"I Smell my Brother in the House"

I like how he said it. Right between math problems and sitting beside the open window, he said it.

"I smell John in the house. I smell my brother."

I stopped, smiled and took in a deep breath, wondering what my twenty-four year old smelled like to my eleven year old.

Familiar fragrances of french press coffee, wooden pencil and rubber eraser were all I detected, none of which epitomized John to me.

"Really? What does John smell like?" I asked.

Sun caught in Daniel's tousled blonde hair as he shrugged small shoulders. "I don't know." He looked up from his math page and glanced towards the stairway where John and others were playing games downstairs. "I smell John," he declared happily, pleased with the observation.

Recently he sat beside me in church, this tall lanky man-son. His wife not with him that day, he had wandered over to our row and joined me. Both of us smiled up at his Dad who was drumming in front. I grinned happy, hugged him, and picked up my book bag to slide further down the row, making room for him.

Partway through the singing, I heard it. His voice, grown up, fully his, lifted in worship to his God, and I teared up to hear my voice singing beside his. Eyes closed, arms raised, he sang out love to His Creator, and my mama heart swelled. I know of no greater joy than that my kids know You, God, I had whispered it quiet to my God. Tears welled and I blinked them away, before trusting my voice to sing again.


And our church has been studying it during the Sunday morning adult Bible study time over coffee each week. ... This idea of Loving God with all of our heart, mind, soul, and strength, and then loving our neighbors (all of humanity) as ourselves. We've been wrestling with what does that really look like? How do we do that? And what are all the practical aspects that ripple out from there? We've barely touched the surface, I know.

Tonight I mull it over, Daniel's recollection of knowing his brother's scent, and my joy at singing beside my eldest son. This joy of knowing God, loving Him, should mark us so much that it radiates out from us, rippling out from us in voice and spirit, so that we are known and recognized by how it changes us. Our very essences, our heart, soul, mind and strength should be marked, changed, by knowing Him.

I'm still curious about that over here, and mulling it over, swishing it around in my head. What do people notice when they see me? How can I respond with love and respect to the people around me? Am I marked by a different fragrance?

Rain falls lightly tonight. Red and yellow celosia flowers tip and bow to the side, heavy with rain. Buckets and bowls scattered across my deck collect the rain and pool it. Night's twilight is fresh, clean, smelling like autumn rain.

And maybe that's the answer? What we take in is what we can reflect and refract out.

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God Speaks Russian

We stood, seven people in a circle, holding hands at the top of our stairs. Chic bobbed hair Svetlana, gentle-eyed Sergei, blue-eyed Marco, and I, with our kids interspersed beside us: soft-spoken family clown Daniel with his deep compassionate heart, and sweet blonde Nadia and Julia, with their big smiles and husky Russian accents. We prayed in English and they prayed in Russian, for loved ones we had been thinking about, for our families, and for ministries and our interactions with people. Russian words tumbled and lilted melodiously from their lips and we listened in quiet wonder. At amen, we broke up and took turns giving strong hugs good bye to this family that Mark had met twenty years earlier, but that Daniel and I had just met ten days ago.

In a week over daily coffee and in between their schedules away, our families opened up our lives. Pointing to the world map on our table, we exchanged stories, spoke of kids and histories, and discovered how much our beliefs pointed us to a common home in Jesus. Compatriots in Jesus, and co-wanderers on this earth, we soon felt like brothers and sisters.

Sveta stirred and bubbled up healthy brown kasha cereal several mornings. Mark flipped cheesy omelets and broiled savory gouda cheeseburgers outside on the grill. And in between the strawberry kale salads and the frequent French Press coffee, our families opened up our hearts.

"I'm going to miss them, Mom," Daniel said tearfully as he crawled into his lofted bed.

"Me too." I kissed his forehead. "Wasn't it cool to hear them praying? God speaks Russian."

Daniel grinned, eyes wide as he considered that, and his world widened.

At swim lessons at the YMCA this week, I slid onto a bench near Daniel's swim lane. Two women in long dresses and head veils smiled at me, eyes glancing shyly away.

"As salaam alaikum," I greeted them. Peace to you.

In a loud humid pool room, we leaned heads closer and smiled, pointing to which kids were ours. With hands, words, and facial expressions, we shared how many kids we had and their ages. Our eyes flashed warmth and we agreed that kids were a treasure, a gift from God. In a bustling room, our kids came and went, small bodies dripping with chlorine water. Droplets beaded and glistened on wet curls and glowing faces.

And just like that, it was time to go. Nodding heads in honoring kindness, we walked away.

I love that our God speaks Arabic too.

As we strive to love God and to love others, our lives become fluent in speaking welcome in any language. I want that for me, and I want that for you too, my friend. And I firmly believe this: a pulled-wide life, a pulled-wide heart, is the best way to see Jesus and his joy-filled life.


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When Prayer Looks Like Soup

Sitting beside my squirrelly seven year old, I helped him sound out long-vowel words and watched the clock, the seconds flying past. At eight-thirty in the morning, I was at the kitchen sink, swirling yesterday's coffee grounds out of the French press and into my compost bucket. Time spun and circled down the garbage disposal with the last of the fine coffee crumbs afterwards.

Photo Credit: Flikr User Frinthy, Creative Commons cc license

At nine, I called, leaving a message for her, stammering and saying in soft words that I was thinking about her and praying. The line rang long before the machine picked up. Ominous words had hung in the air all weekend, and this morning's appointment would bring answers.

Prayer looked like silent vigil at the sink, poured and slurped freshly-made coffee at the table, and wrangling in a first grader's attention again and again.

"Okay, with the long vowel o, what comes at the end of this word?" I'm waiting for him to draw a silent e, this quiet letter at the end of all his words today. The silent vowel sits quietly at the termination of each noun, directing, changing the sounds, and creating new words from the shy short vowel words who hem and haw and twist toes bare-naked in words surrounded by consonants.

Daniel draws graphite pencil down and around, and I sip more coffee, trying to trace out patience across my life too.

I check email throughout the morning and afternoon, awaiting word and praying for her and her family. Medical diagnoses can change so much, huh?

My parents due in an hour, I slip outside, down the deck steps, to a raised garden bed in the backyard. Surrounded by gaunt bony tomato plants from last year, shriveled and awaiting tomorrow's garden clean-out, I kneel next to the three surprises this spring. Three kale plants survived a Midwestern winter and curl purple leaves to the sky. I slice scissors across emerald and violet stems and then retrieve the fallen leaves from sandy soil.

Upstairs I submerge the vivid kale leaves in a chipped blue porcelain pot and run cold water high. Brown russet potatoes feel dense, earthy in my hands. I wash, rub them, and slide my green-handled knife deep into them. Drawing long the blade, lifting, slicing, repeating, I trace lines across them and into the white plastic cutting board.

Resting in God's presence and speaking out my love for him looks like this today, I've decided.  Trusting in his ability to bring beauty from crumbling soil, from gouged purple life, and from gashed earthy spheres, I rip apart raw Italian sausage, and pour in newly-chopped onions.

The aroma of browning sausage and onions seeps fragrant into me. Shaking out dried oregano, I watch the green flecks speckle into the jumbled meat and onions. Red pepper flakes tumble crimson. Stirring with my brown wooden spoon, I swirl silent praise and prayer, inhaling deep into this Pneuma Holy Spirit who describes himself like Breath.

I pour out the water that had immersed the kale. Droplets radiate light and life off purple-green stems and curling leaves.

I still don't know what news my friend has received, and I whisper her name to our God. Silent prayer and praising rises like steam from my simmering soup, an incense of sausage, kale and potato soup rising up before our Artist God, who is Enough. 


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"I See Past the Teeth," She Said

"God, is there any way...?" and my prayer slipped out as snow crackled and crunched under the car tires.

Pulling into the dentist lot, I pocketed my keys, locked the door, and shifted black knit mittens higher up my wrists. A winter wind howled and whipped up snow in swirls around me. In the lobby a gas fireplace radiated tantalizing heat and the free hot coffee tempted me to sully my freshly-brushed teeth.

Photo: Eric Wienke, Creative Commons, cc license

"I have a coupon here for a cleaning," I said as I checked in. A plastic-tufted flower pen rode cheerily across my pages as I noted personal information.

Several minutes later in a reclining dentist chair, I gagged on cardboard x-ray pieces, and apologized to the dental hygienist. In between putting cardboard into my mouth, we talked and got to know each other more. As she side-danced in and out of the room for the xrays and I wriggled my toes in frantic attempts to distract my gag reflex, we found more in common.

Twenty minutes later, my jaw propped open and her face near mine as she worked patiently, graciously, on my mouth, I thanked her. In between water rinsings and removal, I repeated it.

"Thank you for your work on me. I appreciate it. You must see some scary things," I laughed sheepishly. She had spent extra time on my mouth, I knew, and her generosity was meaningful.

"You know, I see past the teeth," she said, her brown eyes the only thing I could see behind her green mask.

I see past the teeth. Her statement stuck with me and its beautiful meaning has curled up and taken residence in my mind this weekend. Because we all have situations where we could merely see the teeth, merely see the task before us, and forget the person behind it. I see past the teeth. 

Whatever your job, whatever your volunteer position, whatever your role in your family or friend community, this deeper awareness of the people you are really showing love to and serving should bubble up. I see past the teeth.

Crumpled between my hands in the reclining chair was a wadded tissue paper. Bringing it out off and on, I smiled and brushed away splashed water from my cheeks and chin. The hygienist's metal scraping tool pricked and poked, and I curled up my toes several times, and tried to focus on a spot behind her head on the ceiling. Distracting my mind, I reviewed a speech, worked on a verse, and intentionally relaxed my shoulders.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine. Thank you for your work on me today. I appreciate it," I grinned, swiping my right cheek again. "I think God used you to answer my prayer this morning."

What God Would Whisper to You Under the Table

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

Photo Credit: Kim, Creative Commons, cc license

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo Credit: Steamboatwillie33, Creative Commons, cc license

In the Aftermath of Mach Two Speed

Photo: Adikos, Creative Common, cc license

 "Learn from my mistakes," she wrote vulnerably. "I wish someone had shared this with me years ago."

I dished up a slice of sour cream lemon pie and poured the last marginally-hot dregs of coffee into my yellow and brown striped mug. Setting them beside the Ipad screenshot of a "Couch-to-5K" jogging plan wasn't incongruous to me.

It was the jogging that was hard. Getting back into running after a year of not looked different than I thought it would. Determined at first to just practice mind over matter, to simply tie up shoes and make myself run the prescribed amount twice a week had some surprise setbacks mixed in with success at smaller goals. After a week of rain, some offset schedules, and a discouraging half-run in the mist, though, I returned home Monday afternoon soaking wet and disappointed.

My sister's email arrived early Tuesday morning, with no knowledge of Monday night's run.

"Learn from my mistakes," she'd said and gone on to speak of injuries. "Our bodies need time to ease into running in order for the ligaments, tendons, and joints to get into shape. I never realized that before. ...Running can be enjoyed for years and years if you get into it wisely."

She attached a schedule interspersed with running and walking, growing incrementally over six weeks. It was wise and true, and I find myself pulling up the email again today and looking for similar running plans.

My husband and a teaching colleague from church have been working on a three-sermon-series on the effects of an immediate-gratification society. In a world with instant internet searches, fast food drive through's, microwaves, no-wait theme park lines, on-demand products, and quick-fixes to most problems, we have been conditioned for speed and efficiency. And I love the ease of these modern conveniences.

If immediate gratification is the notion that anything can and should be had now, and that waiting is unnecessary, tiny questions begin to gnaw at me. What dangers lie in unconsciously applying this concept to other areas of life? More important than the effects of immediate gratification in my exercise life,  

How might the expectations of immediate gratification:
- affect my relationships?
- affect my approach to sin struggles? 
- affect my character?  

How does this expectation of immediacy impact my interactions with God? 

Resisting the desire for a tidy wrap up, I'm going to instead let the questions hang in the air here with us, and go lace up my sneakers.

Sign Language Theology

Creamy banana mash glistens from his dimpled cheeks and soft forehead, as he catches my eye.

Zealously signing "More, more," he pumps plump two-year-old hands together, while clenching a half-eaten banana.

In delight, I kiss the top of my new nephew's blond head and happily hand him bits of red pear. My scuffed cherry table-top shines with sticky fruit residue, and I am charmed by big eyes and dimpled fists signing, "More more."

In a red highchair with fruit, my nephew's actions are innocent and cute, but I'm struck today by how much that looks like me.

In a landscape strewn with sweet gifts of life, family, marriage and friends, I am struck by how often I sign "More, more" to my Abba Daddy. Clutching what he's given me in one hand, I sometimes forget and think I need more.

"Don't be deceived, my brothers. Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of Heavenly Lights who does not change like shifting shadows."

I'm slow to learn some days, clutching gifts in one hand and signing "more." I'm so thankful for a patient Father of Heavenly Lights, who loves me, delights in me, and trains me.

What is he teaching you this week?

I love hearing from you, friends, and doing life with you. Those receiving these posts by email can click here to join the discussion, if they'd like.

Linking with Ann at A Holy Experience. 

Sugar Cubes, Graveyards, and Secret Smiles (How to feel close in prayer?)

It was the kitchen that we snuck into to munch sugar cubes and stir up clandestine kool aid as church teens during my family’s ultra-health food phase. Surrounded by gravestones, a line of towering fir trees, and the best green apple tree you ever climbed up into with a book, the tiny blue and white country church stood beside the road for over a hundred years. In this sparkling white kitchen, six or seven of us gangly, spiked nineties-bangs-girls perched self-consciously on metal folding chairs for middle school Sunday School. Bonnie Konsor brought doughnuts or baked goods and taught us God’s word each week. 

Many of those lessons have faded away, but one thing stands vividly clear to me. Throughout the lessons, whenever Bonnie Konsor prayed, her lips turned up into mischievous smiles with the Godhead. As she took turns talking to the Creator, the smile in her voice spilled out so fiercely that I often popped open my eyes to wonder what joke I was missing. Eyes tightly shut, she grinned lovingly and listened to her God, then smiled some more and answered him back. 

I was struck with the intimacy and affection she so obviously had with her Creator, and it endeared him to me all the more. This was a God with whom one could share private jokes, exchange affectionate smiles, and laugh together in the dark. 

Now, while praying, I pause, think of his face and love for me, and grin back in silence. This God is smiling at you too. You delight him.

I love getting to know you and appreciate learning from you. What adds intimacy to your prayer life? Who has impacted your view of prayer over the years?  (If you are commenting through from email, click here.)

Strong Hands & Wrestling Matches

I scrawl across torn notebook paper that I found in a camp cupboard. Five hundred teens and youth leaders race across a wooded campground, and I pause my conversations, my camp games, and my zip-lining to meet with God.

He's been calling me, and I needed to face the hard questions. Grabbing my ninth or tenth cup of coffee, I poured in creamers to make up for bulk-brewed coffee smoldering for hours over heat, and sat down at a sunny table near the fireplace.

"What's keeping you from total all-out radical obedience here, Jen?" God whispers, and I scratch across white and blue lines, daring to put into words what I have been afraid to speak aloud. In print, they are just as scary, but it helps somehow.

Three pages later, I am face to face with the Creator, and he still asks the hard questions. I answer honestly, and fold the papers up small, slipping them in my back denim pocket.

Three days later, in a tinkling Italian eatery over artichoke pizza and a salad sampler, I breathe deeply for courage and bare my soul to two close friends from college. With flaming face and staring at the table, I draw boxes with my finger on the black smudged table top, as I talk and cry.

They listen, ask gentle questions, affirm their love, pray for me, and urge me to obey the Holy Spirit's obvious promptings.

In the ancient book of Zechariah, there is a section that has grabbed my attention this weekend. Apparently, the Hebrew translation of the word "encourage" is "let your hands be strong" or "to strengthen the hands."

I love that when God talks to his people in this section, he tells them to not be afraid and to let their hands be strong. "Let your hands be strong," God says, as he asks his refugeed people to work on the temple/church there.

"Let your hands be strong and don't be afraid," he tells me today as I wrestle with obeying God in every part of my life, even the agonizing hard parts.  

I love that he tells us to encourage, or to strengthen the hands of, friends who need us. As we encourage, we help them have strong hands for the jobs set before them also.

Thankful for friends who do that to me, and for friends whom I have the honor of helping to strengthen their hands as well... I link with Ann, Duane, Shanda, and Imperfect Prose.

What are you learning this week, friend?

Photos courtesy of Microsoft Clip art.