, friends, in the times we've talked. And for others of you whom I'm still getting to know, I can sense it. That others see this in you too. How your face hovers waiting, and how your very being turns towards Him, and points me in His direction too. You point us to His light, my friends.

Friendships that Linger over Lunch & Whisper in the Darkness

I pulled in behind her grey minivan, Shari stepping out from the driver's seat, arranging tin foil across a tiny platter of chocolate-dipped cookies.

"I didn't want to be the first one here," she laughed, and we walked up the driveway together.

Hugging our hostess, we stepped into two hours of conversation, camaraderie, and community. History piled high behind us as we poured countless glasses of raspberry iced tea and passed around a plate of sliced cucumbers, green peppers, and rich red tomatoes beside a ranch dipping sauce. 

Stretching across the rectangular wooden table, the five of us served each other from the bowl of Italian pasta salad and held out photographs of recent trips and a friend's baby grand-daughter. New parent eyes gleamed dewy in the close up photo of a young mom and dad with a pink-faced newborn. At the table, we lingered long at that photo, tracing their sweet faces and knowing that feeling of treasuring love.

My blonde-haired friend gracefully gathered plates around us as conversations ebbed and flowed, while our hostess brought out brownies.

"I have this coffee drink," she smiled, bring out a carton of cold sweetened mocha. We swirled the drink before pouring, sipping, and exclaiming.

We cheered each others' successes, sheepishly admitted areas we were working on, and laughed in safe affection. All too soon, it was time to go. I gathered my bag, hugged my friends, and slipped out early for an obligation.

Last night, something woke me and I lay in the dark. My mind whirred and clicked, gaining momentum, planning To Do lists, before it sidled over to tease and tangle out the quiet worries. "What if...?" and possibilities loomed.

God whispered silent in the night, cuing me to bedrock. I agreed, nodding quiet and taking a deep breath.

How did that verse go? I wondered. Something like, I will not concern myself with things too lofty for me to understand...but I have stilled and quieted my soul...

Other verses slipped in, old favorites, and I said them to myself, lying motionless on the bed, I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I put my hope.

Wriggling my toes against the sheets, I gently stretched my legs, careful not to wake Mark. Breathing in and out, I spoke truth to myself.

And today as I pull my Bible close, those verses ring loudly again to me and leap off the page, repetitious truth that constructs a base for me. And suddenly I see the full context of those verses,

I do not concern myself with great matters or things too lofty for me to understand
But I have calmed and quieted myself;
I am like a weaned child with its mother,
like a weaned child I am content (Psalm 131:1b-2).

The last verse in a section I was studying clinched it, "...be their shepherd and carry them forever (Psalm 28:9b).

Our times with dear friends are gifts, and God's whispers in the dark are gifts, both from a God who carries us, calms us, and quiets us, like an infant in its parent's arms.

Where to Turn When Life Tumbles and Scrawls Red

Photo: StudioTempura, Creative Commons, cc license

It was the red crayon scribbled against his tiny head of summer blonde hair that got me.

I tried to make light of it. "Let's color purple on Morgan's head when we get home," I grinned conspiratorially to my five year old son, winking at him.

Red crayon marked in detailed measurements where the brain wave imaging scanners would be placed. Glenn, the electrode-attaching technician at the epilepsy center, picked up another long wire, detangling it from the rest, and affixed it with clear glue to my son's head.

"See this?" he asked Daniel, "This is gecko tape, made just like gecko toes, to stick to things without pulling hair afterwards." He laid a piece of light blue tape on the back of my son's hand, and spread its pair across an electrode.

Soon twenty-five wires rose spider-webbed and -orbed from my son's head. Daniel clutched a small brown bear, looking tiny on a long white hospital bed. His blue and black sweatshirt was a soothing blanket about his chest. I adjusted a pillow and lay down beside him for the hour-long test. Lights flashed, blinked, and strobed into his face. Soon, the lights went off, and he could curl up carefully and try to sleep.

"It is actually perfect if he falls asleep," Glenn said, tapping keys into his computer and telling me about his son, daughter, and this career. I listened, responded, and then we fell into silence as I snuggled up against my tiny young son. The medical technician watched the screen capture brain waves in irregular waves and frequencies, and I stared at my son's chest, rising in short breaths. Daniel slept, and my eyes caressed his cheek, his long eye lashes, and his pointed lips.

The seizure this Tuesday morning took us by surprise. Nothing like that had ever happened to him or us before, and I raced down the steps after him. He lay crumpled on the ground face-down, until I turned him over. Glassy-eyed and lock-jawed, with stiff arms, he stared past me eerily, and I called for help. Later as he came out of it, our chests grew tight as we searched the internet for similar symptoms, and called his doctor.

On the way to the EEG, Daniel and I talked alone in the car. He was examining the dry body of a dead bee we had found, as it tipped and slid across a random dirty plate we found on the car floor. We examined the fuzzy yellow and black body, while I warned him to steer clear of the stinger, and we talked about what a cool Creator our God is.

"Mom, why did God make bees to have stingers?" he asked as the freeway sped by.

"You know, bees only need stingers to defend themselves and their home," I mused aloud. "I bet when God first made them, they didn't need to have stingers. There wasn't any death or sickness or sad things then. The bees didn't need to defend themselves or their homes. It was only later, when Adam and Eve were tricked by the evil one, ate from that one tree, and brought sin into the world that things changed. I bet bees got their stingers after that," I said.

Daniel smiled and sighed happily. "I love God!" he exclaimed. We talked about how cool heaven is going to be one day, and the great thing that God loves us so much, and is right here with us.

"And you know what? God has cool plans for you to do while you're here," I stated.

The highway coiled around a castle-like cathedral, leaned against some museums and parking ramps, before pulling docilely into a pay lot. I pushed a button, grabbed my ticket, and we drove in.

That night friends and family called, and one or two set up meals. Our family of five hugged each other close, unwrapped ominous-looking bulky new medicines, and read instructions with tight-chests. Throughout that night and the next day, (and as we now await Friday's MRI), our Creator whispered a song in my head, ancient lyrics that spoke calm into my fearful mind.

"When I am afraid, I will trust in you" and "I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you, O God, are with me."

And the Creator of the bumble-bee has plans for my wee summer blonde one, and for us, and for you, my friend. His heart can be trusted.

How to Be Unstoppable

Photo: Eric Drost, Creative Commons, cc license

I don't remember them being at all the games, but they were at the home games. Me, jumping around in my red and white cheerleading skirt, or hidden away inside a red Cardinal bird mascot, cheering on the junior varsity basketball and football teams, and Mom and Dad in the stands. In small Midwest farming towns, middle school cheerleaders pulled double duty for both junior varsity boys' sports.

Lanky and gangly in girls' basketball shorts during other parts of the year, I guarded my side of the court, and tried to have my stubborn defensive skills make up for my petite frame. My parents joined the town in the stands while my siblings stood in line at the concession stand or joked with their friends. Throughout my short-lived 7th and 8th grade basketball career, I always felt my parents' love and support. Those memories sprang to mind today.

The call comes and it's been expected. It's a higher counter-offer than we'd hoped for from the seller, but oddly, it's okay. I woke up thinking about it last night, and my husband and I talked more this morning, knowing our range and determined to stick within it.

In my time reading the Bible this morning, I read stories of prison breaks, wild miracles, God at work, and the compelling lines from Acts chapters 4 and 5.

"For we cannot help speaking about what we have seen and heard."

"They did what your power and will had decided beforehand should happen."

Then an angel ordered the men to "Go, stand in the temple courts and tell the people the full message of this new life."

What new life was this? A life of boldness, trust, peaceful calm and joy despite occasional circumstances that seemed against them. A life story of rescue, love, and a fullback hero. And the real kicker? They were on the winning team. Their Abba God Dad was the Coach, and he was unstoppable.

Side-liners and spectators weighed in,
        "If their purpose or activity is of human origin, it will fail.
         BUT if it is from God, you will not be able to stop these men;
         you will only find yourselves fighting against God."

These verses grab me, and I underline the nearby phrases too. "They chose men known to be full of the Spirit and wisdom," including Stephen, "a man full of faith and of the Holy Spirit," "full of God's grace and power." And "no one could stand up against his wisdom or the Spirit by whom he spoke."

And this is no longer really about houses for me, but about a lifestyle, a life focus of wanting to be used by God in bold ways. May I be so filled with Him that he floods from me.

Want to be unstoppable? Your God already is. Reach out, and let him pull you up into the fray and the adventure.

Photo: Ed Yourdon, Creative Commons, cc license

Your dreams, passions, and goals? If they are of God, they'll be unstoppable. He made you and has plans beyond what you can imagine.

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).

When Spring and Life Falter

It's not that they lied.

It's just that we see the calendar's blatant announcement of spring and then step curiously outside to shiver in a chilly thirteen degrees. Snow flurries fly diagonally to the right, falling softly for hours. Crystal diadems stack an inch high. An hour later, the snow stops. Blue skies and sunshine light up melting snow. Crystalline diadems dissipate.

At the kitchen table, my daughter and I solve second degree algebra equations, and turn pages in her physical science textbook. My preschooler wriggles excitedly on his stool at the computer desk, watching his character scroll through a two-dimensional world. And his world looks flat from here, but he knows the whole game. Dodging dangers, jumping cliffs, and traipsing into caverns, he locates the treasures. And when dangers or troubles overtake him, he confidently starts again.

We saw him this afternoon, the chubby fleece rabbit, hiding under the tall firs. He'd been scarce all winter. A robin flitted onto a bone bare branch today too, forerunner of a silent spring.

And Midwestern Americans everywhere peer optimistically out windows and hover at open doorways, light jackets in hand, wondering. New life lingers, latent below the surface, and winter melts away.

And your words, they come to my mind... "Lord, where else would we go? You hold the words of life!" And the world teems with it.

Can't see the spring, the new life, in your world? Are you dodging dangers, jumping cliffs, and stumbling through dark caverns in a two-dimensional world? Our God knows this life game and confidently navigates it for us. "Lord, where else would we go? You hold the words of life."

Hi friend. What have you been reading, learning, or thinking about this week?

(Those in email --of which there are nearly 400 of you!-- can click here to join the conversation. Feel free to forward this.)

*Photo Credit: Evan Long, Creative Commons, cc license

What a Warrior in a Wine Cave Would Tell You

 

It was easier last week. Easier when the screen displayed five or six options, to breathe in blithely and say that we were trusting God for our new home.

It's always easier to feel relaxed in trusting God when the cars in the driveway start, when the bank accounts have wider margins between the credit and the debit boxes, or when the houses For Sale line up nicely into the categories we like.

Once the For Sale signs start lowering, and the pretty homes with the open layouts disappear, I'm required to really stand up and figure out what I'm holding on to. Am I trusting God for our next home only when the weekly emails state that there are eight or nine feasible options?

And that is the real question, isn't it? Glib answers crash quickly when the easy options fall off the table. If my stance of peaceful trust is only secure on clear blue days with no hint of storms, then my peace is less about Him, and more about me. My sense of self-sufficiency, my bank accounts, my cars that start... In other words, it's about life looking easy anyway.

The real test, the real test comes when it doesn't look like I can do it on my own, when there are only three houses on the list with enough bedrooms for us, and time shows that they seem to disappear quickly.

"But, where's the challenge in that, Jen?" he whispers to me. And I'm reminded of a warrior's cave musings from the Bible book of Judges. Among vintage wines, oozing grapes, and purple puddles on the ground, God approached a young Jewish warrior, hiding in a wine-press cave. Describing to the man the battles he was about to wield and win with God's help, God affirmed one key truth.

"You are going to know that I was the One who did this, not you, and not your nation. It's by my power that you're going to win these skirmishes."

In fact, God whittled down Gideon's fledgling army to a mere 300 men against 135,000 enemies. Statistically, calculates my husband, this meant that every one Jewish warrior would have to fight 450 men on his own, and survive to battle on. Not very good odds.

But our Warrior God, who loves to write thrilling stories into world history, loved that these odds would point to only one conclusion: God had done this himself. This wasn't the work of any Spartan-esque army. This was God showing off.

"Where's the trust, Jen, if it looks easy? What trust is needed if your options lie wide open? Trust me now, as the email screen of available houses shrinks, and your papers are tied up in City Hall meetings, and spring approaches. Do you trust me now?"

And this God-- who has walked us through cancer-scares on our little girl when she was five years old, and who found us this home, and who has always taken care of us --watches me, cocks an eyebrow, and asks, "Will you trust me now? Want to really up the stakes?"

What about you? Where do you say you are trusting God, but it has really just been because it's been easy to do on your own? In your marriage, with your dreams and future, in your finances, or with your kids? Our God loves us, and enjoys building our faith in him. Is he cocking an eyebrow at you too today?

(Photo Credit to Steve Snodgrass, Creative Commons, Cc license)

...Linking with Emily at Imperfect Prose.

Intersecting Plot Lines

Photo credit: Daniel Ansel Tingcungco, Flickr, Creative Commons, cc

It's the tiny clues that hit my subconscious. Triggers of another plotline weaving briefly through mine.

A dark-haired man drives his car around a curve and, in the sixty seconds I see him, he's banging both hands on the steering wheel, and bouncing his body against the seat. Is he angry? Upset? Or dancing vehemently to his favorite song? Snowbanks and buildings hide him from sight.

Two therapists confer beside me about a nameless female client who is battling substance abuse. They role-play questions that will prompt further disclosure, and the older therapist passes on advice to the younger one.

"Has she hit on you yet?" he asks, sipping coffee from a white mug.

"...No? Good, good, that means you're projecting the right..." and the conversation flows on beside me.

Bobbed blonde and brunette nurses behind me share resources for dementia and scannable online time cards.

"Jerry Fisher" swipes a black ipad at the table beside me and leaves a phone message with his name and number. The world suddenly seems so public and open.

Male teen swishes boy bangs to the side, shifting binders and books more securely into his arm as he crosses the street, talking to brunette girl beside him.

Black shirted Native American art pairs with green and brown camo pants. A three-day beard contours up an angular masculine face, topped by a black fleece hat. He strides into view, then disappears.

Redhead in violet jacket unfolds bulging manilla folders from a stroke association fabric bag. "May I sit here?" she asks Jerry Fisher, still on the phone. Surprised, he nods silent assent and taps the table. "Rachel" on the coffee-cup studies her notes and starts leaving her own phone messages, while Jerry gives his phone number to invisible answering machines.

Stories intersect. Grey clouds climb higher and winter temperatures mount. Snow melts sloshy and car after car pulls into the coffee shop: each car a different story; each indoor square table-top a new tale. Plotlines mingle with each lidded cup. 

And then, just like that, silver Sentras, grey Corollas, and red Ford Focuses pull away, and the stories stream away, trailing in the distance.  

Your story and mine? The Writer knows them too, and is weaving those plot lines. 

(Thankful for a story-writing God.)