Can You Picture When It Switched For You?

 I remember when it switched.

You had always been my comfort-Mom, the one I called upstairs late at night when my middle school friends and I had scared ourselves with sleepover ghost stories. Sara's tales of a come-alive puppet proved too much for us that summer, and suddenly my five-foot tall rag doll Jenny was terrifying. We could almost see it sitting up and slipping nearer, so we yelled as loud as we could-- Amy, Sara and I-- hoping you could hear us downstairs and across the house. You came, prayed with us, laughed at our foolishness, and probably scolded us some too, but you took the doll and our fear away with you.

Dad was our protector, you were comfort, and all was well with the world. It's not that you two were perfect, but you loved us, you loved God, and you lived authentically before us.

Minnesota corn fields turned to Pennsylvanian's green rolling hills, and then to Liberia's lush African wetlands. Some months into our new home there, it happened.

You and I had been taking long hikes across town to the open air market and back each day, sloshing through mud puddles where the dirt squished up over our flipflops and between our toes, or swirling up cyclones of red dust in the dry season. We carried heavy plastic bags of groceries home each day, and guzzled down water they sold in tiny plastic baggies. In our green cement block house with no electricity, refrigeration wasn't an option, so any perishable foods had to be bought and eaten each day. We feasted on juicy mangoes, creamy avocados, fresh glinting-scaled fish that slapped in dead motion against my legs as we walked, and pineapples.

Wow, our African friends worked hard. We joined them, living with them, beside them, and jumping full-blast into their way of doing life. Squatting between our knees, we rubbed sloshing clothes in buckets by hand, hanging them dripping from clotheslines. You kneeled beside coal pots, blowing red embers to flicker into flame, and you cooked new African dishes each day over steaming metal pots.

At night, our family of five sprawled happy and relaxed under mango trees and in hammocks, listening to neighbors toss jokes between cement block porches and an orchestra of crickets. We loved our life there, but the learning curve was sharp as we struggled to catch up to our strong hard-working African friends.

After months of drawing water from the well, walking miles to and from the market, and the endless loads of laundry by hand, malaria slipped in quiet one night. And that's when it switched.

You were feverish and pale, shaking with chills under as many blankets as we could find in our African home of one hundred degree weather. Tie-dyed sheets flushed crimson and shook under your shivering frail body. Nauseated, dehydrated, and weak, you pulled your sheets to your chin, and I peeked in worried.

It's not that you were ever invincible, but I unwittingly thought you were, and then suddenly you were dangerously ill, and the world stopped.

I brought you water, urged you to drink, and tried to make you laugh. In the kitchen, I reminded my siblings to continue their school, and then numbly chopped potato greens, diced onions, and tried not to burn the rice. Time slowed.

I remember when it switched. And this friendship now, this relationship, is sweeter because of it.

Moms and dads of all ages, we can and should still be comfort to our kids, but when it changes and they get to comfort us as well, that is a good thing too. As sisters, brothers, friends together, we continue. 

Happy Mother's Day, Mom, to the mom who still comforts me, and yet who lets me comfort and pray for her too. I enjoy doing life together.

(And I am blessed to have a dear sweet mother-in-law as well, whom I enjoy doing life together too. You will get to meet her in another blogpost.)

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.

Spies, Mercenaries, and You and I

Photo Credit: Tim Pierce, Creative Commons, cc

My husband and I have been watching spy shows lately. Explosions ricochet and cars burst into flame while two or three trained personnel rescue children from kidnappers or free communities from violent drug cartels. And no matter the crisis, the loyal friendship between these heroes never ceases to capture my attention. Without hesitating, they charge into danger to protect each other.

In my Bible reading today, I walked into a tense, pulse-racing battle scene too. Mercenaries infiltrated a quiet night, friends betrayed each other for money, and men held their weapons out with taut arms. Jesus alone stood calm.

And I noticed the smaller print in my study notes below, drawing my attention to a repetitious part of the transcribed dialogue there. Jesus asked the mercenaries and soldiers the same question two times.

"Who is it that you want?"

"Jesus of Nazarus," they replied.

He asked them again, "Who is it that you want?"

"Jesus of Nazarus," they confirmed.

"You have me. Let these men go."

Hmmm. Our Warrior-God, aware of his coming torture and execution, is nonetheless thinking of his friends' safety. Not bargaining for himself, he stoically, carefully, guarantees their safety.

You're here for me, right? Then let these men go free.

And my courageous hero complex? He woos me anew.

Are you looking for someone who will love you unconditionally, who will see the good in you, who will fight for you, and who wants the best for you? The God of the Universe loves you fiercely, passionately. He is the warrior standing up saying, "Take me, let them go" for his friends in the dark night, knowing that death is coming. And he is the God who died for you. For me. 

(Linking too with Ann at A Holy Experience...)

Fighting Back Against Family Sick Days

Quiet rasping snores from my five year old at the table caught my attention. His yogurt sat untouched beside him, blonde tousled head resting on a green-striped right arm, while his feet curled into chair rungs below him. A moment later, his body startled awake and I carried him, protesting, to bed.

For two days, our family has slouched glassy-eyed on the couch, watching reruns of The Cosby Show and Phineas and Ferb. Fevers and hacking coughs have united us. We fill each others' water bottles, sanitize and hand off the thermometer, and apportion the couch syrup between us. Taking turns, we make quick easy food or see to other needs, before returning weakly to the couch. My five year old has become a junkie, asking me for the "blue stuff" every few hours, his chewable grape-flavored fever-buster. A flushed camaraderie grows between the four of us as we layer legs across blankets on the couch, and click from one episode to the next.

John calls us from college, his voice a matching gravel to ours, and we compare symptoms, calculating potential end dates for him. "I'm drinking lots of water, Mom, and trying to sleep a lot," he says raspy over the phone.

I woke up this morning feeling better than the past few days, and kicked into gear. After two days of paltry buttered bread slices, raisins, and yogurt, we were ready for something else. Topping off Morgan's water bottle, giving Mark a chance to nap, and snuggling with Daniel, I swigged from my own green water bottle, and scoured the fridge and cupboards for meal ideas for the day.

What helps on family sick days? Wanting an assortment of easy, healthy food in reach is always our biggest lament when everyone is weak on the couch. Knowing my energy supply might be fleeting, I quickly sliced an array of carrots, purple cabbage, celery, green pepper, and mushrooms, and set the platter on the couch next to my two kids. (I know. Those aren't necessarily our first choices either, but it was all that was left in the fridge. The apples, bananas, and oranges had been eaten earlier in the week.) Selecting the rapid button on our white box, I whirred the bread machine to a start. Fresh bread would make lunch easier, I reasoned.

As cartoons streamed from the living room tv nearby, I watched my kids nibble vegetables, and peeled and diced gnarled-limb garden parsnips, a wrinkled but still sweet rutabaga, and added them to minced garlic and onion for a slow cooked meat stew for supper. Sprinkling in oregano, rosemary, and two bay leaves, I cinched on the lid, wiped off counters, and added to my compost bucket, excited about next year's dirt I was making.

I'm thankful to be feeling much better and see the end in sight for us all. There are fewer of us on the couch now, and more times when we head off on temporary tasks or adventures around the house. Blue pill junkie? He's cracking jokes, beating me in Uno, and downstairs playing video games now. Daughter has picked up her art sketch pad again, and Mark is relaxing with a game now too. The fragrance of hot fresh bread wafts through the house as I type to you. Have a great week!

Has illness hit your home this month? What helps your family through it?

To All Of Us With Rings

Photo credit to K. Overson

There's something about watching wedding vows from shiny wooden benches in the sunlight. Grey storm clouds that hung ominously overhead all afternoon, suddenly slipped away, and family and friends straightened in the unexpected heat. The bride, with a cut-out lacy back repeated her "I do" vows in giddy joy, and I watched her fair skin pinken in the hot September sun. The groom in swirled dark hair stared steady at his bride, proud wonder and amazement seeping from him.

A violinist, guitarist and pianist joined several vocalists in the golden grass to our left, and music floated under blue skies. Bride and groom spoke promises to each other, and I leaned into my husband's side, tracing his gold ring on his tanned finger. He turned and glanced at me, smiling softly, brown hair streaked with slight silver now. We kissed gently, and turned back to watch the vows.

There's something about watching wedding vows from shiny wooden benches in the sunlight that raises in me joy, nostalgia, and gratitude, and yet an awareness this weekend of my own brokenness and flaws. The pastor spoke of sacrificial love that was willing to die for a spouse, and yet often our hardest sacrificial choices are the day-to-day smaller ones. I sat in sunlight, a light flashed onto my own discrepancies.

We huddled close that afternoon as twilight fell, the sunlight disappeared, and grey clouds rushed in. Over wedding toasts, bride and groom games, and guest laughter and conversations, the cold crept in. We dug out fleeces and blankets, sharing between friends, and draping ourselves in overly-large jackets to stay warm. Sipping caramel coffee creations and Indian spiced chai's, my man and I sat close, laughing with others, and exchanging glances through the night.

On the car ride home that night, we talked quietly, affirming love for each other, apologizing for our brokenness some days, and leaning in close. "God is bigger than all this, Jen," Mark said, picturing my struggles, his struggles, and everyone's struggles. "He is patient and good."

This morning, he melts chocolate chips into our home-made hot chocolates, and we hug and pray together before I head out the door. We text a few times, intentional and kind, building each other up, and speaking truth into our relationship.

God is bigger than any of our sins or bad habits or attitudes. He is patient with us, forgiving, and good. He is fighting for us, friend. And marriages are worth it.

Linking with Ann at A Holy Experience.