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.

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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Wanting to Live Wide-hearted in a World of Headlines

Under the shade of a rippling tarp, Dominican Republic partners and Office of Environment officials talked about mangrove reforestation, explaining the work we would do. I wiped sweat off my cheeks and glanced over at Mary.

Photo Courtesy Anh Brown

Twelve days earlier she had called me, conspiratorial laughter in her voice. "How would you like to fly with me to the Dominican Republic for a few days?" she asked. "And is your passport current?"

As a travel agent, Mary had been invited to see and give feedback on the land portion of a brand new kind of travel by Fathom Impact Travel, a subsidiary of Carnival Cruise lines. Paying for her (and a qualifying friend) to fly to the DR, Fathom wanted her to experience four impact projects: reforestation, water purification, conversational English, and cement-floor-laying, all working alongside Dominican partner organizations. Because I lead frequent humanitarian/missions trips, Mary knew I would qualify for the experience too.

Asking a few questions, I heard my excitement bubbling and spilling over. "Yes! When?"

Photo Courtesy of Fathom Travel and Mary Krueger

Photo Courtesy of Anh Brown

Twelve days later, we were standing in muddy sneakers in a mangrove national forest, learning how deep to plant new mangrove trees and guzzling water under a gorgeous blue sky. After reforestation, we met friends in conversational English. The next day we worked hard making ceramic and liquid silver clay water filters, and by Friday, we were here, walking alongside Laoris as a slight breeze blew.

Photo Courtesy of Lorena Vargas-Bella

"I'm proud to show you my community," she said. Laoris smiled at us and guided us down winding dirt roads beside vivid green, pink, and blue painted homes. Crimson flowers blazed from behind metal gates and along narrow landscaped borders.

I stumbled on a stone in the path and on her name, somehow adding a "t." Laoris was gracious, patient, correcting my Spanish with a trilling rolled "r."

Arriving at a green cement block home with corrogated metal zinc roofs, we were introduced to Francesca, a petite great-grandmother and her daughter Marianne. Partnering with Dominican NGO Entraina, our team of Americans, Brits, Peruvians, Canadians, and Dominicans worked alongside local cement layers to pour out Francesca's first-ever cement floor.

"When it rains, the dirt floors flood and become soggy, creating health hazards," Entraina and Fathom staff explained. "We work with community partners to see who can most benefit from these floors," adding that they hire local masons and professionals who supervise and guide the Impact volunteers' efforts as cement mixers, bucket-carriers, etc. Dominican experts leveled cement, taught us the recipe proportions for mixing sand, cement powder, and water, and troweled what we brought them.

Lining up assembly-style, I took my place with my teammates. Straddling an inner doorway and wiggling my sneakers into the grey gravel, busted concrete, and sand for stability, I reached out for a slippery bucket of wet cement. We crouched with straight backs and bent knees to safely transport the heavy buckets and our talk swirled in Spanish and English as we passed pails, turned faces to the new friends on both sides, and sailed across cultural divides. 

"This is from my great-granddaughter," Francesca said, pointing to a paper drawing of a poem nailed to the wall behind us. Words about a mama's love and her full-hearted acts of family service curled up a page and shimmied around a red-marker heart. I paused to read the words, understanding some, and getting soft-spoken interpretations from Laoris at times beside me.

Francesca grinned widely, a toothy grin dimpling up both sides of her face, silver hair pulled back into a ponytail. "This is my son, Jose," she said, pointing to a man who had just walked in. He reached out for a bucket of cement, heaving it up and over to the room's floor behind him. "It's his daughter," Francesca explained, and Jose pulled out his phone, scrolling to a photograph of his daughter.

Over and over on this four day trip, this is where we found ourselves... pulling open our hearts, sharing about loved ones, and diving into deep conversations about life, family, communities, and intentional impact-full living. Over rice and beans seasoned Creole-style, or on jostling buses through coffee plantations, across language books in laps inside neatly-swept dirt yards overlooking mountain sea-scapes, and on wifi hotel lobby steps, we leaned over and opened wide our lives. 

Dominicans', Canadians', Brits', Peruvians', and Americans' faces swim in my mind now, their names and stories apart of me. I smile in thinking of them, and have left parts of me as well through the time and conversations we had. 


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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.
 

In between the Doorbell and the Cheetah Print

"Mark, would you mind carrying the heavy basket of laundry to the bedroom, please?"

It seemed counter-productive to lug away the pile of unfolded clean clothes without finishing them, but I knew that people would be arriving shortly and I wanted the crumpled jeans, rumpled shirts, cheetah print underwear out of the living room.

Stacking mismatched mugs and clanking glasses, I put away the clean dishes and started another load. Slippery salmon-smelling plates clattered as I slid the bottom drawer back into the machine and poured in soft detergent soap. I lit a candle, flung wide the windows, and quickly swept the wood plank floor.

Borrowed books and paper piles lined my desk, covered the dining room cut-out windowsill, and stood tall in several corners of the room. I grinned and nodded. Lego warriors, gold ninjas, and minuscule plastic swords lined the wide living room window mantle, and sunshine stroked yellow light onto long green plantain-leafed houseplants.

"I'm not going to have the house perfectly clean," I told Mark. "On purpose. I want people to feel welcomed and safe, at ease in a lived-in home. I know too many people who have been afraid to invite people over because they thought their homes needed to be perfect. I want to break that image."

Shoes still rampaged and queued up in messy rows in the mud room. Curls of dust glowed in the edges of some stairs, but I pulled up sultry jazz saxophone music and ran faucet water up to the silvery tea kettle's brim.

Calling three newer women at our church and three longer-established women from the church, I left quick texts or breezy messages about a casual spontaneous coffee time at my house. And I had no agenda except to create a place for women to connect, to feel safe, and to build relationships.

This spontaneous adventure in open-door living is special to me, because I've seen life unfold over bulging couches, from within green metal patio chairs, and atop flimsy cotton picnic cloths flung across deep green grass. The beauty of relationships and conversations that bud, unfurl, and spread wide delights me, and satisfies holes and hungers deep inside others' lives too. 

While I would still prefer to have the pink panties and the toppling piles of socks put away before you arrive, I am freeing myself to rest on the days when they are not. It's not perfectly clean, but you are perfectly welcome.

The doorbell rang this afternoon, and I threw open the door. Wind whistled and whined, barreling past the house in a flurry of red and yellow leaves. I poured hot coffee while my new friend swirled and stirred cocoa powder.

Welcome. You are loved. You are enough. You are delighted in by our Abba Dad God. Sighing, I sank into the peace and grace as deeply as my guest did.

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.

Slowing Summer Down & Speeding Up What Matters

Photo: Ron Doke, Creative Commons, cc license

Photo: Dennis Larsen, Creative Commons, cc license

Throaty Bryan Adams'-style singing drifts over from the church nearby. Flashy classic, sport, and muscle cars line up in rows, hoods propped open, motors gleaming at an annual summer car show. Live music streams past the aroma of grilled hot dogs, steaming metal in the sun, and aerosol spray cans.

"Soo, I sorta did my hair," my nineteen year old son texts me in droll nonchalance. I grin and ask for photos, already picturing red, green and blue dye on a temporary spiked hairdo from last year's car show.

My husband straps on sandals and holds the door open for our six year old. The door blows shut behind them as they walk to church too.

I'm grabbing my green water bottle and jumping into time with you, friends. The counter behind me is lined with half-done dishes, crimson watermelon slices in a bag, and last night's coffee press.

Can you smell the campfire? Wood smoke still emanates from my skin, hair, and clothing. Pony tails hang down my shoulders to rest on my chest, and can you feel it here with me? This slipping away of summer?

Thirty of us teens and adults piled up bikes in a friend's driveway and dropped sleeping bags in the yard for yesterday's Bike and Camp youth event. Bike riding, backyard volleyball, and cooking over a fire brings people together. Tin foil-wrapped packets of potatoes, carrots, and onions smoldered beside ground hamburger, and night fell before we pulled out the marshmallows and chocolate.

"Lord, give me a great love for these teens and for these people in my life," I asked him at one point, slipping quiet under a variegated green maple.

He does, and we all show love in different ways. Whether extrovert or introvert, no matter our personality styles, we slide into familiar ways of relating to the people around us. Some friends love the people around them by scraping eggs on a heavy skillet over smoking fires. Others shake dice in a cup game for hours, bluffing with a smirk; or start up dozens of conversations.

On top of blue trampolines while bouncing and ducking, or on wooden picnic benches beside the blueberry crumble bars, these one on one times with others are what God uses most often to grow deeper love within me for people. I love those chances to see into people's eyes, to hear their stories, and to get beyond the noise and busyness into greater depth.

Sunshine filters through fern-like branches outside now, and my husband and youngest son have returned. Noise commences. Highway hums whine into the distance, dissipating quickly, and a cardinal trills nearby.

Summer slips by, and our moments with the people in our lives flit by too. Grab today with me?

Why Community is Worth It and Why You and I Need It

Photo: Young Rok Chang, Creative Commons, cc license

Cris-crossed pale skin marked out where the young girl's swimsuit straps normally lay. Tiny caramel-colored shoulders and back hunched shivering inside the church in a black funeral dress. The summer tan on that small girl several rows up from me just bellowed out the contrast of this sudden funeral. Friday attendees slid quietly into wooden pews, and a row of us lined up in solidarity. Community in that moment looked like singing along to worship songs that spoke of heaven and that clung to the promise that God never lets go "through the calm and through the storm." Community was wiping tears, hugging tightly, and grinning over stories of potbellied baby pigs and tractors, before going back for seconds on the delicious green jello dessert and the home-made sweet pickle slices.

Sunday morning, peeking out across the church audience during a song, I spied two former youth group girls from years ago. Connecting after the church service, we hugged, smiled, and tried to cram several months' or years' worth of information into a morning conversation. Community was remembering stories, names, details, and being thrilled to see each other again. We laughed and wished for more time, and a coffee date still needs to be planned.

Sunday night I watched women of all ages compete in blind-folded diapering contests on two mannequin babies at a baby shower. Gentle, white-haired Marilyn groaned good-naturedly and tried to get out of the second-round of competition by diapering slowly. The younger and older women around us shrieked laughter to see this surprise streak of rebellion in her. Marie and I raced valiantly, but Marie won by a split second. Bible study women from the last year, accustomed to digging in deep to the Bible and to each others' lives, arranged lemon bars and marshmallow brownie bite desserts on their laps as Melissa balanced Gail's bifocals on her nose and held the Bible out at arm's length to read her devotional. Community was women laughing together, passing wrapped baby gifts, and nodding in agreement as Melissa read of God's perfect love that is strong enough to kick out fear, and of this God-King who chases us and loves us, no matter where we go. 

"I've never been in a church where I felt so much like I belonged, as I do here," she said, the young pregnant mom, curly hair winding around her freckled face. We nodded, glad that she felt welcomed and safe in our church, but we saw too that this was a bigger thing. Women in this Bible study came from several different churches so Alicia's feelings pointed to something greater.

Community. We need it, we desire it, and, I'm learning, it's something we have to fight for, and invest in. Can I confess to you that many days my extrovert-introvert mixed personality needs to be reminded to step outside and to invest in people? Some days the allure of a quiet book, a television series, or the valid tasks that need to be done around me pull harder than choosing people. And while we all need down time, the truth is we all need community too.

Because the truth is, I am a better person for having known Julie and Nellie, Mihaela, Marie, Marilyn, Becky, and so many more. I learn from them and from their stories, and we have the privilege of being in various communities together.

And you? You have potential for community all around you. The neighbor across the street, the young mom who sits three rows up from you in church, or the somber-faced guy at the gym playing basketball each week, and the older widow you know. You are missing out, and I don't want you to, and they are missing out on not having known you yet.

So, put down the book with me, and turn off Netflix too, please? Can we encourage each other today to step outside and engage? The loss is too great not to. You are a better you, with them around you, and I am a better me because of them around me. 

Besides, you can't imagine the hilarity of seeing women battle it out in blindfolds and diapers.

Friendships that Linger over Lunch & Whisper in the Darkness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo Credit: Sarah MacMillan, Creative Commons, cc license

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

What Your Neighbor is Trying to Tell You

The wind blew gales all night, buffeting the house, and we snuggled deeper under beds' blankets.

In dark twilight six am, five year old Daniel knocks on our door, and it's my turn to get up with him. We lumber sleepy-eyed out to the couch, dodging Legos, to curl up in silence. Heavy snow drags branches heavy, and we marvel that they haven't snapped. Tree branch fingertips trail the tops of deep snowbanks against the fence, and the wind blows hard. Sculpted snow whips eroded silver dust into the air, as orange flashing snow-plows roar down dark side streets. Half a moon hangs dimly in the sky.

Sunshine soon dries a foggy twilight, and yellows and blues highlight snowy trees. After lunch, my husband and I pull on black snowpants, red stocking caps, and wind up in long scarves. While he tackles thigh-high snowdrifts in the driveway, Daniel and I laugh and fall through hip-high snow, sinking trapped into white quicksand. Laughter echoes off yellow houses as we tumble and fall.

"Mom!" he yells, panicked. "Help, get me." Hip-high snow for me is chin-high on him, and he is sensing his peril. I crouch down, pulling him onto my back, and we hike monkey-style through a white backyard.

Arriving winded in the front of the house, I deposit Daniel to safety and join my man, who is shoveling up front. He stops heaving snow to draw my attention to something.

"Look, see the sides of the driveway? Someone snow-blowed our driveway. See?" Tall angled edges outline our driveway, trace around our cars, and weave a path to our garage, hints of a straight-edged snowblower.

Humbled, amazed, and delightfully touched, we are hit with the realization of how much work they did, and how much work they saved us. Even the end of our driveway had been freed from the city snowplows who normally throw up giant walls of snow, blocking us in. Wow.

We smile and look over at their yard, wanting to thank them. With no one in sight, we pull our caps down lower against the stinging wind, and jab our shovels into remaining thigh-high piles of snow. Galing winds throw the snow back into our faces, sculpting drifts anew beside us, and wicking away shiny sweat and melted snow from our faces. Bending low, we dig and throw snow, dig and throw, bodies aching quickly.

An hour later, in the warmth of the house, I pack up fresh chocolate chip cookies into a plastic bag, write out a note of thanks for their gift of Vietnamese egg rolls earlier and for the snow-blowing gift, using cut and paste from an online translating program to put my words into Vietnamese.

Friendship and community can be spoken through smiles, egg rolls, hand gestures, sweet milky cardamom tea, chocolate chip cookies, and snow-blowing surprises.

Need to See God? (He's at a band concert)

"Hey, can anyone be me tomorrow night?"

Her husband recovering from a kidney transplant and in the throes of frequent doctor visits, my friend flashed an email through space. She needed someone to attend a band concert with two of her children and to video-record the music.

"While I can't be you, I would be happy to drive ___ and ___ to the concert and to record their band pieces," replied another woman, warmly.

Suppers slip on to their kitchen table on busy nights. Children jump into approved cars for quick hospital visits, and an email army stands ready to help.

Need to see God? I see him in women whipping up extra suppers and in grandmas wrangling seat-belts.

Need to see God today? I see him through a brother-in-law's generous living-donor kidney and a stitched up side. I see God's work in early hospital releases, lowered chances of infection, and in mylar helium balloons from a women's Bible study with the note: "You cause us to be astounded in our God! Thank you." The balloons bob in a yellow stucco dining room, as kids study and a shaved dog wags tail.

Need to see God? He's in kitchens, and carpools, and trips to the store for groceries.

And the joy? It flows over and down.

Linking with Ann at A Holy Experience and Emily at Imperfect Prose.

What All Women Desperately Need

Coffee gurgles invitingly from the kitchen on my left, while jade plants hang low to the right of me, heavy with new growth. 

She came this week, on a night of icy rain. Glass image shards of her face flickered from corners of my glass-cut front door.

"It's hard to make friends sometimes," she murmured over hot citrus tea.We spoke of middle school and family moves, finding commonality in frequent goodbyes from our past. She and I laughed over husky cold voices and nagging coughs, grabbing runny-nose tissues.

"It's worth it -- this hurt of another goodbye. Friendships are," I said softly, a truth harvested from my own life. She agreed and swirled her tea. We talked more, laughing and getting to know each other.

- - - - - -

Another day this week, I raced out the door, juggling a platter of hummus and veggies, a crystal bowl of chocolates, and map directions to a friend's new house. Arriving breathless and late, I shrugged off my jacket, and grabbed them for tight hugs. "I've missed you!" I exclaimed into sweet-smelling hair.

Four young women idled in a pumpkin-hued kitchen and dining room, stirring creamy mac and cheese, assembling elegant cheeses on a plate, and dipping decadent truffles.

"We used to have a book club, but no one really read the book. Well, just two of us did. So then we changed it to a Pinterest party, so our husbands feel like we're being productive," she joked, "but really we just get together to eat food and talk." She went on to speak of a few projects that emerged from their times together, but you could see the deep camaraderie and history these women shared. Babies were passed and updated on with cheerful intimacy. Hugs and jokes were frequent and warm. At one point of the conversation, tears broke out among the four of us with relaxed naturalness, followed by laughter.

I nibbled on salty slices of romano cheese, and slid into creamy bites of brie. Over orange pepper slices and hummus, we spoke of lives, marriages, in-laws, and family. Having watched most of these women grow up over the years, I was proud of them, saw them as equals, and was humbled to be invited to join them. "We should invite So-and-So to join us," they mused among themselves, already seeing ways to spill out into others' lives. I grabbed some more blue brie before heading home to relieve my babysitting-daughter.

- - - - - -

Tonight I join two old-time friends of mine. Over fabulous salads and sandwiches in a two-storied glass restaurant, we will watch the cars and pedestrians pass by in the dark streets below. A red and green fluorescent dragon will arch his back against the building across the street, and we will unfold our lives together.

These friendships between women... we all need them. We can all start them, or continue them, or spill them out to others around us. Ask God to give you his eyes to see the people around you, then grab your calendar and your phone. "It's worth it"-- the time, the risk of pain, the investments. It's worth it.

Have you seen these two older posts on friendships? "Of Fires and Friendships: And How Do You Be a Good Friend?" and "Of Friendships and Peanut Butter."


Photos from Microsoft clip art.

Confessions of a Shivering Stranger

I have a confession to make.

I'm at it again.

For the second time this year and in this neighborhood, I carried hand-published photo cards and a flimsy cardboard plate of food to our neighbors. "Hi, we're the new neighbors from the yellow house on the corner," the card started. "Merry Christmas..."

Slipping and sliding up the snowy driveways, I smiled to no-one in the chilled air, in case someone was peering at me through windows. Trying my best to display a friendly, safe, non-telemarketer image, I rang doorbells at four homes.

My four year old scurried beside me, ascending crunchy iced snowdrifts on the side of the road, a padded figure in a bundled blue jacket and hood. It was colder than I thought it would be, and my hands started to hurt from the chill after the first driveway. Daniel too was mitten-less, so I gave him mine, soft one-size-fits-all black knit ones that hung largely off his finger tips.

The first two homes were quiet, unresponsive to my knocks, so we slid the plates of chocolate-dipped pretzel rods between the screen door and the main door. Wedged awkwardly up, the home-made cards taped to the plates whipped our printed faces in the winter wind.

Skipping and sliding around the corner, we headed down the street to the houses that backed directly up to ours. At the next home, my knocks went unanswered even though the blue rocking recliner chair seen through the glass window suddenly veered into rocking spasms, as if someone had just flown off it. I grinned and looked away respectfully. Expecting to hear steps descending to the door any minute, I shifted feet and smiled tentatively at the ground. Silence. Peering up through the narrow glass window, I saw the blue recliner slowing to a stop. Silence. Smiling wryly, understanding an apprehension of strangers, I stooped, set the plate of treats in plain view, and retreated down the driveway, holding the floppy hand of a bundled blue toddler.

At the last house, the knocks again descended into an empty house with occupants probably out for last minute Christmas errands. Resting pretzels on a creaking wooden porch step, Daniel and I turned and headed back home. Breathing in deeply, relaxed and laughing, we kicked ice blocks, sending them skidding down the road.

My poor neighbors. I will leave them in peace now. I just never again want to hear a neighbor say wistfully, "We've lived here seven years and this is the first time someone has introduced themselves to me."

Merry Christmas, friends. How do you like to show warmth to your neighbors?

I'm thankful for chances to meet and smile at my neighbors. 

Linking with Shanda and counting gifts with Ann.




Photo credit

Confessions of a Robbed Robin Hood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo credits to Microsoft clip art.

The Slushie from a Stranger

“Remember me?” he asked. The biker in yellow reflective jacket parked his bike at the end of the driveway, and started towards me. 

“Hi, I do.” I grinned amicably to the older gentleman behind me. I first met Carl the Can Man a few weeks ago—then too I was prying stubborn weeds from between my driveway’s stone pavers. That day, he had pointed to a can protruding from the recycling bin behind me. “Can I have that can?” he asked. 

“Sure,” I stammered, taken aback by a stranger marching up my walkway. 

Striding to me, he placed a business card in my hand. “Carl the Can Man,” it read with an address and phone number as well. 

“Nice business cards,” I told him, smiling. 

“My wife ordered these as a birthday present for me,” he replied. All business, he reached into my bin, retrieved the can, and headed back to the street. We spoke for a few more minutes while I introduced myself and asked him more about himself, and then he pedaled away, the yellow jacket bouncing sunshine as he disappeared down the road. 

Today, he stood at the foot of my driveway, asking if I remembered him. Yes, I did. Turning to look behind me, I scanned my recycle bin for any visible cans. 

“I don’t think I have any cans for you though today. Sorry.” I swiveled back to face him, expecting to see him. Instead he had walked up behind me already and was setting something down on the asphalt near me. A tall red gas station slushie stood beside my dusty metal trowel. 

“That’s for me?!” 

“Yep.” With no further explanation, he hopped on his bike, picked up his own gas station cardboard coffee, and steadied his bike.

“Wow, thank you. That's really sweet of you.” I picked up the plastic cup, felt the fresh chill of it hitting my fingers, and turned to look at him as he biked away. 

Food from a stranger. Childhood and parental warnings raced through my head, and yet I couldn’t discern any possible motive for danger. Three and a half hours of heavy weeding and landscaping had passed in a flash for me, while bikers and cars hummed forgotten behind me. Suddenly, it was 6:45 pm, a stranger had handed me a slushie and it was time for me to go inside and make a fast supper.

Grabbing the cherry slushie, I laughed, called Daniel in, and put the tools away, all while wondering, “Food from a stranger… to drink or not to drink…?”

What do you think I did? What would you have done?

Hi, friends. I enjoy sharing life with you, and always love hearing from you.  If you are reading this from an email and wish to join the conversation, click here.

How have you been enjoying your August weekend? 

Photo credit

Neighbors and Breaking a 7-Year Record

“Aren’t they going to think you’re weird, Jen?” he asks. “Traditionally, people bring food to the new neighbors, not vice versa. Won’t they feel obligated to reciprocate?” 

“I don’t know. I think it’ll be nice," I reply, "and I want to share these cookies with them. My parents do things like that in their neighborhood.” My parents live in the inner city and are intentional about connecting with their neighbors. Bringing cookies, working in their own yards and in the community gardens, teaching families how to grow vegetables for the first time, prayer-walking past strip clubs, drug houses, and talking with prostitutes, or encouraging neighbor kids to get their GEDs, my parents are loving people each day, in each encounter. 

Armed with a family photo complete with name captions and a message introducing ourselves as the new owners of the yellow house on the corner, I ambled down my own suburban/industrial road. 

At one house, a woman in jean shorts pulled weeds from around a landscaped tree, surrounded by a lush green lawn. “Your grass is lovely,” I called out. She turned and I introduced myself. 

“I’ve lived here for seven years and you’re the first person who has ever introduced themselves to me,” she said. We spoke of former neighborhoods and swat teams, and our children and purple coneflowers. Shaking hands and speaking of bonfires some summer night, we parted ways. 

I met more neighbors, handing chocolate chip and butterscotch cookies to a cautious slender-faced woman behind a screen door, and to a pony-tailed mom heading out. Seeing people’s faces change from skepticism born of too many telemarketers and door salesmen, to relieved surprise and slivers of pleased warmth delights me every time. 

At home right after, my family of five gathers around a scratched cherry-wood table from my husband’s youth, passing salad dressings for crunchy lettuce and tomatoes, or shredded cheese for baked potatoes. In between bites, conversations, and pepper passes, I remember a couple I do not know, have never met. Their tiny son fights for life in a hospital room, a “failure to thrive.” Forks paused, I ask my family if we can pray for these people we do not know in person, but whom the blogworld has brought to life. Suddenly fearing tears, I ask my husband to pray. Five heads bow, toddler son joins in, swirling tomatoes on the side, as my husband prays for this family-- who is in our family because, in Jesus, we are family. 

After supper, I head outside again, grab my tiny metal spade and pry weeds from the asphalt driveway. Sprawled on the ground, I dig like a child at the beach, heave hard, and wipe dirt across my forehead. Grabbing another weed, I grin at the sight I must make when cars pass, with legs slightly spread, braced for better leverage.

And this is how neighbors work, I muse. Neighbors near and neighbors far, even across invisible internet waves, humbly, on the ground, pulling weeds, admitting failures and gnarled issues, working openly to make things right. Warm welcomes mixed with cookie morsels or family prayers, and then right back onto the ground we go, humbly pulling weeds, sprawled out like a child with a shovel. 

Amber and Seth, we join you in praying for your Titus. 

Friends here, my reader friends, I appreciate you so much. Thank you that we can do life together online or in person, pulling weeds, opening up about life, and sharing desserts together too. I think of you all tonight and am thankful for you. Thanks for your comments throughout the years, for your open lives, and for your encouraging presence here, where we can learn and grow together. For those joining us via email, feel free to click here to join the discussion. I appreciate you all. 

Images source

Of Friendships and Peanut Butter

She was the friend who invited me over for peanut butter and jelly one day.

Juggling our kids in the hallway after Thursday morning Bible study, she spontaneously invited my kids and I, and several other moms and kids, over for a spontaneous let's-scrounge-up-and-share-whatever-food-is-available-lunch. Over peanut butter and grape jelly, we smoothed toddlers' faces, nursed babies, and poured endless tin cups of milk and water. Her dining room and kitchen were deliciously lived in, and she welcomed us into her life and home, teaching me mounds about true hospitality. Moms and kids were welcomed, safe; crumbs were allowed; and our conversations flowed long that afternoon.

Today she drove here under gloomy clouds, pulling a trailer behind her. Despite an ominous sky, the websites cheerily announced a scant ten percent chance of precipitation. Two daughters piled out, clambering up my steps, and racing comfortably into the house. My youngest ones were happy for companionship too.

We poured hot coffee, pulling wooden chairs close to talk over kids and toys. Peering out the windows we worried about rain.

"Will your bookshelves be okay? Do you have tarps?"

The last of our belongings were coming home today, if the thunderstorms would hold off long enough. Grey skies suddenly split and the rain smashed loud against the deck and house.

"Do you have a bit of leeway?" I wondered. "Can we wait ten minutes to see if it clears?" We checked storm radar websites, guessing at the duration.

Fifteen minutes later, in a lull, we dashed across the yard to her truck. Soaking wet, we clinked seatbelts and turned on the vents. "Everything we do together becomes an adventure," she laughed.

Two hours later, I hugged her, and she drove away. Raindrops were evaporating off my bookshelves, but they were safely home.

During some time in God's word last week, I came across an NIV study note that grabbed my attention. Being a language lover, the Latin interpretation of a word struck me. Did you know that "companion" means "with bread"? Your friends and family, the people you do life with, that come "with bread" -- cum panis --those are your companions.

Who are your "with bread" people? Which of the people in your life take time to do life together, to invite you over for coffee or peanut butter sandwiches, or who linger to talk long?

It makes me ponder where am I doing life "with bread" as well? Who am I being intentional about doing life with?

It takes time. It takes effort, but it's worth it. So, this week, this summer, pause with me... Don't worry about the state of your home, and look at the people around you. Who can you invite over for peanut butter and grape jelly? Where can you drive a trailer, or invite kids over for an afternoon, and do life "cum panis," as companions?

Had you heard this interpretation before? How are you intentional about building companions? Who is someone who has embodied this to you?