What Cowlicks and Warriors Would Tell You about Living Well

The fir tree has a cowlick. Spouting out from conical symmetry is a two-foot-long branch, and I want to snip it each time I see it, but it's twenty feet up and in my neighbor's yard. The branch points north to my neighbor's front yard where at night Orion the Warrior is tangled in a tree.

Photo Credit: Flickr user Erica Franck, Creative Commons cc license

One month into my Dad's stage IV terminal cancer diagnosis, and I find myself scrolling websites, scrawling notes at doctors' appointments, and counting calendar months. Chest tight some mornings, I pull my Bible closer while Daniel sits beside me untangling addition problems, and I wonder about subtractions.

Yesterday we took a break from math and phonics to refill bird feeders. Charcoal-colored sunflower seeds spilled dusty from the bag, whooshing against my fingers on cold metal frame. I sliced old juicy oranges into halves for the orioles. Crushed citrus a fragrance on my skin. Daniel and I placed vivid orange slices between lines of drizzled seeds on the deck railing, then slipped back inside to watch the birds come. Black-capped chickadees soared tremulously close, skittish but hopeful.

And I remember it, recounting the ways that God has tenderly laid bread crumb trails of hope and wonder for me this spring, long before I even knew I would need them. I line them up in my mind, and shake my head in gentle wonder. He is so good. In January, I stepped out and chose my very first Word of the Year --Brave --thinking I meant it to be moving more boldly into my writing and speaking ministries. God knew of Dad's impending cancer, though, and kindly tucked the word inside me. Earlier, in November Mark and I co-taught a sermon at our church, stating that joyful thanks-giving is always possible, even in the darkest nights. We mentioned our daughter's young cancer scare when she was five years old, and other crises over the years. Meanwhile my Dad's cancer grew in silence. The breadcrumbs continue in my mind, and I see it clearly, God's loving trail for me.

Pulling my Bible nearer, I pause to answer Daniel's math question before sinking deeper into God's words. "I have put my words in your mouth and covered you with the shadow of my hand," his book tells me, and I lean into that.

"Mom, I listened to Grandpa's song a lot yesterday," my tall twenty-one year old said quietly to me. Jeremy Camp's song "Reckless" has become my dad's mantra these months. He air drums away to it, nodding his head.

"Can we play it again?" my Dad says softly. "I'm not afraid to die. I know where I'm going," he smiles. Jeremy Camp sings about wanting to love and live recklessly, boldly, because of Jesus's love for us.

"I want to die well," my Dad says, thinking of a Henri Nouwen quote. He and Mom have been sharing their stories of God's rescues and passionate love all the more boldly now to the people they meet.

Outside my window, I can see it, the fir tree with a cowlick. Beyond the Warrior Orion hangs the Big Dipper constellation.

"If you're ever lost and need to find north," my Dad had taught me, "follow the mouth of the Big Dipper. It will pour out into the North Star."

And now it changes how I see the cowlick. It's directing me to a poured out life that always points me home.

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When Grief Stalks

Cinnamon coffeecake plunges high up my plastic fork while brown sugar topping flakes and tumbles from the top. Espresso grinders whir loud then fade to the music from overhead speakers. Three inch pink baby shoes glide by in a black stroller; purple sippy handles peak from a stroller's corner. Wooden coffeehouse chairs scrape and clunk hollow, and I sip my hot refilled coffee from blue cardboard.

On a morning of Monday's clean laundry piled high and an upcoming evening church softball game, we received word of a tragic car accident. A former youth group student and his family of five were killed in a multiple car pile-up involving a semi-truck. His family's faces still grin happy in the missionary magnet on my fridge, just a month away from their departure to a new life in Japan.

My cell phone's text message blinked the news, and it was too awful to believe or to speak aloud.

"What?" Mark kept asking me in my gaped silence, "What?!"

Our shock and grief looked like crying in Mark's arms, my tears and nose running and wiped on his shirt unconsciously while we prayed. Grief looked like numb silence and staring slack-jawed out the window.


"What are you looking at?" Daniel wants to know, peering out the window too.

"Just thinking about our friends, bud," I murmur, and we both fall silent.

Earlier, concerned by our tears and unsure how to respond, Daniel had fled the room. Following him, I found him burrowing under his blankets in the dark room.

"We can be sad together. It's okay to cry and to ask God hard questions."

My words falter and fall short today. Typing a short message to my friends to mourn their son and his family, I tell them that we ache and cry with them.

Community is shared grief, shared silences, shared tears. And God's chest is big enough for those hot tears and raw words too.

What Your Beloved Wants to Tell You

"O M W," he texts me. It would have been cryptic and uncrackable if he hadn't just warned us. "I'll text you when I'm on my way," he had said, his eyes flashing excitement, hair freshly-cut, the ring safely tucked away.

"They're on their way," I called out to Mark, Daniel, and Morgan. Grabbing my camera, I dashed outside, bare feet trampling warm spring grass.

"Isn't it like a twenty minute bike ride, Mom?" Morgan asked.

"I don't mind." I wandered in my front yard, soaking in the seventy degree sunshine, stroking red tulip heads and brushing fingers through velvety hedge growth.

And then they were in view. John and Kate, cycling on the borrowed tandem bike, faces giddy and flushed with excitement, turned into our driveway. Kate's face was still red and tears slipped down. She grinned, shyly wiping them, and her diamond ring caught the light.

"Congratulations! Let's see the ring!" They giggled and stepped off the bike, standing arm in arm.

Mark, Morgan, Daniel and I took turns hugging our eldest son, John, and his new fiancee, Kate. I snapped photographs like a madwoman.

That night after the dozens of phone calls to the relatives, after our two new families merged for an impromptu family grill-out of hot dogs and watermelon, and after praying aloud on the back deck for the new couple, everyone went home, and an emotional happy silence fell on the house.

"Mom, do you know about Jewish weddings?" John asked, towering over me at the sink as I washed hands.

With neither family Jewish, his question surprised me. "Well, my grandpa performed a Jewish wedding for my cousin years ago..." I trailed off.

"Well, I've been learning about this somewhere. Did you know in some Jewish customs the bridegroom had to go to his father's house and prepare a home for his wife before he could marry her?"

Sudden word pictures sank in deep to me.

"We're like the bride," he said, and the beauty of it surged clearer to me.

Jesus's words in the biblical book of John chapter fourteen rang in sharper meaning for me suddenly. Jesus talked about the rooms in his Father's house, and about going there to prepare a place for us. "And if I go to prepare a place for you, I will come again and take you" with me so that we can be together there, he said.

It strikes me that we're all the pretty, shiny red-cheeked fiancees, and our Beloved is coming soon.


(If you are near the Farmington area, you are welcome to check ticket-availability to join me at the Mother-Daughter luncheon at Bible Baptist Church this Saturday, May 14th. I'm looking forward to that time and sharing there with them.)

Pheasant-Hunting with a Pen & Author in Turkey

Stabbing in the black plastic fork, I pulled it back. Speared green spinach leaves, tangy apple squares, and salty slivers of Swiss cheese dangled haphazardly for a moment. Self-consciously helping a few stray spinach stems back into my mouth, I pulled the Bible closer with my other hand.

Photo Credit: Flickr User K. Hurley, Creative Commons cc license

Paul, one of the authors of the Bible, had penned words from ancient Turkey. Their poetic beauty and powerful life-changing truths grabbed me, yet I found myself stopping to read and re-read them.

Do Bible sections trip you up sometimes too? Paul's long sentences drip with parenthetical clauses and commas. I find myself tracking subject-verb trails like a pheasant hunter or an editor with a red pen. As the words-lover in me grows and stretches taller each year, I discover that my method of studying and learning has changed too.

Armed with pens, colored pencils, and endless notebooks, I've learned that writing out Paul's sentences and diagramming them reveals new beauty and understanding to me. Dissecting his subjects, verbs, prepositions, and clauses, I suddenly see his passages flood with clearer meaning. Patterns and repeated words pop out. Joy pours in. The words hum with intensity, and my eyes trace and re-trace the lines. "Wow, look at this!" I point to friends and family nearby.

Today I diagrammed four verses from the book named after the Turkish city of Ephesus. Sentences by a Roman Jew, imbued with the Creator's Spirit, sizzled excitement and truth to my European-American heart. Grab your plate and join me?

I pray that out of his glorious riches
he may strengthen you with power
through his Spirit in your inner being, 
so that
Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. 

And I pray that you, 
being rooted and established in love,
may have power, 
together with all the saints, 
to grasp
          How WIDE
          and LONG
          and HIGH
          and DEEP
is the love of Christ,

and to know
this love that surpasses knowledge 
--that you may be filled
to the measure
of all the fullness of God.                              (Ephesians 3:16-19)


What have you been snagging for quick easy lunches? And where have you been reading lately? (Those in email can click here to join the conversations.)

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A Mission that Will Self-Destruct in Ten, Nine, Eight...

My daughter and her friend spread watercolor pigments, paint brushes, drawing pencils, and textured feathery paper across our dining room table.

Photo Credit: Flickr user Mike Wallis, Creative Commons cc license

"Mom, can you click on the Nutcracker Pandora station?" she asks, just a few bars into a Vivaldi song. Tchaikovsky must feel more inspirational to her tonight. The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies wafts through the room, and conversation caves into reflective brushstrokes.

I open my computer screen and turn to words, my preferred mode of art. And these words have been running through my head all week since seeing them buried in an ancient Old Testament Bible book.

In that history, God has pulled a prophet (these men and women who have been chosen to speak God's messages) into a heart-wrenching assignment. The mission, if he chooses to accept it, is to experience God's heart on a gut-level intimacy. 

Hosea took the mission and stepped knowingly into the pain, but I cannot imagine that lessened the agony. His mission? Marry an unfaithful woman, knowing that she'll keep running away from you. Woo her again and again. Don't give up on her, even when she chooses other men, and falls into a life of prostitution.

Throughout the years, Hosea pursues her, speaking tenderly to her, and welcoming her home. "Stop this other life. Leave these men." 

Eventually, his wife, Gomer, has become enslaved. Bringing money, Hosea pays the price to free her from the debt and lovingly brings her home.

Stringing words together in fluent poetry, God delivers the punchline: This is how humans treat me. This is how my creation responds to me. But, more importantly, this is how I feel about them.  "Therefore I will now allure her. I will lead her into the wilderness and speak tenderly to her," a deep-voiced God says about his people, his world. 

Turning to Hosea, God explains. My people should return to me. My love for them is unending. His cue, and the phrase that has been running through my mind all week, is this:

               "Take words and return,"

I find that powerful.

Have any rifted relationships? With people? With God? Take words with you and return. Say sorry. God promises: I will heal you and love you freely.

Besides... his love has been chasing you already. Through the streets, through your stories, and through your storms, he has been following, saying, I will lead her and speak tenderly. I will allure her with a never-stopping, never-giving-up love. 

Take words and return.

My daughter and her friend have picked up the brushes, turned off the music, and left the room. God's art, however, swirls and eddies on in vibrant color.

Under Your Pile of Hats, I See It

Sitting side by side at the kitchen table, we are surrounded by slivers of blue, green, and black construction paper.

Photo of Neptune and moon Triton, NASA Solar System Exploration, Creative Commons cc license

"Here, this will be the volcano," I say, taping a grey three-dimensional cone onto a round blue sphere. "This is the ice lava. Wow, a volcano that erupts liquid nitrogen that freezes anything it touches! Can you imagine?!" and I act it out to Daniel as we attach tiny blue strips of paper to the inside of the volcano. "What a cool God!"

My seven year old grins at me, eyes wide, his haircut growing out in spiky tufts. He swings his legs excitedly under the table and picks up more paper.

"Mom, can we do some more?" he asks, his small red and black scissors poised in mid-cut.

Pausing for a moment, I waver. Because in the throes of efficiency, I had already switched hats. My Homework-Helper Mom hat was already off, my hand raised to don the Lunch-Coralling hat. Next up was Bill-Paying Mom, and Dish-Washing Mom. Homework-Helping-Mom was due again soon when 11th-grade Morgan and I would study Algebra 2.

(Don't ask about Dusting Hat. She hasn't been seen in weeks. Laundry-Folding-Mom works Saturdays, after Mark and the kids bring up toppling baskets of clean laundry. Who am I kidding? Laundry-Folding Mom just needs to tackle the growing mound of clean clothes that have been on the side couch all week, occasionally carried away and hidden in the bedroom when guests show up.)

My hats and To-Do lists are already lined up in my mind when Daniel asks it: "Mom, can we do this some more?"

Splashy colored paper, two scissors, and several glue sticks line the cherrywood kitchen table. South-facing window sunlight warms the dining room. Five flower buds swell slowly on the new green orchid branch.

"Sure, bud. That sounds nice," I say, sitting back down again. I pick up a scissors and start cutting.

"Did you know that Neptune has at least 27 moons? This icy-volcano is on the moon called Triton. Isn't God amazing?"

We pass glue sticks in silence and cut into green, blue, and red paper, the sunshine spreading warmth across my shoulders.

Our Creator God who invents ice-forming volcanic lava wears the hats of Creator, Father, Sustainer, Provider, Encourager, Savior, and Rescuer-King. In striking strength and beauty, he dons them all effortlessly.

I know you have a stack of hats, my friend. I see moms and dads who swipe on and off hats that read Provider, Meal-Maker, Child-Chauffeur, Band-Aid-Applier, Bedtime-Enforcer, Drink-Getting,  Bill-Paying, Present-Wrapper, and Homework-Helping mom or dad.

God leans in and pulls you into a deep hug. He sees you and delights in you. You are loved. You are enough in Him, and you are held and sustained by Him. Merry Christmas! We celebrate our Rescuing King wrapped in baby clothes.

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Shoved and Elbowed by God

Photo: Raul Lierberwirth, Creative Commons, cc license

Drying my hands on my pants, I stepped around the corner. Sitting outside the church sanctuary on hallway benches, a young couple leaned close. Smiling and bending down to hug them, I talked briefly, already hearing the first song playing.

Photo: Theen Moy, Creative Commons, cc license

My friend's eyes were tired, her answers perfunctory although warm, and I saw her young husband stroke her arm. I touched their shoulders again in love, raved about how cute their round-faced baby was, and strode away.

Seven-year old Daniel skipped beside me, gripping his Sunday School papers, while we shook the ushers' hands and stepped into the dimly-lit worship center. It was crowded but we found three seats, knowing Mark would join us shortly. Pushing my hair back, I stood and joined the singing.

"Go back," I felt God say.

"Now? I just got here. Leave worship?"

"Go back. Go now," God shoved me mentally.

"Daniel, I'll be right back. Stay here, okay?" I could see my friend Daisy just two chairs away and knew Mark would be there any minute.

"Okay, Mom," Daniel said, his forty-nine inches so short in the dark room.

In the hallway, her husband was alone as I approached.

"Is she in the bathroom?" I guessed, heading that way.

"No, she went out to the car."

I spun around and bounced downstairs. He called out the car make and model but Honda-something was unfamiliar to me anyway. I walked the parking aisles, looking for a head in a car.

"Lord, help," I asked.

Three passes later, I found her and knocked on the car window, crawling inside. Her eyes were red and she swiped a sweatshirt hand across her cute freckled cheeks.

"Hi, God loves you so much, do you know that? He told me to come back. He knew," I said softly.

We talked and opened up our lives together. Worship in the parking lot looked like praying, raw talks, and reminding ourselves of God's heart.

Thanks, God, that you are perceptive and tender, and that you are good at nudging me hard some days.
 

The Call on Line Two

It started last Monday night, but I didn't have the courage to say anything until Tuesday. Well, Wednesday, honestly, if you count non-husband people. Because I whispered it to him Tuesday morning, the shy awkward news about an embarrassing uncomfortable pain.

Photo: Flavia, Flickr user

And you don't want to know. Just nod and murmur comforting noises and we'll leave it at that. Tuesday I grabbed my cell phone and money and headed to the store for medicine. Then I grimaced, moaned, and tried not to aggravate it.

By Wednesday, the pain was worse and I wrestled courage with both hands and stumbled over the words with my children and on the phone to my mom.

"Oh, by the time you're my age, you won't be embarrassed about anything," she laughed and clucked sympathetically. She discussed home remedies, and I listened and nodded. 

"I've decided to pray," I blurted out. "There are so many people with chronic pain or who are suffering more seriously than this." I could picture friends whose relatives were in hospice and ones who lived with daily pain. "I've been using the pangs as reminders to pray," I stopped, then added with a sad laugh. "I've prayed a lot today."

And I did. In between flinches and hobbled walking sessions, I gritted teeth and thanked God that this pain was rare for me, bringing names to my lips of friends, families, and people I knew in pain. Although my ailment was trivial in comparison, I rested in the truth that our Abba Dad God looked with sympathy and love on each of us.

Photo: Deb Nystrom, Flickr user

Photo: Matt 0983, Flickr user

On Friday, my mom, sister, and I walked through the Minnesota State Fair, sniffing buttery corn on the cob, crispy chocolate chip cookies, braised turkey legs, and deep fried pronto pups. I wriggled toes in twinges of discomfort and thanked God for the people I saw and whose names rolled through my mind. "Thanks for these reminders to pray. Thank you that it's getting better too," I grinned at God.

My cell phone vibrated and rang, and Mark's first words flattened my chest. Terse quick sentences, then I raised eyes to my worried sister and mom.

"Daniel may have just had a seizure. I have to go." State Fair traffic flooded and ebbed around us, and my heart hammered, flushing cheeks red.

"Can we pray for you?" my sister asked, wondering if I had a minute. Leaning three heads in close, my mom and sister wrapped arms around me and I fought to follow their words. They talked to the God of the world and I remembered to breathe.

And this chance we have to say another's name aloud to the One who knows us intimately and has never stopped thinking of us is priceless, and it circles happily, unfazed. It's me who forgets in the moment to moment... about God, about friends and families in need, and I need reminders to pray, reminders to think of others, and it's a privilege to stride into God's throne room with a friend's name on our lips. "God?" and he nods, smiling, never at a loss.

Daniel is feeling fine now. (My silly ailments are improved too.) And I type, breathe, grate zucchini, put away clean dishes, and brainstorm supper, whispering names of friends and family who are in pain, thankful that our God has never forgotten.