On the Dark Nights When You are Counting Days and Remembering

It is three weeks ago today that I last talked with my Dad, last heard him speak back. That day blurs into that night, and then it was Friday 2:08 am and he was gone.

My sister, mom, and I had tracked the evening hours on a paper chart, slipping in soluble morphine and attavan pills between Dad's drying lips, moistening them with a little blue sponge.

"Dad, can I give you some more medicine?" I had asked respectfully, as the hours passed and his sleepiness mounted. His words lessened, and his moments of lucidity stretched further apart.

Pain rippled across his face, and I gripped his hand. "The morphine will help, Dad. It should kick in really soon."

Friends had driven on dark country roads after rush-hour traffic to stop in and greet him. Dad recognized them and opened his eyes briefly. They stood tall and uncertain beside his bed, searching for a special hymn's lyrics on their phone before starting in, their voices strong and speaking truth.

"God sent his son, they called him Jesus. He came to love, heal, and forgive. He lived and died to buy my pardon, an empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives."

My dad heard and moved his head, faintly singing along, these truths he has built his life and joy on. My mom, sister, and I joined in, my voice cracking in emotion

"Because he lives, I can face tomorrow, because he lives, all fear is gone." I swallowed, "...because I know he holds the future, and life is worth the living just because he lives."

Dad's two friends sang on, swiping tiny lyrics higher on a touch-screen phone, both men squinting to see in the dim lamp-lit room.

I stopped singing as I saw Dad wince and reach towards his neck and shoulder, then fumble in his side pocket where the meds usually were. Checking the clock, I saw we were close. "Here, Dad. It's time for your next dose."

His friends finished the song, and we stepped out to give them privacy as they said good-bye. Nurses had said my Dad was in his last days, and the minutes drizzled away.

In dignity and strength, my Dad lived. In dignity and strength, my Dad died.

We have seen God's sweet kindnesses taking care of us each day. We have felt the tangible love of friends and family near and far, who have dropped off meals, mailed cards, helped in countless ways, and walked beside us.

We stood tall at Dad's funerals, so proud to be associated with him, nodding and smiling in joyful pride at the stories friends and colleagues told of him. I gripped podiums tight and spoke in tremulous pride, shuffling papers and describing African night skies. Three special songs rippled out harmonies that explained my Mom and Dad.

I'm finding that grief looks like efficient hours of phone calls and business letters as we confirm the death of a dad.

Grief looks like driving in silence and twice pulling into the driveway with the gas light blinking orange. It looks like staring numbly, moving slowly, and blankly wondering what project I was in the middle of.

Grief feels heavy, makes me exhausted at three pm, and leaves me ready for bed at nine-thirty. Grief for me looks like tears and sobs the first week and a half, and an inexplicable feeling of being "too sad to cry" this week. Time stretches long, and has it only been three weeks? Yet it feels so long since I've talked to my Dad.

"This is the first class I've taught that I didn't talk about with my Dad," I told Mark Monday night as I drove away to teach my college-level Village Schools of the Bible Cover to Cover Bible Survey class. Grief slid down my shoulders to my back. I pictured talks on the back porch with my Dad, and our love for God's word.

My mom and I had a girls' sleepover last night at my parents' house, both of us pulling our Bibles closer. She spoke out verses from Romans chapter five about God gently, beautifully, wielding sorrow to craft beauty and character in us. I scrawled G2 pens fast across notebook paper and talked about the tender love of God who longs to walk beside his people, helping them know him intimately.

I spoke it aloud three weeks ago today, (Thursday morning, October 26th), sitting cross-legged on my Dad's bed, hugging him in a period of his pain, and breathing out any words that were truth and that would offer hope for both of us.

"The law of the Lord is perfect, reviving the soul. 
The statutes of the Lord are trustworthy, making wise the simple. 
The precepts of the Lord are perfect, giving joy to the heart. 
The commands of the Lord are radiant, giving light to the eyes. 
The fear of the Lord is pure, enduring forever. 
The ordinances of the Lord are sure, and altogether righteous. 
They are more precious than gold, than much pure gold. 
They are sweeter than honey, than honey from the comb..." 

We had studied them together earlier that autumn, and now they were the only truth I could grab while he was in pain. I alternated between singing songs to him, praying for him, speaking God's words, and hugging him, or rubbing his back.

In between two dear friends leaving, two pastors arriving, a phone call to hospice triage, and several of us there, I wrapped my arms around my Dad gently, his body so frail and easily broken at the end. I kissed his whiskery face, told him I loved him, and grabbed the only truths I knew.

And I grab them now, and know that God's heart can be trusted.

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When You Just Want to DO Something!

He's leaning over the table, mouth open in concentration. Two stacks of soft white socks brush his elbow as he reaches over them.

"Look!" he exclaims, proudly wriggling the toilet paper roll down into the gallon ziplock bag. Two water bottles stand erect beside it.

He pauses and I slide two folded pieces of paper down inside the bags with our picture smiling out through the plastic.

"Did you get the oatmeal?" I ask.

"OH!" and there is a rustle of cardboard and brown paper.

"Strawberry-flavored," I read aloud. "Nice."

He rolls two white socks up in eight year old concentration and places them inside the bag. I press out the air and seal it shut, before grabbing another.

In a month of riots and unrest, police officers and political conventions, there are summer storms that are brewing. Newscasters predict record high temperatures for much of the United States this week, and humanitarian organizations send out emails about severe dehydration concerns for the elderly and the homeless.

And we just wanted to do something tangible, something constructive, to help people around us.

In fumbling words, I wrote:

Hi, I realize that this bag is simple. 

We don't have a ton either right now, but we wanted to share some of what we have to help, even if it's just a little. 

So, on these hot summer days, we wanted you to have clean water to drink. We wanted you to have a pair of new warm socks. We included a packet of instant oatmeal for rainy days, hoping that you could grab some free hot water and a spoon and cup from any fast food place, and we are praying that it is a hearty snack some day right when you need it. The toilet paper is because I know what it's like to appreciate bath tissue from my days living overseas. 

We know that homelessness is complicated and wide-spread, and that this small bag isn't much, but we wanted you to know that we are thinking about you, that you are not forgotten, and that we have prayed over this bag and for you. 

We wanted you to know that God sees you, he loves you, and he is near to the broken-hearted. In the attached paper here are some sentences from the Bible that have been vital to me. I pray they are helpful for you as well.

Warmly and respectfully, 

Jennifer and Mark

Daniel and I rolled socks, slid in oatmeal packets, stood up water bottles, squished in a roll of toilet paper, and slipped notes into twelve bags. Twelve bags seemed so small and yet so exciting as they sat on our cherrywood dining table.

"Mark, want to come pray with us for the people who will get these bags?" I asked him, as Daniel hopped on one leg beside me and jumped onto the chair.

Softly, warmly, we talked to God about the strangers whose names he already knew and we thanked him for the chance to help.

If you, or your friends or family, want to assemble similar bags, please feel free to use our ideas too. We were inspired by our church's Vacation Bible school project, although we chose our own items to include. Or share with us other fun ways you've enjoyed reaching out in love and kindness. Those in email can click here to join the conversation.

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An Apology to my Twenty- and Thirty-Year Old Friends

They said it over half-price appetizers, and the taste of it went all salty in my mouth.

They spoke of feeling less than, less equal, less valuable, and pushed aside as women in the church.

Photo Credit: Flickr User, trawets1, Creative Commons, cc license

We reached across each other to taste a half-price miniature pizza, oozing white garlic sauce, chicken, and green avocados. We reached across each other to taste another's sweet barbecue chicken wings, a friend's quesadilla, and my wild rice chicken soup. We reached into each other's lives to see from another side of the table.

I dipped my bread into white rice soup and asked questions and listened.

My friends in their twenties and thirties answered. They spoke of disappointment in the church and of not feeling the freedom to ask penetrating questions of life, theology, current events, and hot topics.

An older friend at the table beside me who loves these younger friends as fiercely as I do nodded her head, and we listened and apologized for the times when our generation had gotten it wrong, or explained it poorly to them.

Girls, Jesus doesn't see women as less than. He made you strong, beautiful, compassionate, and independent. He calls you masterpieces, works of art, and he placed skills, talents, and gifts inside you on purpose to use. Wherever Jesus went in the Bible he broke stereotypes and was revolutionary, elevating women's statuses in that culture.

In New Testament Bible times, women weren't seen as reliable witnesses and their word didn't count as fully as a man's. Yet, where did Jesus first appear after his death and resurrection? To women. He saw them as valuable, reliable, equal witnesses.

In New Testament writings by Paul, Timothy, and others, women are constantly credited, named and publicly thanked throughout the ancient letters. The women were invaluable in the ministries, working alongside the male believers and even helping to finance things.

My voice trailed off, and I returned to listening for a bit.

We talked for hours, laughing, tearing up, sharing deep heart things, and loving each moment of it. These women teach me about life and relationships, and they love the people in their lives with a fierce, self-sacrificing love that humbles and floors me. 

At the end of one conversation, it hits me, and all credit goes to my peer. She said it and the words have split me through each time.

"Jesus doesn't respond how we think he will. Jesus doesn't treat us like other God-followers do, or have done." 

In looking at the Bible account of the woman who had been hemorrhaging for twelve years, we see a women who is desperate, broke, and considered unclean, shut out from the community and the church by her quarantine status, accustomed to being shunned and set aside. Alone, miserable and desperate, she approaches Jesus and touches his robe. She is hoping for an invisible healing in the crowd because if anyone recognizes her as a bleeding woman, she will be jeered, scolded, and punished for getting close enough to contaminate them.

Robe touched. Healed instantly. Called out to come forward. Fearful terror constricts but she replies, and Jesus uses a word that only appears here once.

"Daughter..." he said intimately, and he heals her, commending her courageous faith, and publicly pronouncing her healed and clean. Restored to community, she had first been restored to the God who made her, loves her, and delights in her.


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Where is He Intersecting Your Lines With Others?

He's here again -- the Japanese Grandpa. I don't know him but I see him regularly at my library coffee shop.

A black jacket hood pulled low covers half his face and hides his distinguished silver and charcoal hair today, but I can still see his thin grey mustache and beard. A narrow cheekbone rests on his right shoulder and his chest rises and falls in deep peaceful sleep. He has been curled up in a black leather arm chair beside a tall tropical banana tree since I arrived two hours ago. His six plastic grocery bags are lined neatly on the two corralled chairs beside him, and I find myself drawn to him.

Photo Credit: Flickr user Gullevek, Creative Commons cc license

He intrigues me. I am curious about this dignified elderly man since I saw him deftly eating a breadstick with chopsticks at a round metal patio table last fall. Every few weeks I see him and we seem to share a similar Monday schedule.

This is the second time I've seen him napping, though, and his restful vulnerability stirs respect, honor, and a slight protective feeling in me for him. Last time he had suddenly awoke, looked at his watch, and stood up. Trying several combinations of bags, he had adjusted their contents and transferred weight from one hand to another until he was satisfied.

A young businessman and I had watched him that day on the edge of our chairs, both wanting to jump in with offers to help. I had hesitated, not sure if help would seem dishonoring. In the lull, the young entrepreneur had stepped in.

"Excuse me, can I help you carry those somewhere?" he asked.

The Japanese Grandpa had been surprised, raising his eyebrows to hear it again, clarified. After the second time, he had shook his head politely, graciously refusing aid. Grasping three bags in each hand, he stood, stowing a kindle-like device in a folded-up pocket in the fleece shirt under his jacket.  Weaving sideways through crowded coffee tables, he had descended out of sight down the stairs.

Was he a shop owner awaiting the bus? Was this a grocery run? Was he homeless? I wondered.

I watch him sleeping here again now, and the questions cycle in my mind. I pray silent blessings on him and wonder about starting a conversation.

God knows my Japanese Grandpa's name even if I don't yet, and he knows how many silver charcoal hairs are under his hood. My Creator is crazy about his gentleman and a sudden glimpse of God's love for this man chokes me.

Who are the people weaving their storylines through yours? God knows their plots and he loves them fiercely. I'm reminding myself to slow down, to see them, and to step into their stories as possible, even if it's just silent prayer vigils for the strangers I pass on the street or see across the room from me. Where is God intersecting stories near you?


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What Your Tell Says About You (and Me)

A dear one in my life stutters when she's nervous and I get it. I look her deep in the eyes, still all my outward movement, and patiently wait. I want my steady focus to assure her I'm listening, because I completely understand.

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When I was younger, my words poured out stumbling and halting in other ways. Spilling sentences in breathless, breakneck speeds, I raced through my thoughts, gasping air in gulps. Slamming words and phrases into each other, I peered anxiously at my listeners, dumping my words and watching their nonverbal signs.

"Jeni, slow down. Take a breath," my parents would say. "Enunciate."

And I didn't figure it out until decades later, learning to speak in measured rates and digging underneath the surface for the why. In middle school insecurity, I was afraid my listener would leave. Rushing my impressions and opinions, I tumbled words in junior high hallways, in church youth group rooms, and on yellow school buses.

Talking fast was my give-away tell, but you probably have one too. I see teens who stand with hunched shoulders beside shorter friends, worried they'll stand out or look different; and I see how others preface their thoughts with humor -- only their eyes giving them away.

Coming off two weeks of speaking engagements, truths from Bible lessons and marriage sessions ring loudest in my own ears, and they make me smile. From the God who leans into biblical King Solomon's dark bedroom on a quiet night two weeks after a public prayer, I read his intimate words: "I heard your prayer, Solomon..."

Whether Valentine's day falls for you in an aftermath of red-hearts and chocolates, or with heart-aches and hungers, I read God's words engraved immortal. I hear you. I see you. When your voice is turned towards me, when you cry out for me, I will hear you and turn to you. Your words do not fall to the ground unheeded. They do not clatter and crash.

Take a breath, dear one. Stand tall, dear friend. Say what's on your heart, my friend, and let it match your eyes. He's listening. 


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Korean Octopus, and You, and Me

"Whoa, octopus! Let's get some."

He's peering in past a frosted glass window to a ten-inch package of purple tentacled octopus legs coiled tightly, their suction cups pointed out at us. In an international Asian grocery store with green tea popsicles and dried mango slices, I love that seven year old Daniel is brave and eager to try new things.

Photo: J. Griffin Stewart, Creative Commons, cc license

"We'll see," I murmur, "I don't know how to cook them yet."

Twenty minutes later in the deli section, we see it, and my husband and I grin to each other. "Daniel, remember how you wanted to eat octopus? They have it here. We'll get some!"

He cheers and skips happily as we edge closer to the counter. Soon we are crowded around a small square table, the three of us sharing a monstrous bowl of soup and nibbling steaming octopus dumplings. He slurps beside us, wrestling with his chop sticks on the miles of ramen noodles, and the beauty of this moment etches itself onto my heart. Japanese, Korean, Chinese, Vietnamese, Hmong, and our European blend of German, English, Irish, and Czech whirl and pass in this busy, jumping restaurant, a gorgeous mix of cultures and languages. And I love that I can sip spicy Japanese soup, sample Korean octopus dumplings, and pass tall elegant veiled Somali women on the sidewalk outside.

We finish our meal, wipe up our spills, and carry the dishes to a back corner. Paying for the groceries, we drag a metal cart holding our fifty pound bag of rice to the car, and turn towards home. In the car, the Minneapolis skyline dips and whirs past, and the beauty of cultures reminds me of heaven.

Daniel surprised me recently. Sitting on the couch beside me, he said, "I have a Korean friend."

"Yeah, you do," I agreed, thinking of his cousin and several friends from church. "That's cool, huh?"

"I'm a little Korean too," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Really?" I asked, curious to see where this was going, looking at my son's summer-highlighted caramel hair, brown eyes, and peach face.

"Yeah, I have the shirt."

And I laughed to remember that his cousin and his friends had all received the same soccer jersey he had from a recent missions trip. And apparently having identical shirts from overseas makes him Korean.

I hugged him and thought about heaven where the Bible says we will have people from every language and people group around the Creator's throne, and I can't wait. You and me? We're part of an international family. It is beautiful, vibrant, and requires action some days too. 


I have the shirt.

The Stranger at McDonald's

Red and blue tube slides curved around the ceiling like sinuous snakes, and clubbed green helicopter blades whirled overhead. Kids scrambled up slippery slides, crawled through plastic tunnels, and emerged grinning on the floor, hair standing tall with static electricity.

Two brown-eyed children with curly black hair stepped apprehensively closer to the indoor playset, their curiosity drawing them nearer. They craned short faces to the ceiling, watching my son's hands bob and wave from various corners of the labyrinth.

"They're afraid," said a woman's voice behind me. "He was born premature, only five months old. He just slipped out of his mama, my daughter. He had a lot of health problems," she told me, long black hair falling straight around her shoulders and down her back. "His mind is like a three year old's and he can't see very well. No depth perception, so he's afraid. What to us is only a few feet looks like it's very far away, so the tunnels scare him."

Her grandchildren sidled closer to the steps leading up, and then pleaded for their grandma to join them. She grinned and padded up the winding stairs on her hands and knees. Fearful wails and shuffling sounds marked their path through the right side of the playset. Concerned for them and wanting to help, my seven year old Daniel called out cheerful hello's, waved his hands, and sent comforting messages echoing down the round hallways and intersections.

When the fear had loomed too large for too long, the three of them wedged around and made their descent, the grandma laughing gently and encouraging her grandson through his tears.

"Good job!" I cheered her as she emerged. "That's brave of you to enter the tunnels. Were they claustrophobic?"

"I'm Jennifer," I continued once she was settled on the ground again and her kids were busy playing.

"Pam," she smiled.

She shared hard things, and we talked of alcoholism's grip and the sadness of watching loved ones spiral deeper into fear and darkness.

"The ache is gone," she said in response to a question I asked. "It used to hurt a lot, but now I just pray for her and care for her kids, knowing God loves her too."

We talked, Pam and I, in the McDonald's playland, as a Hmong dad and kids entered and ate ice cream cones by the window. Five children ran through, past, up, and inside, and we talked about God's deep love, his ability to bring transformation and hope, and then we stopped and prayed.

Our smiles, as we parted, shared a sense of community and camaraderie, this stranger at McDonald's and me.

Of Lawyers, Judges, and What's On Your Back

"I wish I'd never done it," she said, describing a post-college year of late-night dance clubs, too much alcohol, and men with unfamiliar names the next morning. Regret brimmed up and over her eyelashes now, and she twisted her blonde hair absentmindedly.

Photo: David, Creative Commons, cc license

We hugged in the crowded auditorium. I knew this woman, knew her heart, and knew that her history no longer defined her. It never really had, actually.

But we are the ones who pick up and slap labels on ourselves the fastest, the hardest. I do this. You do too. God lavishes us with forgiveness, compassionate understanding, and love, while we trail behind, dragging our feet and not quite believing he means what he says.

I've been reading the biblical book of Romans, where Paul marshals his arguments like a young John Grisham. In lean hard prose, Paul strips away any credentials religious people were scrambling for to prove their morality, and he shreds any excuses the irreligious grabbed as reasons for not getting to know the God of the universe.

On equal footing before the God of the world, loved deeply by the Creator who knows their names, humankind's verdict is clear, concise.

"This righteousness from God comes through faith in Jesus Christ to all who believe. There is no difference, for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and are justified freely by his grace..." (Romans 3:22-24).

Whether you are ragged with regrets or worn out from scrambling to feel like a good person, we stand on equal footing before the God who loves us. In the week after Easter, we stand before a judge who says, "I've paid that price, paid the fine, paid the fee. Do you accept this gift?"

Labels are gone. Histories don't define us. They never have. The God of the world stands waiting...
 

What God Would Whisper to You Under the Table

We're learning about "Cuh Cuh cookies" and "Cuh Cuh carving" with the consonant C today, my six year old and I. Reviewing some kindergarten phonics rules, we huddle at the end of the map-topped cherry-wood table, him laboriously tracing C's and D's with pencil in stubby fingers, and me sipping coffee and cheering him on.

Photo Credit: Kim, Creative Commons, cc license

After our jumping alphabet memorization game, Daniel races to fetch his Piglet and Pooh Bear pillow and we crawl under the dining room table. Lying on our backs with our toes outstretched, he giggles about us reading a book in our wolf "duh duh den." I hold the tall picture book high, blood racing to my shoulders as the book wavers in my hands and I choke up over gruff characters' hearts changing with continued exposure to gentle, compassionate God-loving women and children. Daniel listens and scans the beautifully-illustrated pages, seeing the woodcarver's calloused hands dolloping off unnecessary corners here and smoothing out rough edges there.

Later I pull a tall wooden chair over to our counter stacked with dirty dishes, clearing elbow room and sliding out the white ceramic mixer. Consulting a scuffed and mottled recipe, I collect baking soda, salt, and vanilla, while Daniel races excitedly to retrieve the softened butter.

"Want to get the eggs?" I ask, trying not to wince as he carries them triumphantly across the kitchen. He selects an egg, taps it expertly on the side of the metal bowl, and pours wet yolk and white into the mix.

We measure sugars, flour, and soda, before pouring in chocolate chips. The mixer whirrs and spins. Daniel backs away in safe caution, hands in the air. Clacking the mixer settings to off, I hoist up the metal arm, and give him a chunk of sweet dough. "Want a bite?" He grins, eyes wide in delight, and we smack sweet cookie dough on the roofs of our mouths.

Family members slip upstairs, sniffing the air as cookies bake and leaning in conspiratorially towards the cookie batter, before disappearing again with a bite-full.

I have been reading in the Bible section of Ephesians the last few weeks, and the character of God oozes through. Despite the author Paul's long winding sentences that make me stop, repeat aloud key phrases, and wrestle through to deeper comprehension, the attractive beauty of who this God is amazes me. The Creator and World Builder describes his actions towards the people of earth with words like "he chose us" and "in love," "with his pleasure and will." The World-Maker reveals his heart for us in verbs like "lavished on us," "made known to us" and describes his actions as in "his good pleasure." God calls himself "father" and speaks of "adoption" and sons and daughters in a family.

Chocolate chip cookies still balance on a warped metal cookie sheet atop my dusty white toaster now. We grab them as we walk past, admitting that we are well beyond the three or four-cookie count. 

Sprinkled throughout my memories this evening of snuggling with my six year old to read a picture book under the dining room table and the cookies we lavished in extravagant amounts to our family of five, is an image that forms of our World-Builder. This God who says, It is my pleasure and joy to adopt you, to lavish my love and grace on you, and to call you my own.

Photo Credit: Steamboatwillie33, Creative Commons, cc license

When Paris, America, and Worlds Collide

He's standing at the window, staring out through falling snow and I can see the worry biting deep into his lip. Shoulders hunched, he leans forehead against the cold third-story glass and peers across the street and down the block. Rising blue and silver in winter twilight, the French high school gazes back at him with darkened window rooms.

Photo: Peter Gutierrez, Creative Commons, cc license

"Hey," I slip up to him and rub my brother's back. "I'm sorry. I know it's scary. It'll be okay, though."

My words trail off, because nothing can fully unwind the twisting stomach knot of walking into a new school. Four moves in four years brought its own adventures and challenges, but this last move for my shy brother had sapped him. That winter 1991, he was tired of goodbyes and heart-weary at the work of starting new friendships.

We stand silent in his corner of the three-bedroom apartment our family shared that year in a snowy mountain hamlet of France, and my stomach churns and aches for my little brother. Freckles sprinkle against an anxious face, brown hair parted center, curling wispy and boyish mischief on the sides.

"Can I pray with you?" I wonder quiet, and he nods. Our words are calm, at ease talking to the unseen God who knows our names, our hearts, our lives, and who wasn't lost in the trans-Atlantic flights. The Creator speaks French, English, African Koinyeka and Dioula languages, and every breath's spoken word.

This memory has crept in to me this week, remembering that ache and the wrenching twisted stomach and, while my brother's story no longer winds nervous at a European window, I know that you and I have others that creep easily into our minds, curling up a tummy quiet. 

You and I, we have stories of our own, and stories that belong to family and friends close to us. Stories that are not ours to share publicly, but we can still lean heads into window panes beside them, stare down into the swirling snow below and whisper, "You are not alone. I see it too, and I am here." 

You are not alone. Your loved ones are not alone, France is not alone, and we hold an awesome privilege in our hands. We can stride into the throne room of the International God, and mouth our loved ones' names. He knows. He loves them even more than us, and he is still working.

The Easiest, Almost-Not-Fair Resolution We're Dying For This Year

Blueberries swell inside vanilla cake batter, creeping higher in the square metal pan. The oven and refrigerator hiss and hum a rumbling life behind me. My family's voices lilt and lift throughout the house, readying for a New Year's Eve party out with church friends in an hour.

Photo: Mike, Creative Commons, cc license

Toppling on a pile of papers beside me, I see the dvd collection of a Bible study series by Beth Moore on First and Second Thessalonians. I've been binge-watching the last three episodes, racing to finish the messages before our church must pass them on to another group that has reserved them. In a Texan accent, Beth animatedly talks nodding-women-viewers through the last chapters of Thessalonians, and I scribble notes in my workbook, pausing to carefully spell out the occasional Greek words she displays on the screen.

And this is it, I can feel it. This hunger in my bones. If ever there was a resolution to be chased, this is it: To make consistent time to dig deeper in God's word; to sink deeper into a God who whispers his delight in us, his love for us, and his promise that he is enough; that we are made whole in him. 

In a world where men censor this fear behind mute mouths, and women whisper it in tremulous words to safe friends, the fear of Not Being Enough reigns high. Not being good enough, not being man enough or woman enough, not being the spouse or the parent you long to be -- the terms vary per person but the sentiments remain. The anxious, nagging lie sinks teeth deep into our hearts: You are not good enough. You must do more.

And we hear it, this push to Be More, to Do More, To Accomplish more. And you can, if you want to! I will cheer you on warmly. We all have goals and dreams, I agree.

But, if this anxious fearful lie has sunk its cold into your heart and spirit, sapping energy and hope, then it is not dream's vigor. It is not motivating or encouraging.

You are delighted in. You are loved, smiled at, desired, chased after, pursued, and wooed. You have a God who is running after you. Stop. Sink into his presence and his love for you. Find rest. 

This year, push aside the distractions, the voices. Grab your Bible and pen and slide into the Creator's presence. And me? I will be right there with you, pen in hand, nodding and scribbling to keep up.

What the Mirror Can't Tell You

The scissors snipped.

Photo: Astrid Westvang, Creative Commons, cc license

A chunk of hair slipped into the sink below, and instantly I knew. This was something best left for the ones who know: the pros who can feather and layer hair styles, not leaving a gaping column of hair, slashed off in error.

Have you ever just wanted a change? I wanted subtle face-framing layers. Studying hair styles for a few days, I found some ideas, and grabbed the scissors Tuesday night. Halfway through one side of my head, I knew, and a laughing dread slipped chuckles out of me while I stared into the mirror.

Mark walked in after I finished the second side. Seeing the seven inch-long locks of hair in the sink and my sheepish grin, he groaned and laughed with me. "What did you do?"

Shyly I flipped the hair in front, and we stared at the forlorn results in the mirror. Big brown eyes framed by two painfully-obvious haircut fails looked back, and we laughed. He hugged me, and I shook my head, giggling and pressing in deep.

There's a safety in a marriage love that is breath-taking and stalwart, that settles deep into our bones. This love, modeled first by our Creator God, seeks to love unconditionally, to see beauty in a soul that whispers, moves, breathes, and lives, unhindered by outer accouterments.

I showered the next morning and arranged a quick haircut appointment, but our beauty is never limited by hair styles or clothing or jean size, women. Your beauty flows out from you in the way your laughter dances in your eyes, the way you sneeze so uniquely, and the way you treat the people in your life. You are loved and delighted in by an Artist God. And the loved ones in our lives? They strive to love as well as this God Being, who models it first to us, and then watches it trickle down to the people around us.

Into a dark six-thirty morning, my six-year old crept quietly around the bed to whisper in my ear. "Hi, Mom, I'm awake."

"Hi, buddy. You can play in your room. Dad and I are going to sleep a bit more, okay?"

The door clicked shut behind him. Mark and I moved sleepily to the center of the bed, and snuggled into spoon mode. His right arm slid under my pillow. Pulling me close, he wrapped his left arm around me. We slid aside my long hair from tickling his face, and adjusted our pillows in automatic mode. There is a rhythm that sinks deeply into loved ones, where nestling in can come without thought or much wakefulness. I slid back, feeling his chest rise and fall in slow breaths against my back. My breathing soon matched his, the warmth of his body wrapping my frame, and we dozed.

There is a safety in a love that is breath-slowing, breath-forming, and stalwart. It settles in, deep into our bones, freeing beauty, freeing us to see love and give love, modeled first to us by our God.

A Backward's Glance that Will Change Your Trajectory

Miniscule snowflakes drift by sleepily today, while burly college men sprawl around our cherry wood kitchen table with my husband.

Photo: Gabriela, Creative Commons, cc license

Raucous laughter breaks out as they tease each other about the board game in front of them, and I grin quiet and shift more comfortably on my desk behind them. Scouring digital photos from last year, I select a few, inserting them into this year's Christmas letter. The photos trail beside tales, and I can't help but see it.

It's laced throughout the document, and I hear it again and again. And the words just flow it out, this truth that I know but it takes a year's worth of telling to see it so plainly. In a paragraph on page one, it's there in Times New Roman font, "We are overwhelmed by God's gracious care for us and his extravagant kindness." And somehow it's in a paragraph about demolition and destruction, and yet he amazes me with his kind care.

On page two, the line weaves throughout paragraphs about seizures and cancer but once again the lines speak a truth I had known but the seeing it in black and white still takes me by surprise. Because the audacious truth of joy and seeing God's constant love is that the circumstances might surprise us. It's there, and I can't lie. The words reflect and recite it back to me, and nodding, I agree. "That incident reminded us how precious Daniel is to us and gave us an opportunity to experience God's palpable kind love and presence in our lives as we walked the days and weeks that followed."

And those truths that we can know in our heads really do come bursting from our hearts in the hospital rooms, outside the surgical ward, and in the MRI waiting rooms. Because the truth is "While it was an emotional time for our family, we were amazed at the innumerable ways we saw God's kind gifts to us throughout the nine-day hospital stay and the weeks before and after."

Taking a break from revising the family Christmas letter, I joined my daughter in making beef lo mein for supper. College boys had trickled in and out until there was just one left, playing games at the table with my husband on his day off. This former youth group man is now in his thirties and today is his birthday. Six year old Daniel and I frosted the cake, twirling spoons with white frosting across a yellow cake.

"Can I do the sprinkles?" Daniel asked eagerly. He pinched them up a few at a time, concentrating to drop them precisely where he wanted them on the vanilla frosting. Soon, we sang Happy Birthday and gave Brandon his card. Daniel was so excited that he jumped into a version of the song early, and we hurried to catch up to him, starting a second refrain. And our love for this thirty-two year old former teen in our youth program wells up inside us, jumping off the page of our homemade black and white card.

But this love? It pales next to the love that our God has for Brandon, for us, and for you. This kind love and palpable presence leaps off the page to me this year, reading back over our family's news for the Christmas letter. And I never would have guessed that a year with words like seizure, house relocation, house demolition, and cancer could hold so much joy, and uncontainable stories of God's kindness, but it does.

And may I tell you? For we know, brothers and sisters that you are dearly loved by God, and that he has chosen you. In this Thanksgiving week of finding and giving thanks, even a cursory glance backwards will show you trails and tales of God at work in your life. You are dearly, unconditionally, loved.

(Yes, yes, you too.)

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.

To the Ugly and Small-God-Praying Folk Like Me

Photo: M. H. Anbinder, Creative Commons, cc license

Every day he went to the Gate Beautiful. And I don't know if he felt beautiful, but I know that he pulled his withered legs closer to him on the braided mat and he stared out. At the passing people who didn't see him, at the passing people who tried not to see him, he stared blankly and made his speech. Under towering columns, he lay low, and he begged for small coins.

Coming to his corner, Peter and John, nimble-footed fishermen accustomed to rolling waves as well as dusty Roman-occupied lands, saw him there. He who may not have felt beautiful under the Archway named for Beauty.

And he, who wasn't used to being seen, was suddenly seen. Peter looked straight at him, as did John. Peter said, "Look at us!" and the man gave them his attention, expecting to get something from them.

I am reminded of this historical account and I play it over and over this afternoon as I chop thick rose and green striped stalks of rhubarb, layering them under sliced peaches and ripe strawberries for a summer dessert.

At a recent art exposition, I stood entranced beside a table in the back center of the crowded room. The artist stood there silent and proud with nothing to prove as I paged through his two or three sketchbooks and I was mesmerized. In the styling of Da Vinci or Michalangelo, this artist dated his pages and then filled them with moments captured in time: weary-looking women hunched over coffee cups, ball-capped men dozing on bus benches, and fragments of familiar faces appearing regularly through the pages, here they are lounging on a couch, here they flick a cigarette and glance at him. Ordinary moments frozen in pencil and time. The commonplace is suddenly intimate and beautiful, stolen peeks into lives and stories.

"I've never seen an ugly person," he says, this artist at whose table I've lingered. In response to my delight at his drawings, he states it again, "I don't believe anyone is ugly. And I don't mean this as a cliche," he laughs. "Everyone is interesting in their own way. It's just attitudes that are ugly." I nod in happy agreeing.

His characters are lined in thought, in age, in shadows, and he starts into a story. "I came across this man who had warts and growths all across his skin, even tapering out to claws on his hands," he explained, "and I couldn't look away. It was so unique, beautiful in its own way. I could have drawn him for hours."

Back in Middle Eastern Bible times, Peter and John have captured the sitting man's attention, and he turns expectant. Underneath the Gate Beautiful, he awaits a token coin or two.

"I don't have any money," Peter began, "but what I have I'll give you. In the name of Jesus Christ, stand up and walk." Taking him by the right hand, he helped him up and instantly the man's feet and ankles became strong. He jumped to his feet and began to walk. Then he went with them into the temple courts, walking and jumping and praising God. When all the people saw him walking and jumping and praising God, they recognized him as the same man who used to sit begging at the gate called Beautiful, and they were filled with wonder and amazement at what had happened to him.

Tapping my screen to hear this audio text read again and again aloud to me as I mix in sugar, flour and baking soda, I hear these words repeated and it hits me.

"What I have ... I'll give you." To the people sitting hopeless under signposts flashing gaudy hope, to the people feeling lonely under facebook statuses blatant in aloof anger, and to silent hovering teens with screaming eyes.

"What I have, I'll give you!" And it may be to cry out to the God who does the miraculous. He can and does still heal. True stories echo in my ears from sources I trust and believe, and I've seen God do that too, in astonishing answers to prayer from small private rooms.

And suddenly, I have to stop mixing. Running to my room, I kneel and pray, feeling slightly silly next to a mountainous pile of clean laundry in my room in the dark on a hot summer afternoon. But He's brought a name to my mind, so I stumble words, cry laughing in the dark, and burst into praise about how big our God is, swiping tears and laughing in shy love to Him. I pray for healing for this friend, feeling at once weak in faith and yet incredulous with excitement to the God who says, Ask me. So I do, and I confess that all too often I have labeled God in a tiny box and prayed pitifully-small safe prayers. I wipe tears and smile silly still, admitting that I too easily forget, am too prone to miss his wonders, and too easily distracted to notice his answers to prayer. His love is towering, and I kneel low beside the bed, and he whispers beauty to my heart. It is liberating, exuberant.

After a while, I slip back into the kitchen, resume the audio play, and wipe up the rhubarb and strawberry spills from the counter.

What you have, what you can freely give, may be different for each person. Some friends need you to walk boldly into God's throne room, and say, "Abba Dad, remember Peter and John's experiences with the man at the gate? You tell us to ask, so here I am..."

Other friends simply need us to tell them they are beautiful, and not alone, and that they have value. They need us to speak words of emotional healing, or to spend tell-tale time with them that translates into relationship in language they hear. Type a private message to the one needing to know they are seen, or text a note to a friend who needs you.

"What I have, I'll give you. May I introduce you to the God who crafted and made you, who calls you by name?"

And this God who slips up beside us too, as we huddle at the Gate Beautiful on those days when we wonder too, says, Look at me. Turning, we look, expecting small things, and He does the miraculous. 

The story of the man at the Gate Beautiful? It ends with a simple line, "For the man who was miraculously healed was over forty years old." And for some reason, that hits me too tonight.

How Flashes Deep With an Atom Reflect the Life We're Searching For

"Oh, I forgot to tell you! As I was driving to come get you just now, John, something fell off the car."

Both kids looked at me in surprise.

"Fell off the car?"

"Yes, I felt something tumble off the bottom of the car and, looking back in my rearview mirror, I saw something roll away."

The kids laughed, exclaimed, and followed me to the door. John was already looking for his flipflops.

"Do you want to go find the part for me?" I asked, grinning at him, describing the spot just up the road where I had turned onto the highway. He grunted happily at finding his sandals in the jumble of winter boots and shoes, and opened the door. 

"Here's where it fell off from," he stated proudly as soon as we were outside, peering under the back of the car. Where the muffler should have been was a gap, leading from an open pipe. John sauntered off comfortably in the blue twilight, my laughter following him.

In my daughter's ninth grade science book this week we have been reading about the wild intricate behaviors of proton, neutrons, and electrons within an atom. Inside the nucleus is a flurry of activity where protons and neutrons exchange tiny particles called pions in a frenzy of energy. Electromagnetically, like charges repel each other. Protons, as positively-charged aspects of the atom, should repel each other, like same-sided magnets do. Yet, mysteriously, they don't.

Bewildered scientists wondered for years why the protons' positive charges didn't repel each other and explode. They knew there must be a strong force holding everything together, but didn't know what it was. Experiments and observations hinted at the existence of this strong force, but not much was known of it until the 1930s and 40s. Eventually scientists confirmed the existence and nature of this strong force, the strongest force in creation.

And my daughter and I at the couch are reading the textbook, underlining key parts, and giggling about this knowledge, as we try to illustrate and act it out. And do you know what thrills me about this force?

This strongest force in all creation, this strong force that overrules normal magnetism and is stronger than gravity... this strong force in science reminds me of the Trinity. Protons and neutrons are huddled so closely in the nucleus of the atom because they are giving of themselves. Taking part of themselves to manufacture pion particles, they give sacrificially to each other. Over and over they break off part of themselves, and give to the other. In what reminds me of sacrificial love, there is a frenzy of breaking and making and giving and receiving, and breaking and making and giving and receiving. Pions flash as gifts that last for a brief instant then are gone.

Giving of themselves to each other, they are wrapped intricately close. This-- the strongest force in creation-- is woven so tightly that all other natural laws of magnetism, poles, and gravity are broken, and in the center of the atom, unseen by the world, protons and neutrons give of themselves and hand off themselves as endlessly-given gifts to each other. And it's the strongest force in science.

We get glimpses of that other-focused giving, in our families and friendships at times. I grin as my son strides back in the house, depositing an angular muffler on our front step, and it reminds me of this endless giving we see in this science, and in our God.

I see it in you as you love and care for the people in your lives. I see it in moms, dads, grandparents, siblings, relatives, friends and neighbors. This strong force. This breaking and making and giving...

Who knew it was modeled in pions buried deep within the atoms?


(Photo Credit: Mufflers: Michael Ash, Creative Commons,cc license.
Photo Credit: Atom: Argonne National Lab, Creative Commons, cc license.)


Linking with Emily at Imperfect Prose.

Four Thousand-Year Old Code Can Tell Us if We've Fully Arrived

Photo Credit: Son Marki, Creative Commons, cc

In the pages, brave heroine Nancy Drew tapped out a Morse code message for her friends over the phone, all while talking inanely about trivial matters. The tip-tapping of her pencil on the phone receiver gave the appearance of distraction or nervousness, until studied closer. Suddenly her erratic taps spelled out a valuable message. I read spellbound, as a teen.

Codes and mysteries have always grabbed my attention so when I stumbled across a coded message from four thousand years ago, I was instantly hooked. Don Richardson in his book Eternity in their Hearts reveals an astonishing ideograph that is in the Chinese language.

Language learners in Mandarin Chinese have long loved yet wrestled with the complexity of the Chinese language. The beautiful intricate language uses a system of 214 symbols called radicals. Those radicals combine to form a staggering 30,000 to 50,000 ideographs, or word pictures!

Missionary linguists learning Mandarin suddenly noticed a wild combination of pictures in the Chinese verb "to come." Pictured in the verb "to come" is first of all the image of a man, an upside-down y shape. The man pictograph is then superimposed onto a tree. At the bottom left and right of the ideograph are two smaller lines that mean "humans." In other ideographs, those two lines mean "mankind" or "humanity." Thus the ideograph for "Come" shows humanity coming to the man on the tree. 

So the Chinese language from over 4000 years ago tells us the ultimate place we need to go, to fully arrive, to be there, to come -- Humans coming to the One on the tree. 

This Easter, how do you know if you've fully arrived? How do you know if you've "made it"? Have you gotten right with God who takes away the sins of the world? He has never left you, and is waiting right beside you.

How do you know if you've fully arrived? How do you know if you've "made it"? Have you come to the One on the tree? 

Happy Easter, friends.


Linking with Emily too. 

(Not an affiliate link.)

This Transforms How I See Easter

 Can you picture them?

Photo Credit: JD Lasica, Creative Commons, cc

Sweet little six year old Middle Eastern boys pouring down the cobbled stone Roman streets of a remote occupied town. Young Jewish boys in Jesus' time all attended Bet Sefer at the local synagogue. Six to ten years old attended this Bet Sefer, which means House of Books or House of Knowledge, five days a week, Monday through Friday. Local temple leaders would teach them about the Torah, the first five books of the Old Testament, and the boys would soon have memorized all of Genesis through Deuteronomy!

Photo Credit: David Jones, Creative Commons, cc

Ten through fourteen year old teens, growing taller, broader, and with their voices just starting to change, would then proceed to Bet Talmud studies at the temple, where they would study the rest of the Old Testament books. Those showing promise would continue, soon memorizing all of the Hebrew scriptures from Joshua through Malachi, including the Psalms, by the age of thirteen or fourteen years old! Many Jewish seminaries continue this memorization feat today, I'm told, in an article called "Covered in the Dust." 

By age twelve to fourteen years old, while still in the Bet Talmud, young Jewish males were learning the art of question and answering that marked an educated and intelligent person. Practicing with Torah teachers and temple leaders, they responded, fielded, and replied to the questions thrown at them. This casts new light on the story of Jesus as a twelve year old boy in the temple with the religious leaders where he is "sitting with the teachers. He was listening to them and asking them questions. Everyone who heard him was amazed at how much he understood. They also were amazed at his answers." 
 

Photo Credit: Ho John Lee, Creative Commons, cc

Jesus grew up, became a rabbi himself, and invested in his disciples for three intense years. One of the teaching tools that rabbis would do with their students, I've just learned, is to start saying a line from a Bible passage, knowing that his audience would immediately be able to recognize the next lines. Since almost all Jewish males had memorized Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy, there were many passages to use. Jesus often started his lessons that way, or he simply said, "You have heard that it was said to the people long ago..." and then continued with his teaching. The Hebrew audiences of his day would have instantly recognized most of his Old Testament references and tracked along with him in the rest of the chapter.

What hits me this week as we remember Jesus on the cross is something he said...

While hanging on the cross, undergoing excruciating agony, Jesus started the first line of a chapter. Educated Hebrew audiences of his day would have instantly recognized the words, and known the reference. They would have been able to recite the next words and lines, as easily as many of us know pop songs. Jesus' gasped sentence on the cross would have set in motion for them the rest of the chapter.

Curious? 

To transform your Easter week, and add fresh poignancy to Jesus' death on the cross, read through to the end of Psalm 22 in that purple link above, or on your own. There are powerful, amazing treasures all throughout that chapter. (I don't want to spoil one sliver of it for you.)

WOW!

Shhh, They're Playing Your Song!

Photo Credit: Paulo Vicente, Creative Commons, cc

It's jarring and unexpected. Beer advertisements jangle loudly across my Kenny G saxophone instrumentals every five seconds. The latest in internet viruses seems to be this one, attacking online radio stations with incessant invisible advertisements. More than just the occasional advertisement between songs, these ads soon play nearly non-stop, blocking out all music.

As I look into tackling this computer issue, it strikes me how often our lives are like this too, though. Our Creator woos us, serenading us with songs of love. Too often, our focus is pulled off him. Others' voices, songs, and noises pop up, and soon his song is buried under chaos.

Want to clear away the noise with me tonight? Take a moment to pause life, turn off other distractions, quiet your mind, and listen to the original Singer. He's singing to you tonight.

"The Lord your God is with you,
He is mighty to save.
He will take great delight in you,
He will quiet you with his love
He will rejoice over you with singing." (Zephaniah 3:17)

Shhh, they're playing your song...

Happy Valentine's weekend, friend. Know that you are loved, pursued, and delighted in, by the Lover of your soul. He's playing your song...