For When You Need Fresh Wind

Wind chimes jangle a constant song, and the maple trees whoosh long loud sighs of summer.

Twenty-one year old Morgan contemplates virtual art classes, scrolling through her phone, long legs curled up under her on the honey-colored couch. Daniel's noises are distant, quiet, away down the stairs, his tiny blonde head dwarfed under large white headphones. He speaks into a microphone to his twenty-five year old brother who lives ten miles away and they build virtual worlds and cities with square video game blocks.

Photo Credit: Nicola Pavon, Unsplash 

Mark stares at the laptop screen in front of him on the dining room table, surrounded by yellow highlighted-in-books, drafting a paper on textual criticism for his Masters of Divinity program.

Huge gusts of wind keep stealing my attention. The wind blows loud warm air through the two maples, splashing sunlight on the tops and undersides of the leaves, a dazzling display of yellows, greens, and whites. I love the sounds of summer. Lawn mowers in the distance, sleepy droned airplanes hum quiet on the horizon, and far-off highway trucks rumble.

Saturdays and Sundays are my enforced rhythms of rest. I stretch toes luxuriously even now, at the thought that it's not about any legalistic day, but a manifested idea by our Creator God that rest is good and should be worked into each week as a gift, a decadent and desired dalliance into play, and fun, joyful savoring.

"I love Saturdays!" he had exclaimed it happily not too long ago. My eleven year old Daniel had been building Lego cities in the sunshine beneath the south-facing window. Black and white cats stretched languidly beside him, soaking up the sunshine heat, lying in between red, blue, and green Legos. I had murmured happy agreement from the table not far from him, raising my favorite blue mug filled with hot french press coffee, my journal and Bible beside me.

We were made for creative work and we were made for creative rest, and as we cycle in between those days, our best selves emerge, I'm convinced of it. Wherever our work happens, whether in landscaping, engineering, teaching, medicine, sciences, social work, security, computers, or construction, we get to flex our problem-solving skills, our creativity, perseverance, and innovation.

In between our day jobs and then loving and caring for the people in our lives, we get to reserve moments and hours to recharge and rest. Yesterday that looked like long conversations with a smooth Americano coffee while watching an emerald green mallard duck and his feisty brown feathered mate climb grassy pond-lapped hills. This morning, I grabbed hot coffee and slipped outside in cool 8:30 morning air to rock on an ancient wooden and olive lichen-covered swing. Pine bark mulch compressed beneath bare toes. Robins and cardinals called. Branches swayed and rushed overhead. Fragrant white and pink peony flower heads hung heavy with their scent and beauty, and I drank them in. Later my family curled up in chairs around our computer screen to sing along in virtual online Covid 19-quarantine church service, with friends on their screens around the state and world singing and commenting too.

Photo Credit: Hannah Olinger, Unsplash

Tomorrow, I slip back into work and I'm excited. In summer breaks from teaching and speaking, I get to give more time to my creative work of writing. One of six writers working to complete our ten-week Old Testament small group Bible study, we are in the last legs of revising and editing this study which has already been Beta-tested with several Bible study groups. We are excited to implement their feedback and to get this Old Testament Bible study to the publishers, ready for use this fall! I am excited about this project, my friend, and will keep you posted on the inside scoop too.

"What? You keep looking over at me," my husband asks, looking up from his work on the paper.

"No," I laugh. "I'm not looking at you. I'm looking at the trees behind you. I love seeing the wind blow!"

Happy resting today, my friend. May our God blow fresh wind and rest through you today.

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And It's In You Too...

Photo: Martin Beek, Creative Commons, cc license

Photo: Rodney Campbell, Creative Commons, cc license

Yellow, black, and white goldfinches flit and dart about the sunflowers. In the mad jungle of ragtag red, orange, and yellow sunflowers, a crowd of goldfinches has moved in. With circus precision, the finches hang upside down, bobbing on the gangly stalks, thrusting hungry beaks into the flower. Limbless, their beaks strip petals, tear away the center fluff, and burrow for each seed. In tireless one-by-one fashion they duck and pull, duck and pull. A tiger tangerine and black butterfly saunters past, catching my attention out the window, and the splashes of color and audacious life woo me.

In the last two weeks I am finding myself drawn into, walking alongside, and wrestling with several authors, as I read their books. In Micha Boyett's Found: A Story of Questions, Grace, and Everyday Prayer, I imagined myself picking up a coffee mug and sidling into her San Francisco flat or standing with her on California playgrounds as she studied the essence of prayer and delved into Benedictine monk disciplines. Micha pondered intimacy with God, wondering how to best walk face-to-face with God through the laundry piles, dirty dishes, and toddler tantrums of a mother's life. She asks bare naked questions to the Creator about her worth and her desire to live a grand life for God, and what that ultimately looks like. Her discoveries ring with calm peace and freedom that move me into my next book.

Emily P. Freeman's book A Million Little Ways: Uncover the Art You Were Made to Live is one I am only halfway through. She tiptoes into life's passions with gentle questions, finally stripping aside any excuses, apprehensions, or hesitations from the full life God wants us to live in him. This Artist God who created crackling fire and ice, who calls the stars out by name each night, and who spins galaxies in motion, holding all things together --This is the Artist God who designed us, who crafted and molded us in unique ways, and whose perfect plan is to see us experimenting with and using the skills and passions he placed in us for his glory. And the art that splashes out of us in a million little ways isn't really about us. It is his glory and beauty reflected, refracted, and ricocheting out of us, in a million darkness-shattering ways. Emily intrigues me, calling out gentle tears. She declares that art isn't only swirled paint on canvas, or words curling up a page -- although it can be-- art is whatever brings us most fully alive and what is screaming to come out of us, the image-bearers of the Artist God.

Emily whispers, "As a fellow image bearer, I want to whisper wake up words into your spirit, where your life is joined with God's. Wake up to the life of Christ within you and see how he wants to come out. Wake up to your unique calling and live out the truth of who Christ is and who you are in him. Uncover the art you were born to make. Release the art you were made to live" (Freeman, 36).

"...You were designed to reflect the glory of God" and you were "made in the image of God for a purpose" (Freeman, 36, 37).

Yellow and black goldfinches zip past my window, alighting on the caramel and crimson flowers. There are only two of them now, bold males in black capped heads who pause to see my movements in the glass above them. The flowers sway in silence for a moment. Their art drips from them, decadent colors on tiny plum-sized birds. God's extravagance seems almost wasteful, and yet it refreshes and inspires me. Our Cosmic Artist paints with limitless colors, creating in endless ways, urging us to follow suit.

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.

Underneath the Mom Hat... It Stirs

The sun sinks behind the bustling farm supply store to my right, and pink twilight stains treetops outside my deck window. A moment more and the pink is gone, with navy clouds tangling in the trees.

Kenny G's sax trills, and quiet settles over my home. Four-year old sleeps, my teens have disappeared downstairs, and I steal moments.

The stillness seeps in. Once the clamor of dishes and bedtimes pass, we all -- moms and women everywhere -- grab something and sink deep into cushions, quiet, and calm.

For me, tonight, it's a smooth-rolling gel pen and paper to scroll across. Writing wells from deep within, an outlet for me.

What is it for you tonight? What speaks quiet rejuvenation for you?

Carved from an Artist's hands, we all have subtle ways we create--perhaps without even knowing it. I know people who spill art by slicing and dicing savory dishes; by baking hot bread for family; by snipping and stitching fabric or wielding hot glue guns; by freezing beauty through 35 millimeter film and pixels. Others create with splashes of vivid pigment; swirls of oil on canvas; precision pen and inks; or breathtakingly tender moments on a couch with preschoolers and stories that kidnap imaginations. Artists weave words; stamp cards; graphic design; lilt melodies; run with graceful abandon; bring life from gardens deep; and lovingly build up the people near them.

Whatever art stirs in you, friend, steal moments to meet it. 

Ignore the dirty dishes, the scattered toys, the disheveled bedroom for a few minutes. Stop. Quiet yourself. Look up to the Artist who made you, and then create art: on paper, canvas, sheet music, in your home, and in the people around you.

I love hearing from you. What speaks quiet rejuvenation to you today? What art stirs in you? (Those in email can click here to join the conversation.)

Linking with Ann at A Holy Experience to thank the Artist, and with Emily in a Dare to Love Yourself.