From Bleachers, to Balls, to Bibles (What's a Word-Loving Mama to Do?)

Silver metal bleachers shine in the sun, and tap hollow staccatos with each step. Moms and dads in sunglasses call kids closer, and one mom races to scoop a preschooler down from his high perch.

"That's not safe," she says, slipping her hands under a flower-eye-patched blonde boy's arm pits, his head and shoulders leaning ponderously over the high chain link fence.

Green turfed soccer field lies fifteen feet below us. Fifty-sixty students, from six years old to high school, are being divided by ages and then led off to different corners of the field, their soccer balls tucked under an arm or dribbled alongside. Daniel's sleeveless navy and red shirt gets further away, and I can just make out his whitening brown head and red zebra striped soccer ball. His shoulders look relaxed and I take my leave.

Nodding and smiling at strangers, I trip down metal steps, catching myself awkwardly, thankfully, in a flash. A slight breeze rattles and clanks the flag pole, and the sunlight feels warm, happy, on my face. 

Dew-dripped grass sparkles, and then turns soggy, heavy, in the ditch from the weekend's rains. Tall maple and oak trees throw shade across the lot. Two rows of silver SUVs and minivans look like a row of round metal beetle butts, and I grin to myself.

Twisting my car's ignition floods the car with a rasping pirate's summary of a blockade battle. They reload muskets and stack cutlasses before I can click pause to save the story for when my son is in the car with me. Louis's Treasure Island freezes mid-battle.

My loud muffler rumbles accompaniment past university buildings, a radio tower, and nursing homes, before coughing to silence in a small coffee shop lot. Hot coffee, and a smooth rolling pen. A Bible and note paper.

Three tall Franke black and chrome machines burr six canisters of coffee beans. Grinding, pulsing and the rhythmic thump, thump, thump of an espresso tamper being knocked out are soothing music to the right of me. Hot sunshine bathes square honey-colored tables in heat, and I shed green jacket, and soon uncoil long brown scarf, pushing up sleeves.

Hi, God, thank you for sunshine, for spring's beauty, for this time away. Please teach me? Unzipping red Bible case, I slide coffee cup over, and pull open God's word.

Just this last Saturday? My daughter and I in opposite corners of the house had been reading our Bibles and talking to God, scrawling pens across journals. Not long after, Morgan had raced up the stairs to find me.

"Can I tell you what I learned?!" she had asked, air still catching up in her lungs from excitement and the two flights of stairs.

"Sure!"

She spoke of olive trees, the details bubbling out of her, and spiritual analogies from time in God's word leaking all over.

"Wait! I've been reading about a tree in God's word too," I said. "Look!"

"What?! Me too!" Morgan exclaimed. Pointing to our journals and to God's word, we had chattered and spoken over each other.

"Wow, thanks, God," we'd both said aloud in stereo timing, and then we had laughed self-consciously.

Today in a bustling coffee shop, I grin again, remembering, and pull my Bible closer, curious to see what God will do today.

"Praise the Lord. Praise God in his sanctuary; praise him in his mighty heavens. Praise him for his acts of power..." 

I copy the verses across lined paper, grinning at God.  "Let everything that has breath praise the Lord." 




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On Summer Nights When Adults Are Tempted to Play Hooky Too

September's twilight creeps green and orange in chill night air. Yellow and pink zinnia flowers stand tall beside rosy sedum.

Smoky woodfires scented the end of a kids' park play date, and now children's voices chirp loudly from trees. They leap, waving sticks, leaning close to growl make-believe battles.

My son races inside to grab a late supper. "Can I take my food outside, Mom?" he asks, wisping blonde hair cut close. "My friends have eaten already."

"Sure, buddy. Careful, this part of the plate is hot." I set his saucer on the front stoop, and watch him balance lemonade and cheesy enchiladas.

Summer has surrendered and fall has flown in! Sharpened pencils, notebooks, and mounding schoolbooks stack precarious in one corner of the dining room table.

And even though I'm the teacher, I admit it. I'm tempted to play hooky. Summer swim dates at the YMCA pool, gardening pleasures, and a slower pace still call me. As a mom and teacher, I'd love to hide away the schoolbooks and schedules, linger long over morning coffee tomorrow, and walk barefoot through wet grass to the swing instead.

Photo Credit: Flickr user John Benson, Creative Commons cc license

You too?

But instead, I'll get an early night's sleep, brew a tall French press coffee, and pull up chairs with my fourth grader tomorrow.

My tall nineteen year old daughter is back in college; grown-man-son and his wife have graduated college and now both work full-days nearby. Youngest son scales trees and joins me most days at the table for fourth grade now, and my husband and I are trying to model this grown up life. Soaking in Jesus, thanking him for life and joys each day, we strive to be brave and watchful and responsible.

Being an adult is much like jogging, I'm learning. Both require the hard work of showing up and laughing at the effort needed some days. For me there is lots of self-talk, mixed with thanking God for breath, life, and his presence.

Crickets in dark sky and black tree branches announce nightfall. The front door squeaks as Daniel comes in, closing up for the night. Grabbing last minute second-suppers, he readies for bed.

I vaguely remember truth from yesterday and stand to riffle through stacked books on the table to find it. Then, there, I see it. Scrawled black gel pen copy words from God's ancient book: "Teach us to number our days aright, that we may gain a heart of wisdom." And I'm still learning what that means, but it helps me greet September, and school days, and the coming year with fresh eyes.

Join me? What are you learning and thinking about this month?

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The Best Way to Radiate Beauty This Prom Season

We walked into the shop and both gasped. Crystal and glass chandeliers hung dotted throughout the store, and jewelry and scarves of every color clustered in carefully-coordinated corners. Morgan headed over to the white silver section of accessories, seeking a studded silver headband. Fake rhinestones sparkled against her dark hair.

Photo Credit: Flickr user Janine, Creative Commons, cc license

After selecting a headband, she considered earrings with an artist's eye. Dangling different pairs from her ears she solicited the sales associate's advice, wondering if something was too big or fancy.

"It's prom!" the associate laughed, "You're never too bedazzled."

The sales clerk pointed to various earrings and then let Morgan decide. My daughter held up oblong jeweled orbs and cascading light-catching pieces. The jewelry radiated and sparkled at her neck. And I could see it, how they caught and reflected the light, shining out brilliantly.

It reminded me of the words I had read this morning. Scrambling to corral my wriggly second grader and keep his mind on math problems then, I had pulled my Bible closer. Turning to some verses that my mom had mentioned recently, I had read them quietly to myself, letting their beauty soak in.

"The law of the Lord is perfect, reviving the soul.
The statutes of the Lord are trust-worthy, making wise the simple." 

Who doesn't need that? I had thought as I had gently lassoed a boy's imagination back.

"Okay, focus in," I had murmured to my home-schooled son. "What is 27 plus 85?"

God's words continued and I had traced them with my eyes.

"The precepts of the Lord are right, giving joy to the heart.
The commands of the Lord are radiant, giving light to the eyes." 

There it was!

Back in the jewelry and accessories store with my tall daughter, we had browsed counters, looking for earrings to match her elegant thrift store prom dress. She fingered pairs of earrings and deliberated.

I saw it, though. That no matter which earrings she chose to dangle against her neck this weekend, that she already radiated light. God's words that she had selected and soaked in earlier already reflected out the light and beauty within her.

What's the best way to be radiant? Want to catch and reflect the light most beautifully? Join me in the best beauty regiment ever. Spend time in these ancient words that revive the soul, make wise the simple, give joy to the heart, and give light to the eyes.


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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.)

Standing Up My Turkish Date

This is it, the moment I've been excited about all day.

Dinner is cleared away, homeschooling is in a lull, and my family is occupied.

I've thought about him, talked about him, and glanced at him throughout the day, but our times were always brief.

To set a relaxed tone, I boil water in my tarnished round teakettle, and pour it over decaf coffee grounds. Four minutes after the rolling boil, ripples of sultry Turkish coffee and cardamom mirror the light and waft fragrant in the air.

Balancing my Bible and journal precariously on the narrow wooden desk and the adjacent couch arm, I meet with God. "Lord, I need you. I want you. Please meet with me here in your word, teach me. Make your word come alive to me."

My bookmark opens to John 17. It's the section with Jesus's longest recorded prayer, and the chapter is divided into three sections: "Jesus Prays for Himself," "Jesus Prays for his Disciples," and "Jesus Prays for All Believers." And questions spring up already in my mind, wondering what it looks like to have the God-Man pray for himself. What will he ask? What is important to him and what's on his heart?

Before I get much further, though, the interruptions come. Family members ask questions, a teen has homework problems, my sopping-wet preschooler needs a bucket for his bath, needs help locating a toy before the water swirls away, and needs help getting out of the bath.

Maneuvering Lego piles, I assist a frantic five year old find a toy. I wrap him in a fluffy red towel ("My favorite!" he exclaims, smiling at the color) and I kiss his swirled dark hair, water still clinging to my lips.

High school homework questions beckon now, and I'll need to lean in close as we study writing compositions together, checking for errors and correcting sentence structure. Bedtimes and teeth-brushing loom too.

So, John 17 and Jesus's prayer for himself, and for you and me? My Bible waits on the edge of the couch, and I must wait as well.

(Photo credit: Marviikad, Creative Commons, cc licensing)

For After the Turkey and Stuffing...What's Seeking to Fill You Right Up?

 I admit it. The fear crept in.

In between the moist brined turkey slathered with cranberry jelly, the gravy-drizzled stuffing and the mashed potato mounds, the fear slipped in.

Earlier, on our way out the door to relatives and Thanksgiving feasts, two letters had arrived. The letters mapped out the region around our home, drafting new roads, and moving forward the construction of a giant twenty-four-hour shopping center down the street from us. The twelve acres of woodlands and wetlands would be razed, sections of our yard would be converted into roads and turn lanes, and semi-trucks would soon rumble deliveries all night long on the road outside our bedroom.

On the road to our relatives' house, we passed wind turbines, calculated wingspans, and grieved the probable loss of our home and yard. The fear slid in then, and I voiced aloud my concerns.

• "It took us a year for our last house sell and to find this one." 
• "We bought this one when it was foreclosed and at a lower price than they are now available."
• "It's only a block from your work, and from our teens. What are the odds of finding another one like this again? And it's a perfect volleyball yard for youth group!" 
• "We landscaped, built raised garden beds, planted strawberries, rhubarb, raspberries, mint, tulips, daffodils, purple aliums, and more. Those bulbs and plants don't come up again until next year, and I don't want to lose them. We brought in garden dirt, started a compost, and planted trees." 

My husband voiced reason and hope, "God has always taken care of us, Jen. He will again." We talked for awhile of possible moves, of real estate issues, and I let myself grieve too.

"This is my dream home and yard," I whispered later at the table. Mark squeezed my hand, and the moment passed as five small children crashed underfoot, cousins rolling and playing around us, and my father-in-law ground beans in his wooden mill for the next batch of coffee. New family arrived and we tumbled into afternoons of coffee, pecan pie, moist fruit cake tarts, and hours of games and conversations.

Photo Credit to Becky Pratts

Late at night in a silent house, the fear and grief crept in again. Tucking my pillow under long damp hair, I reminded myself of the cure. This cure, I've found, is to remind myself of my God. Remembering again God's heart and his history fills me with hope and trust for the future.

Yes, it took eleven months for our last house to sell and to find this one -- but it's perfect. Look at his heart and extravagant gifts in that? He can do it again, Jennifer. You have savored this home and yard this last year and a half. 

That night, and this week, God brings to my mind memory after memory of where he has shown us his heart: anonymous checks of money in our early years of marriage written precisely in the amount we needed for rare unexpected bills; or tiny five year old Morgan with her cancer scare and His peace that came as a relief after our tight chest moments, even before a final diagnosis; donated vehicles weeks before its predecessor died; God's chasing heart in our own foolish wayward moments; and through it all, His tender re-threading of beauty from our raveled bits.

I pick up my pen each day now, and write line after line in my Gratitude (Gifts) Journal. My pen scratches both the easy-to-list good gifts (hot coffee, tumbling snowflakes, a family who knows You, safe travels, family laughter around the table) and the hard gifts -- the ones that cause anxiety to reach tall, grappling with my heart: (possibly losing our home = a chance to trust you, God; the need to sell and buy a new house = a chance to watch you, God). Thank you for this home, for these eighteen months here, and for each day.

At work today, I watch snowflakes fall and tuck my legs under me, picking up my Bible and this Gifts journal. I remember promises about Who this God is, and Who he says he is. Snippets from my Bible time catch my attention, and I write them quickly across the page. "I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I put my hope." "The Lord directs our path, our steps." "The fear of the Lord is a fountain of life..." "...A patient man has great understanding." "A heart at peace gives life to the body... "...The prayer of the upright pleases him." "All the days of the oppressed are wretched, but the cheerful heart has a continual feast." 

And my fear? It dissipates. Not in a Pollyanna-denial way, but by stepping back and reminding myself of who this God is, of what his heart is like, and by looking back at his history. 

The house issues are still there, and we prepare for two City Hall Meetings. But the fear? It dissipates.

What about you? What fears, stresses, or anxieties stalk you? Financial worries? Children's issues? Marriage struggles? Grab a pen and God's word with me, friends, and start writing out his gifts, will you? "Don't be afraid, you are worth more than sparrows..." "...The very hairs on your head are counted..." and "The Lord works everything out for his own ends." Even the tiny sparrows that are sold for pennies, he is aware of -- "not one of them is forgotten by God," he promises. And you? "You are worth more than sparrows."

What verses or truths do you grab when fear or anxieties creep in? (Those reading this in email can click here to join the conversation.)

What a Middle Eastern Man Would Tell You

She smiles to herself as she scrolls pages on her laptop, a Mona Lisa mystery, this stranger in a coffee shop. Black- and green-garbed coffee baristas tamp espresso grounds and make machines hum and hiss. They hand me a tall dark roast coffee and a warmed-up chocolate croissant.

Condensation beads on the windowsill beside me, as cars queue up in the drive-through outside. Sun-tipped bushes bow in the breeze beside a gleaming pebbled walkway, aglow in the morning sun. Creamy yellow and blue sky stacks low and birds on a wire suddenly swoop dangerously down to perch on a highway divider.

Jazzy piano fills the coffee shop inside and I ease off my sweater in the warmth. Small square tabletops gleam a cocoa-wood and invite me to write and read.

"Lord, I come to you, let my heart be changed, renewed," I hum silently, my prayer as I start reading God's word. My Bible bookmark is a tiny yellow post-it note with fragments from Psalm 119 on it:

- "...Teach me your decrees..." (vs. 12)
- "...I will not neglect your word..." (vs. 16)
- "Open my eyes that I may see wonderful things in your law..." (vs.18).

My eyes trace the fading pencil marks, reading it as a silent prayer each time I open the Bible here. Open my eyes so I can see wonderful things in your word. 

And he does.

I read of the God-Man who climbs into a docked fishing boat on a cool Middle Eastern morning so that more people can see and hear him as the crowds push in close. I see the long-haired Jewish God-Man amaze fishermen, peasants, and Roman government nobles, inviting them to changed lives and wild new adventures.

I see a crusty-skin, pale, flaky finger- and toe-amputee with a contagious skin disease and eroding facial features fall face-down in the street. Labeled incurable, infectious, unclean, and undesirable, he was socially exiled. Seeing the God-Man in his region, this hopeless man ventures dangerously into the city, pushes through the crowds, and falls on his face.

"Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean," he begs.

I stop reading and remember my silent prayer: "Lord, I come to you, let [me] be changed, renewed." 

Jesus reaches out his hand and touches the man. "I am willing," he said. "Be clean."

Song credit to Hillsong, The Power of your Love.
Photo credit: #1: Dohuk, by Bo Lovschall.

Sneaking Away with Him

 My moments with him look different each time, it seems.

Sometimes we sneak away, balancing books and journals across a wobbly coffee-shop table. In summer, I'm sipping a cold iced coffee or a bubbly tea, but usually it's just a hot black dark roast coffee, with a tiny room for cream. I slide hair behind my ear pensively, and pull his words close. With Bible and journal wide, I listen, read, and scrawl back in response. He speaks gentle reminders or dictates in full-on learning mode.

Other days, I clear away last night's plates and dewy breakfast milk cups from the table, move kindergarten apple slice Art to the edge, and rinse clean the old cherry-wood table. As the wood dries, I light a nearby candle and turn on soft music, pulling my Bible and journal close. We meet again there, as teens grab snacks behind me and my youngest plays lego battles nearby.

Yesterday, in weary movements, I plopped bowls and pots into frothing steaming water, and mentally scanned my cupboards and fridge for supper ideas. The first week back to school had been fun, exhilarating and exhausting.

"Pray for me to have energy and strength this afternoon, will you?" I typed to a friend who had asked how to pray.

I knew what I needed, knew who I needed to see, but time seemed cramped and short. In an hour and a half, I needed to wash dishes, put supper on the table, and have the family ready to leave for youth group, all without killing anyone. I was uptight, picking fights, complaintful, and embarrassed by my behavior.

Knowing the solution, I stopped, apologized to my family, and asked God for help. Finding an online audio Bible, I plugged in the ipad near the kitchen sink, clicked play and resumed dishes. Words of hope, truth, and perseverance flowed from the ancient Persian story of Nehemiah. Hot water rose high on my wrists as I swabbed and splashed, and this time in God's word spoke healing to my soul.

What about you? What helps you spend time in God's word? What are fun ways you like to do that? I know a friend who likes to run while listening to the Bible on mp3.

On a tiny yellow post-it note that marks my page in the Bible, I have written out excerpts from Psalm 119 ...teach me your decrees. ... I will not neglect your word...Open my eyes that I may see wonderful things in your law (vs. 12, 16, 18). This is my prayer-- for me, and for you today, friend.


Linking with Emily at Imperfect Prose.

People-Watching in Ancient Israel (And Seeing Myself)

Photographer Itamar Grinberg, Courtesy of Israel Tourism

Photographer Dana Friedlander, Courtesy of Israel Tourism

On a sleepy snowy morning this week, I cuddled under my covers for the last ten minutes of sleep. My husband had just slipped off to work, and my teens showered and dressed on their own. Cracking open the bedroom door, my four year old said, "Mom?...Dad said I can get you if I need you."

"Sure, Daniel, what do you need?"

"Nuffing, just come!"

Five minutes into his time alone, he missed me, craving relationship, companionship, closeness.

Fresh into reading the New Testament again now --after years of tracing my way slowly through the Old Testament, trying to read it with fresh eyes as if I had never seen it before -- I am once again asking the Author to bring his word alive to me. Abba, open my eyes, help me to see you in a new way, teach me.

Pulling my hot tea close, I grab a pen, my journal, and crack open the New Testament, eager to meet this God-Man Messiah I have been reading ancient parchments about for years. Jesus, teach me who you are, show me you anew.

I find myself people-watching in ancient Israel. 

• People are amazed after hearing the Carpenter's Son speak for hours. Instead of racing home for food and a nap, they follow him. Large crowds walk behind him, eager to hear what he'll say next. 
• This God-Man stands out from the other teachers and leaders the people are used to hearing, and he speaks with authority.
• The infectious, the ill, the needy follow him. "Jesus, if you are willing, you can make me clean." Jesus reached out his hand and touched the man. "I am willing," he said. "Be clean."

And suddenly five minutes into being alone here in snowy Minnesota with my tea, I have missed him --this Carpenter's Son-- and crave relationship, companionship, closeness. Crowds follow him, amazed by him, craving closeness with him.

The needy follow him. And I see myself there, echoing these words. "Lord, if you are willing..."

And the God-Man never tires, never gets "peopled-out." He reaches out a hand, says "I'm willing!" and touches us.

Linking with Ann at A Holy Experience. 

A Coffee Break With the Stars

Courtesy of HubbleSite

Photo Link

It's not fresh, this rain puddle-y mug of coffee. But I'm feeling frugal and tired, so I slide last night's forgotten zucchini out of the microwave and slip in this mug to reheat old coffee. It's acrid from too much time on the hot burner and slightly stale, but I'm craving a jolt of caffeine.

In between hours at work, and time at home watching a Ronald Regan documentary or bent over metric conversion tables, I pull my Bible close, craving time with Him. I ponder words from the oldest New Testament letter (this letter from Jesus' half brother James to his Jerusalem church and beyond).

"Don't be deceived, my brothers," he says. 

I pause again now, the coffee too stale for me to finish. Ugh. I shudder, and pour myself some orange juice. Tangy sweetness washes away acrid staleness.

"Don't be deceived, my brothers," James says, tying this thought in with the sentences above. "Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows."

Refreshing words rinse staleness from my mind. The Father of heavenly lights. Hubble space images of spiraling galaxies, twisting green nebulas, and hulking red stars  fill my mind.

"Lord of the Star-fields, Ancient of Days, Universe-maker, here's a song in your praise," croons Canadian musician Bruce Cockburn in my memory.

Father of heavenly lights, dropping every good and perfect gift from above. He Who Does Not Change Like Shifting Shadows.

"Lord of the Star-fields, 
Ancient of Days, 
Universe-maker, 
here's a song in your praise."

The Father of heavenly lights rinses staleness from me.

Linking with Imperfect Prose and A Holy Experience.