Rockets, September, and How to Successfully Soar This Year

At first it just looked like an empty field.

Two dogs and a couple walked the corner of a barren soccer field. There were no rockets in sight. 

"Hmm, I thought it was here," I murmured to Daniel, checking my phone and the address again. "I'll call Mark to get Art's number." 

And then, just as the call was finishing, we saw them. Far in the distance to the right rippled a couple tent awnings, with some men and boys lined up. 

Daniel and I grabbed lawn chairs and water bottles and began the long hike. 

Grandpas, fathers, young men and boys crouched around tables, totes and truck beds. A towering spiny ridge of twelve metal spokes took center stage. Males lined up rockets in various sizes, colors, and shapes, sliding the rocket bodies down spindles, and attaching them to the electrical firing mechanisms.

Daniel joined them, walking up in pride and excitement, uncertain of how it all worked. New-acquaintance Mr. Neal graciously taught him how to thread the rocket down the take-off rod before attaching two metal clips to each fuse wire. 

That's where your power comes from, he taught us. The new rocket model motor, for all its fiery potential, was nothing without the spark. 

Daniel checked the connections and stepped back. 

"Range closed," the leader rang out, and the twelve or fifteen of us walked back behind the safety line. Mr. Neal moved behind the electrical control box, teaching Daniel how to arm and fire his rocket for when his turn came. 

One by one each rocket's name, creator and motor type was announced, before the launch sequence began. Five, four, three, two, one! 

Squealing whooshes and whizzes, rumbles and pops surprised us. We exclaimed and followed the flight paths of each rocket, losing them for a bit in the afternoon sunlight and blue sky. 

Achieving peak trajectory, they hung mid-air for a moment before hurtling towards earth. Free-falling rockets tumbled and dropped at fast rates as we watched and murmured, exclaiming or laughing at each one's story. Tiny parachutes burst out in oranges, yellows, pinks, or red, while other rockets tore in two and raced towards the ground, crashing hard. 

One by one down the line, rockets of all shapes and sizes had their turn. Most crackled and soared high, but several remained silent, motionless on the launch floor as the controller flicked their ignition buttons with no response.

Welp, connection error, the rocket controller concluded and moved on to other rockets. 

And I felt it, this truth from rocket falls and rocket launches. If I'm not connected to time in God's word, to the powerful life and joy and meaning that flows from him, then I'm just stuck silent on the launch pad. My only sizzle and life flows from the Creator of this rotating globe, and everything else is just a dressed-up rocket with no juice to go. 

And I've heard it, that Martin Luther used to say that he was too busy NOT to pray, indeed ordering his busiest days to schedule in extra time to pray. That has resonated strongly in me this week. Pouring coffee, grabbing journal, Bible and pen, I scratch To Do lists alongside writing out a Bible psalm each morning, and I feel it soak God's vitality and purpose deep in me. 

As September sidles up beside us, and the schedules shift, join me in this? Let's check to make sure our connections are clipped in. Are you linked to the Source? Getting juiced up? 

That's where our Power comes from, friend. 

May your times savoring God's presence bring you joy, life, and centered-focus in this busy season. May he be your soul's rest and renewal, your slowed-down moments, before you hurtle high. 

Smiling with you, cheering you on too, and praying for you, 

Jennifer 

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Our Best Spring Forward Beauty Truth

He perched on the black armchair, hanging off the right edge. His blonde head hung upside down, arms trailing the cream carpet.

"...and then I fought the boss..." Daniel's words rippled on, describing video game adventures and I tried to pay attention.

Photo Credit: Flikr user T. Papadopoulos, Creative Commons cc license

Pinching lips shut and trying not to breathe, I shoveled and cleaned an odorous area of our laundry room. Pets were an affectionate part of life, with one Downside.

"Mom?" Daniel's words broke in.

"You're beautiful," he said.

I stopped and glanced out through the laundry room doorway to where he was dangling off the armchair. He dimpled and held up three round fingers in the "I love you" hand signal.

Love flashed through me.

"Thank you!" I replied, surprised and touched.

I reflected ruefully on my black yoga pants, whisked-up-hair-do for around the house errands, and my wise-beyond-his-years son.

He saw the truth deep that I had missed.

True beauty glows best behind gentle loving hearts, behind hands that serve, and lives that breathe kindness.

Washing my hands later at the sink, I thought back over my day. I had been grumpy that morning, getting breakfast and helping family members into their days. It wasn't until I had slowed down and talked to my God, that my heart had dropped its cantor.

Choosing to stop and savor, to linger in love, I had changed my attitude.

And from his upside-down perch, my son had watched it reverse my heart and home. 

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When You Feel Like You're Just Hanging On

It had been hanging by a thread for a while.

Silver filament too flimsy for such a pendulous weight. Mark had even warned me.

"Jen, are you sure this chain is strong enough?"

"It's fine," I said, sliding the round silver Courage pendant onto the silver chain.

This morning in the dark hours before full wakefulness, I had flipped and turned. Thoughts of our upcoming Vow Renewal flashed happy in my mind and I mentally made a list: tea light candles, a miniature amplifier to boost volume in my parents' backyard.

Wide awake but trying not to be, I had switched to my stomach, stretching chest smooth and tall against the bed, and swinging right hand under my neck to sweep long hair up across the pillow.

And then just like that, my courage had fallen off and slipped away.

Mark stirred beside me.

"Mark, my necklace broke!"

"Oh no," he murmured, voice husky and drowsy.

My courage had slipped away and fallen from sight, and the irony is not lost on me. My sweet silver-haired Dad on hospice has recently been coughing and breathing in shallower breaths, and thoughts of him inhaling and exhaling, and looking all grey and ashen are never far from my mind this week.

And did he lose weight in his face since I saw him two days ago? His temples gape empty and I pressed my fingers in them wonderingly yesterday, gently caressing his stubbly face.

"Je t'aime, Papa," I had murmured then, brushing my fingers across his cheek and short hair, and leaning in for another hug.

I had kissed my mom goodbye as well, and driven home in a daze in evening rush hour. The sun sank orange and crimson behind Interstate 35, cars moving in stop and go patterns. A crashed car stacked up the left lane for miles, and a caravan of cars snaked careful through crushed glass and I prayed heavy for the people and police on the side on the road as I passed.

And then this morning in dark pale light, I swiped hair aside and tore the last filament of Courage from my neck. I find myself reaching unconsciously up to slide my finger in the silver ring's center, ready to brush fingertips across the burnished edges and fading Courage font, and then stop when my neck is naked.

And perhaps it's best this reminder now of where my courage lies. It's not in a faded pendulous pendant on too flimsy filament.

And I hear it in my mind, and scramble to find the full verse and reference. "For the eyes of the Lord range throughout the earth to strengthen those whose hearts are committed to him," and I grab it and trace the empty neck, and for today, this is enough.


Welcome! I've missed being here with you. Sorry. My Monday night college-level class that I'm teaching takes up much of my time, besides loving being a mom, wife, home schooling mom, and daughter to my dear family members. I think of you though, and am glad to be popping back in here today to greet you. How are you? How can I pray for you this week? (Feel free to comment here.) 

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Oops, God.

Groggily walking through the kitchen, I buttered three toasts, drizzled honey, and cored apples, quartering them.

Photo Credit: Flickr user Amanda Slater, Creative Commons cc license

Strapping one blonde-haired nephew into his blue high chair, I watched the two older boys climb into their chairs, cheerfully talking. Hot toast crumbled and steamed on small white saucers, while an oatmeal stewed warm in a bowl nearby.

"Okay, let's pray," I grinned at the boys as seven a.m. darkness still hid the deck outside.

"God, thank you for this morning, for breakfast, for _____, _____, and _____," I said, naming the boys while running my hand affectionately across the two necks closest to me.

"Thank you that you hear us when we call and that you make us stout and brave-hearted," I continued, remembering a verse from yesterday. "Amen."

Conversation resumed and boys hummed happy, chewing and moving in their seats as they ate.

"Oh!"

My prayer's words suddenly hit me.

"That's not right. You make me bold and stout-hearted! Not stout. Thanks, God. You know what I mean," and I grinned at God in the dark. 

Join me in sleepy prayers, sticky tables, and real life.

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Finding Joy When You're Fighting to Stay Afloat

Photo Credit: Carolyn Pinke

He's singing and the echoes bounce off shower walls, YMCA tiles, and slip under door number three to us in the family locker room outside. Daniel's happiness slides out and over, a cacophony of joy in a bathroom of strangers. The door cracks and he appears, hair wet swirls on his forehead and standing tall in the back. His face is flushed from hot water after a cold swim lesson, and he slips small toes into grey camouflage snowboots, humming cheerfully.

"I was thinking about God," he tells me, shifting his balled up red towel and damp swimsuit to me as he plunges arms into bunched up blue jacket sleeves. "He's the king of kings, God of gods. He made everything --galaxies!"

"He is! He's so cool. The one true God, huh?" I open the door of the locker room and we head past the basketball court where Daniel peers through glass walls to see if his friend is there. "How were front scoops?" I ask, knowing this was a hard swim technique we had prayed about just an hour earlier.

He grins wide and talks, adjusting his jeans waist as he walks, and skipping occasionally.

I grin. "Yay, thank you, God. He helped you. He's always listening and helping us through things, huh? You worked hard and persevered too. I'm proud of you, bud."

Holding hands, we walk across a dark parking lot, alert for red taillights.

"Whooo, it's cold," he shudders, pulling his hood up, and we drive home looking at the Christmas lights and talking.

Happy December, friend. Wherever you are today, know that your Abba God sees you, hears you, and knows your thoughts. Talk to him and watch him join you in those lanes, swirling you through the face-in-the-water-front-scoops of your own stories. You are loved and delighted in. Then burst into ricocheting praise to him in whatever shower stall or room you're in.

Smiling and learning about God from a wet-headed eight year old, I remain,

your sister and friend, Jennifer. What are you learning and reading about lately?

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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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Just After Hitting "Send" to God

"Nalia, look!"

I called her over and we both stared into the rumpled earth.

"I planted these last year and they hid under the snow all winter."

"What are they?" she asked in ten year old curiosity, as my seven year old Daniel peeked over her shoulder too.

Photo Credit: Flickr User: See-Ming Lee, Creative Commons, cc license

"They're parsnips; kind of like a white carrot," I laughed. Plunging my fingers deeper into cold spring soil, I traced dirt away from the white round vegetables in the ground.

Feathery green plumes marked each veggie treasure. I tugged and gently loosened them one plant at a time, before ripping them out of the ground. Black dirt crumbled and tumbled from the round tubulars and I laughed to see food and life burst from underground.

Because the truth was I had forgotten about them. Twelve months ago I had eagerly torn open the paper packet of seeds and stared in dismay at its contents.

"They're so tiny!"

Round brown flakes swirled and mounded inside the seed packet. Pouring a handful into my palm then, I had been afraid the seeds would blow away in a May breeze or be snatched up by cardinals and sparrows. Poking tiny finger holds into cool soil up to my knuckles, I slid one or two lightweight seeds inside, hoping at least several would grow.

Like a Bermuda Triangle in my garden, that corner of raised beds stayed stubbornly bare that spring, while Queen Ann sugar snap peas, Early Contender bush beans, and the butterfly-seedling life force of morning glory flowers had sashayed out of the ground.

In early summer, tall fern-like plants had stood up and crowded that corner of the garden, bowing heads conspiratorially, and I had hoped parsnips were fattening underground. Summer had swelled, crescendoed, and abated. Autumn's trees had dropped reds and yellows that crumpled into browns and tangled in the parsnip greens.

"Parsnips are better after several frosts," I told Mark as we peered out the living room windows in November and December. Snows fell.

This week, the soil warmed and ready, my red tulips bobbing in the breeze, I walked barefoot to my garden and tugged curiously on a parsnip's green top. Wiggling, prying, I pulled up a plump white parsnip.

"Nalia, come see!"

A small mountain of white parsnips mound up on my patio table now, the rain washing them nicely for me. And the parsnips suddenly remind me of my prayers.

Like tiny tremulous seeds I shake out and hold in small hands, they feel so paltry to the task. I plant them and wait, and time seems to slow some days. There are days when I wonder what will grow to fill that space. And as I wait, wonder, and trust the Grower's instructions, seasons pass. 

Life unfolds beneath the surface. In the dark, treasures swell and mature. In the time I've forgotten them, God hasn't. They are sweetening, ripening, growing better by the day. It's in the frost that kills and in winter's long nights that the parsnips grow the sweetest.

After winter's thaw, petite purple crocuses and grape-like hyacinth clusters mark the passing time. Greenery emerges new life from the parsnips corner and I'm suddenly reminded of prayers and plantings from a year ago.

Crouching to my knees, I dig and pull, finding the treasures God has been growing all along.

Your Bedouin Invitation

There are suitcases straddling the couch and sleeping bags coiled beside them.

Photo: Charles Roffey, Creative Commons, cc license

Photo: Kashfi Halford, Creative Commons, cc license

"Do you think it'll be cold?" I ask, grabbing a blue plaid shirt. There are replies from across the house. "We can always layer more, I guess."

Phone calls come and go from teens, parents, leaders, and the camp speaker as Mark and I finish a board game with Daniel and take turns packing.

Sixty-six of us are driving three hours northwest of here this weekend for a youth group fall retreat. There is a van crammed with food, a bus filled to capacity with students eleven to nineteen years old, several other vehicles, and a slew of cheerful leaders looking forward to connecting with our teens. I can't wait.

In a lull of packing and details, I grab my Bible and journal and curl up beside the kitchen table. In between the cell texts and checklists, I want to meet with God. I'm reminded of a story in the Old Testament during the ancient time of Moses and the Israelites. The nomadic group of two million former slaves were fleeing their old life in Egypt and encountering the God of their ancestors, who was wooing them in Red Sea crossings, food from the sky, glowing firewalls, and other miracles.

The Jewish desert tribes were learning about their Creator, and remembering how to worship and follow him. At the edge of the campground, Moses did something fascinating. Setting up a tent, he called it the Tent of Meeting, saying that anyone wanting to talk with God could enter.

What grabs my attention today is that the text doesn't tell us if people went into the tent. I imagine -- I hope-- they did, but it doesn't tell us. I know that on other days, the desert Jewish bedouins pleaded with Moses, "YOU go inquire of God," and they hung back.  

My prayer this weekend is that we would meet with the God of the world in life-changing ways.  I know that we can create the setting and make the plans, but encountering God is something that happens when we are willing to step in.

Like the Bedouin outside the desert Tent of Meeting, Lord, I want to step into intentional times of meeting with you, of worshiping you, of getting to know you, and of hearing from you. I want that for myself, for my teens and leaders at camp, and for my online sisters and brothers here too. 

And at the kitchen table with my Bible, journal, and pen, it can start now. I confess that all too often I see the invitation and yet walk away, assuming I'll come back later. Not today. Right now, I'm stepping in, choosing quiet, and slipping into the tent. Join me?

The Call on Line Two

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

Photo: Flavia, Flickr user

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

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

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

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

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

Photo: Deb Nystrom, Flickr user

Photo: Matt 0983, Flickr user

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's All About WHO You Know? (When Our Kids Lead the Way)

Photo Credit: Rudolf Vlcek, Creative Commons, cc license

 "I'll pray, Mom," he chirps, my six and a half year old standing on the frayed sewing bench that is my desk chair.

"Thanks, Daniel. I would love that. Morgan, John, will you pray with us too?"

"Sure."

They lope over good-naturedly. My broad-shouldered son looms tall over me -- they both do, actually. Nineteen year old John is a replica of his dad, and willowy sixteen year old Morgan leans over to grab my hand. I squeeze her palm on the right of me, grasp John's fingers firmly on the left, and smile to hear my six year old talk to the Creator of Galaxies.

Daniel asks God to "Help Mom with her lesson, and to be safe, to not die, and to make good choices." He thanks God for taking care of us, for the family, and for our house. I strive to remember every word, and even now fall short of explaining the sweetness and naturalness of his conversation with the World-Spinner.

Morgan pulls her long brown hair to the side, and prays next.

"Dad," she says calmly, and my heart is startled yet happy to hear her address the God of the Universe with such intimacy. "Dad, be with Mom as she talks today. Speak through her. Be with the women she'll be speaking to..." Morgan's voice continues.

And in between the words with the afternoon sun pouring spring's heat through our dining room window, we stand huddled around my desk. This place where I wrangle words, craft sentences, and seek God's face, soaking amazed in his delight for me -- this crammed kitchen corner at my desk is where we stand humble in God's presence and my children stride boldly, comfortably, into God's presence. And I am undone, overjoyed, and utterly thrilled to see this glimpse into their relationship with Jesus.

If nothing else comes of this day then to have been prayed for by these kids, it will have been worth it, I reason happily, and then marshal my thoughts again as John's masculine voice steps in.

"God..." he begins, and my lips crack in thankful gratitude, mouthing silent to my God, "Thank you, God."


Friends? We who are moms, dads, sisters, brothers, aunts and uncles, grandmas and grandpas... we have the honor of walking into the throne room of the Most High God. And striding in beside us, or in front of us, or trailing in behind us, are the ones who are watching, learning, teaching. We get to converse with the God of the world! It is intimate, awe-inspiring, and a wonderful privilege.

When Paris, America, and Worlds Collide

He's standing at the window, staring out through falling snow and I can see the worry biting deep into his lip. Shoulders hunched, he leans forehead against the cold third-story glass and peers across the street and down the block. Rising blue and silver in winter twilight, the French high school gazes back at him with darkened window rooms.

Photo: Peter Gutierrez, Creative Commons, cc license

"Hey," I slip up to him and rub my brother's back. "I'm sorry. I know it's scary. It'll be okay, though."

My words trail off, because nothing can fully unwind the twisting stomach knot of walking into a new school. Four moves in four years brought its own adventures and challenges, but this last move for my shy brother had sapped him. That winter 1991, he was tired of goodbyes and heart-weary at the work of starting new friendships.

We stand silent in his corner of the three-bedroom apartment our family shared that year in a snowy mountain hamlet of France, and my stomach churns and aches for my little brother. Freckles sprinkle against an anxious face, brown hair parted center, curling wispy and boyish mischief on the sides.

"Can I pray with you?" I wonder quiet, and he nods. Our words are calm, at ease talking to the unseen God who knows our names, our hearts, our lives, and who wasn't lost in the trans-Atlantic flights. The Creator speaks French, English, African Koinyeka and Dioula languages, and every breath's spoken word.

This memory has crept in to me this week, remembering that ache and the wrenching twisted stomach and, while my brother's story no longer winds nervous at a European window, I know that you and I have others that creep easily into our minds, curling up a tummy quiet. 

You and I, we have stories of our own, and stories that belong to family and friends close to us. Stories that are not ours to share publicly, but we can still lean heads into window panes beside them, stare down into the swirling snow below and whisper, "You are not alone. I see it too, and I am here." 

You are not alone. Your loved ones are not alone, France is not alone, and we hold an awesome privilege in our hands. We can stride into the throne room of the International God, and mouth our loved ones' names. He knows. He loves them even more than us, and he is still working.

The First Time I Ever Prayed THAT Before Vacation

His long toes and foot stretched out slowly from the backseat of the car to settle on my armrest.

"Is this okay, Mom?" John asked. Reflected in my sun-visor, his broad shoulders spilled past his third of the backseat, brushing against my daughter's. His leg slid up to the front seat's armrest, flexing out stiffness.

"No problem, John." I kissed the top of his foot.

The five of us bounced across the western half of the United States in our blue Oldsmobile on an eleven-day road trip to see relatives in Washington state. We passed crumbling wooden barns whose caving in was silent and imperceptible. Grasses and trees grew tangled through vacant windows and floorboards and, in a blink, the scene was gone. Wind turbines stood tall on hilltops, capturing the air around them in precise, non-hurried arms. Silver oil rigs bent low, faces to the soil, bobbing and drinking greedily. My daughter snapped photographs out the window of North Dakota's green foothills and up its winding caramel and navy-colored badlands. Placards boasted "the world's largest buffalo" and red and green rivers snaked among the bison.

Montana's disproportionate horizon screamed for attention. In a rancher's world with rattlesnakes and miles of brown sandy land between towns, the sky took center stage. Five-sixths of the world was sky, a massive blue ocean of air where wispy cirrus clouds curled and sketched before hiding away behind stony ranges. Clumped white cumulus clouds came next, throwing grey shadows onto the land around us. The highway carved through and over, around and under. My daughter snapped and clicked the camera feature of her dad's phone.

"Isn't there a silent option for the camera?" wondered my son, as his sister leaned across all angles of the car to capture the beauty she saw.

In Idaho and Washington, my six year old noticed his ears. "There's something wrong with my ears," he said.

"Oh, that's called popping. It's because we're driving up the mountains. Pretend you are swallowing food, or drink lots of water. It will help," I advised, swiveling to look over my left shoulder at him.

"Daniel, isn't God cool to make mountains? Wow, he's a good artist." We nodded together, my six year old and I, and the phrase appeared often in his meal and bedtime prayers that week. He thanked God for mountains and oceans, memories of splashing waves soon his most poignant.

Wet fog and mist clung to the bottom of ever-growing mountains, and we swallowed and gasped at the beauty.

We arrived eventually, of course, at my aunt and uncle's home, pulling into their yellow dirt driveway and crunching pebbles with our tires. Fresh peaches grew from their tree in the backyard, and the Yakima sun poured desert heat onto us as we hugged and exclaimed, getting re-acquainted again. The wooden screen door clapped shut behind us as we lugged suitcases and backpacks into the cool interior, and our voices disappeared inside.

And the prayer I uttered before leaving on this trip? The prayer I whispered on winding roads, and after late-nights... God, please make us delightful to each other and a delight to be around. Help us be kind, patient, and humble. Help us reflect you, your love filling us and coming out from us. 

Our Artist God coated mountains in greens, tans, and silvery blues, directed ocean tides, and granted that small prayer too. We pulled into our Minnesota driveway, eleven days later, after sixteen- and twelve-hour days of driving, still liking each other and thankful for the trip.

Hello, friends. I have missed you, and this time here with you. Thank you for your patience as I have been packing boxes, preparing for a move, and racing across country on a road-trip. 

How has your August been going? What adventures or savored moments are you collecting and holding onto carefully? Have you ever prayed any odd prayers before trips? 

To the Ugly and Small-God-Praying Folk Like Me

Photo: M. H. Anbinder, Creative Commons, cc license

Every day he went to the Gate Beautiful. And I don't know if he felt beautiful, but I know that he pulled his withered legs closer to him on the braided mat and he stared out. At the passing people who didn't see him, at the passing people who tried not to see him, he stared blankly and made his speech. Under towering columns, he lay low, and he begged for small coins.

Coming to his corner, Peter and John, nimble-footed fishermen accustomed to rolling waves as well as dusty Roman-occupied lands, saw him there. He who may not have felt beautiful under the Archway named for Beauty.

And he, who wasn't used to being seen, was suddenly seen. Peter looked straight at him, as did John. Peter said, "Look at us!" and the man gave them his attention, expecting to get something from them.

I am reminded of this historical account and I play it over and over this afternoon as I chop thick rose and green striped stalks of rhubarb, layering them under sliced peaches and ripe strawberries for a summer dessert.

At a recent art exposition, I stood entranced beside a table in the back center of the crowded room. The artist stood there silent and proud with nothing to prove as I paged through his two or three sketchbooks and I was mesmerized. In the styling of Da Vinci or Michalangelo, this artist dated his pages and then filled them with moments captured in time: weary-looking women hunched over coffee cups, ball-capped men dozing on bus benches, and fragments of familiar faces appearing regularly through the pages, here they are lounging on a couch, here they flick a cigarette and glance at him. Ordinary moments frozen in pencil and time. The commonplace is suddenly intimate and beautiful, stolen peeks into lives and stories.

"I've never seen an ugly person," he says, this artist at whose table I've lingered. In response to my delight at his drawings, he states it again, "I don't believe anyone is ugly. And I don't mean this as a cliche," he laughs. "Everyone is interesting in their own way. It's just attitudes that are ugly." I nod in happy agreeing.

His characters are lined in thought, in age, in shadows, and he starts into a story. "I came across this man who had warts and growths all across his skin, even tapering out to claws on his hands," he explained, "and I couldn't look away. It was so unique, beautiful in its own way. I could have drawn him for hours."

Back in Middle Eastern Bible times, Peter and John have captured the sitting man's attention, and he turns expectant. Underneath the Gate Beautiful, he awaits a token coin or two.

"I don't have any money," Peter began, "but what I have I'll give you. In the name of Jesus Christ, stand up and walk." Taking him by the right hand, he helped him up and instantly the man's feet and ankles became strong. He jumped to his feet and began to walk. Then he went with them into the temple courts, walking and jumping and praising God. When all the people saw him walking and jumping and praising God, they recognized him as the same man who used to sit begging at the gate called Beautiful, and they were filled with wonder and amazement at what had happened to him.

Tapping my screen to hear this audio text read again and again aloud to me as I mix in sugar, flour and baking soda, I hear these words repeated and it hits me.

"What I have ... I'll give you." To the people sitting hopeless under signposts flashing gaudy hope, to the people feeling lonely under facebook statuses blatant in aloof anger, and to silent hovering teens with screaming eyes.

"What I have, I'll give you!" And it may be to cry out to the God who does the miraculous. He can and does still heal. True stories echo in my ears from sources I trust and believe, and I've seen God do that too, in astonishing answers to prayer from small private rooms.

And suddenly, I have to stop mixing. Running to my room, I kneel and pray, feeling slightly silly next to a mountainous pile of clean laundry in my room in the dark on a hot summer afternoon. But He's brought a name to my mind, so I stumble words, cry laughing in the dark, and burst into praise about how big our God is, swiping tears and laughing in shy love to Him. I pray for healing for this friend, feeling at once weak in faith and yet incredulous with excitement to the God who says, Ask me. So I do, and I confess that all too often I have labeled God in a tiny box and prayed pitifully-small safe prayers. I wipe tears and smile silly still, admitting that I too easily forget, am too prone to miss his wonders, and too easily distracted to notice his answers to prayer. His love is towering, and I kneel low beside the bed, and he whispers beauty to my heart. It is liberating, exuberant.

After a while, I slip back into the kitchen, resume the audio play, and wipe up the rhubarb and strawberry spills from the counter.

What you have, what you can freely give, may be different for each person. Some friends need you to walk boldly into God's throne room, and say, "Abba Dad, remember Peter and John's experiences with the man at the gate? You tell us to ask, so here I am..."

Other friends simply need us to tell them they are beautiful, and not alone, and that they have value. They need us to speak words of emotional healing, or to spend tell-tale time with them that translates into relationship in language they hear. Type a private message to the one needing to know they are seen, or text a note to a friend who needs you.

"What I have, I'll give you. May I introduce you to the God who crafted and made you, who calls you by name?"

And this God who slips up beside us too, as we huddle at the Gate Beautiful on those days when we wonder too, says, Look at me. Turning, we look, expecting small things, and He does the miraculous. 

The story of the man at the Gate Beautiful? It ends with a simple line, "For the man who was miraculously healed was over forty years old." And for some reason, that hits me too tonight.

What Your Names Say About You

Both photo credits to Stephanie Conrad, Flickr. Thank you for the treat of these photos!

It was the summer of a deep golden tan from hours at the blue chipped tile pool. A hundred years earlier, a homesick Brit had crafted a stone castle in America that perfectly matched his homeland. There was a tall curved ivy-wrapped clock tower, with hands that chimed away the hours too quickly. Two-story squash courts and an old carriage house stood across the circle from the full-blown castle, a three-story edifice that captured my imagination. There were two ramparted turrets, with balconies facing out, and two giant fireplaces that you could walk inside. Musty basements caverned wide and unending, with one or two rooms we called "dungeons." Were there bars on those windows? I can no longer remember.

Waist-high stone walls chased the driveway all the way down a long curving hill, and a massive blue globe adorned the entrance. Tucked away in the forest, sunken mossy garden structures crumbled into stone boulders and sank into the undergrowth. I used to hitch myself on top the pebbly foundations, and carefully walk, balancing one foot in front of the other, pacing through the forgotten city and reciting poetry to myself.

It was the summer of late-night hide and seek games, all-day volleyball on the grass before jumping into the pool, and hours with teen friends my age who lived on this castle hill too. We built bonfires, drank gallons of ice tea from the community dining hall between the two fireplaces, and hiked early morning treks into wooded glens.

A spring twilight here in the present bleeds rose across the sky, and tangerine streaks smudge the horizon, trailing navy and the image throws me back to this high school summer oasis. I can picture the turreted castle, the clock tower, and summer days that stretched deliciously long.

I was Jeni then, petite brunette with sun-bleached orange highlights from a Sun-In spray gone wrong. Time passed, and my name changed to Jen. College and my twenties swirled and blurred. Later, copying my sister and cousin who were choosing more professional monikers, I picked up my full name, shyly trying it out and tasting it on my lips as I said it to new acquaintances: Jennifer.

There are still people who know me as Jeni/Jenny, Jen, and Jennifer, and I'm still that person. The names we use tap into shared histories, don't they? I'm sure you can think of one or two names that people have for you, pet names that speak of a shared story, or shared timelines.

In my Bible reading this week, I've been mulling over watching Jesus pray. Eavesdropping into his private conversations in the upper room, I peek into how he prays for himself, how he prays for his close eleven friends/teammates, and how he prays for future people who will love him.

I've been curious to see what he would ask, what he would say... and I discovered something new tonight. In John 17 verses 11 and 25, Jesus brings up two new names of God that appear nowhere else in the New Testament, study notes say. Intrigued? I was too.

What names of God the Father would he use? What new names did he choose as he was baring his heart to the Father before going to his death in the next scenes?

"Holy Father" and "Righteous Father."

Wow. Our names for each other-- and for God-- show our history with them.


(And counting gifts with Ann at A Holy Experience, thankful for his names.)

A Midsummer's Conversation

The words came together in a way I had never seen before. In between the sentences and the miracles, a quiet storyline unfolded before me.

There had been a macabre seven-veils-style of dancing in a Roman court, culminating in erotic shimmies, and a request for a head on a platter. Grisly details finalized the deal.

Some miles away, followers of John the Baptist spilled the news to Jesus about his cousin's death. "When Jesus heard what had happened, he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place."

We expect a time of grieving, a chance to be still and mourn. Instead, "Hearing of this, the crowds followed him on foot from the towns."

Ever needed to be alone or desired downtime? Ever needed time to grieve?

"When Jesus landed and saw a large crowd, he had compassion on them and healed their sick. As evening approached..." 

I love this. A man in the throes of grief himself still senses others' pain. Then, instead of hurrying away, he stops, spends hours with them, listening, hearing the deeper issues, and healing their sicknesses and wounds.

"As evening approached...," we come face to face with one of his familiar miracles. And we encounter a logical polite retreat option for Jesus. "Well, it's late," his disciples subtly hint to him,suggesting he send the people home. This could have been his out, on a day of grief and weariness for him. No one would have faulted him. 

"They do not need to go away. You give them something to eat," Jesus replies instead, starting the miracle account. Bringing the small loaves and fish that had been recovered, Jesus looked up at heaven, smiled at his Father, thanking him for food and life, and broke the bread.

Bounty and nourishment flowed. 

Everyone ate and was satiated. Men, women, and children received what they needed from him. One of Jesus' largest miracles took place in a day of grief and weariness, when he was trying to get away to solitude. 

As the leftovers were being picked up and placed into baskets, Jesus "immediately made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead of him to the other side, while he dismissed the crowd. After he had dismissed them, he went up on a mountainside by himself to pray alone..."

I love that Jesus' miracles and compassion happened here on a day of weariness and grief, when Jesus was really just needing some time away. In his grief though, he saw their needs, was filled with compassion, and invested in them for several hours. Then, when everyone was healed and full, he said goodbye, walked up the mountainside, and continued his conversation with the Father.

As moms, dads, friends, grandparents, or people in ministry, this encourages and teaches me. Lord, make me like you, to see other people's needs, regardless of my own energy levels that day, and to have compassion, moved into action. And the truly exciting thing? We have that same Holy Spirit in us, moving and empowering us to love like Jesus did.

Then afterwards, slipping away, we can continue our conversations. "Where were we, God?" 

Linking with Emily at Imperfect Prose. 

Photo credit

Praying in Four-Four Time

A sagging snowman curtsies in the sun as I pass, and a clanging flagpole rope whips in four-four time in the wind. Spring sidles up beside me, slipping in and out of the clouds this week.

Mismatched mitten-hands shoved into red jacket pockets several times this week, as I crunched in Minnesota snow and whispered prayer.

Monday morning, I joined MOPS women from a metro suburb at round tables decorated in Tahitian sand and shells. We nibbled scrumptious white chocolate and berry scones, and murmured in surprise over bacon-topped mini French toast muffins. In laughter and in shared moments of quiet understanding, we spoke of our marriages, and urged each other on in loving our men and being their outspoken fans. Hours later, I shoved mismatched mittened-hands into pockets deep, and walked towards the car. "Thank you, Abba, for great times of getting to know these new women, and for chances to speak of you and the adventures of marriage." Prayer looked like praise and joy puddling out.

Tuesday night, five families unfold from minivans wide, and climb our icy cement steps. Inside, we line up curries, chicken stir fry, and pad Thai in a buffet line, and stomp up the kids from downstairs. Clamoring loud and crowding round, toddlers and teens mingle with moms and dads from small group as we fall quiet and thank God for food. Prayer looked like toddler hands, grinning moms, rice on the floor already, and hungry smacking lips. Then dishes clatter, and we're on the hunt for spoons and cups.

Hands shoved into pockets deep this week, I walked through wet streets again, whispering prayer and lifting up friends of mine. Prayer looked like silent reflection, somber possibilities, and a waiting game.

A sagging snowman curtsies in the sun, and a clanging flagpole rope whips in four-four time. Spring sidles up beside me, slipping in and out of clouds this week, and prayer follows on the wind.


I appreciate you being here with me today, friend, and would be honored to shove hands in pockets deep and pray with you too this week. What's on your mind? (Those in email are welcome to join the discussion by clicking here.) 

Linking with Emily at Imperfect Prose. 

Photo credit to Microsoft.

Why You're Never Too Old

"Mom, can you help me? I don't know how a do this," he says, tiny hands holding two halves of a blue plastic game board. Imploring eyes and a sweet round face melt me instantly.

"I'd love to!" I smile, getting down on his level. I kiss his soft face, and slide together the blue plastic frame of an ice cube game.

They grow up so fast, these kids, huh?

This week, I waited in an echoey church hall after a graduation meeting for my senior. The class of 2013 voted on announcement styles, ceremony emcees, and slide show music. I texted my son for his votes, as he sat through a work meeting half an hour away.

In five months he'll walk a stage, flip silver tassels, and receive a rolled-up diploma.

Over coffee and a cheese danish this week, I discovered parenting advice from two thousand years ago that resonated with me.

"If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously and without finding fault, and it will be given to you." 

Like my four year old, humbly holding out two plastic game pieces; to my eldest filling out college and job forms; to me, holding out humble hands to my Abba/Daddy.

Abba, please give me wisdom today, this week, this month, as I raise my kids, love my man, and strive to be a woman after your heart.

You? Anything on your heart? Need wisdom or a flash of light? 

And our Papa? He melts to hear you ask that, scooping down to cup your face, kiss your soft cheeks, and slide those pieces together.

Linking with Imperfect Prose.

Photo credit.

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.)