At Dinner

   
On a whim, I typed “dinner out with Brian” on our merged calendars one Thursday night.

So we sat across from each other, next to the cozy fireplace in our town’s Famous Barbeque restaurant, I feverishly working to find meals for us that weren’t full of sugar, gluten, or dairy.  And were reasonably priced.  This barbecue restaurant wasn’t cooperating with my economically healthy food desires.

Brian humored me by going along with this food plan, but I was starting to sweat guilt that he wouldn’t get to enjoy his sweet ribs and coleslaw.

After my hundredth fretting question to him, he grabbed my hands and looked me straight in the eyes.  “This isn’t about the food.  It’s about being with you.”

What do you say to that except “oh?" And sigh in relief.

This is what God says to each of us, actually.  To you, specifically.

He’s not looking for anything from you. He truly wants to know you, to be with you.  Rest in that with me, yes?

Weather Changes

Yesterday was a windy, warmish October day.  So I washed my dirty sheets and blankets and even mattress cover and hung them outside to dry.

I breathed the smell of them thankfully as I snuggled into bed last night.  I am pretty confident that was the last hung-dry-outside opportunity till May.  And it makes my heart ache, because I was made for warmth.

But I will be watching and believing that there will be different opportunities this winter.  


Opportunities for good conversation.  For change in my heart and in my words and in my motives and in my actions.  

For fires and books and thinking and dreaming and working diligently.  For praying.  For surrendering.  For listening and sometimes speaking.  For hope and joy and choosing to trust.

Trust in the Lord, and do good;

dwell in the land and befriend faithfulness.

These are words to cling to whichever land we dwell in.  Trust in the Lord.  Do good.  
Dwell, really dwell in the land.  And befriend faithfulness.

Passage from ESV Psalm 37.4 

 

Turn Back to Praise

We're headed west with the sun and the sign says one-hundred-and-ninety-two miles till the city near where we live.  I've got some hours of hands on the wheel and this time I need it.

My heart is full and I need some forced sitting time to filter and soak and think and pray.
I'm overfull. 

How does one keep all the wonder and thankfulness and joy within from those surprise gifts that sometimes come one's way?

I share in tears with my husband the beauty of the weekend moments.  He said I needed to blog about it.
But how do I blog about the sacred with out desecrating it?

About the seven and eight year-old niece and nephew baptised with so much of my family standing around in support?  With the two pastors and many others who've been spiritual examples to me nearly all my life?
About the words of that seven year-old boy before the church..."I want to follow Jesus in every circumstance of my life, no matter what happens"?

And how do I even begin to share the depth of emotion when that seven year-old nephew gathers all the family together after a chili lunch for prayer time..."to thank God for this awesome day"?.  When have we ever gathered together except before a meal for a prayer of thankfulness?  A time so poignant and pregnant with emotion part of me wanted to just head on up to heaven right. now.

Because for that moment the world was all as it should be.
Those I love and share blood ties with all were focused on what really matters.
Our perspective was right, holy, pleasing to our Creator.  We were right with each other and right with God.
We experienced a moment in time that will last for eternity.

The echo of words from 3John haunt me..."I have no greater joy than to hear that my children are walking in the truth."
And other words..."a little child shall lead them."

My friend said I need a memento to remind me of that moment...when the world was all as it should be.

I pray with David, as I acknowledge the blessing of the moment, and turn it back to praise...
"Who am I, O Sovereign LORD, and what is my family, that you have brought me this far?...How great you are, O Sovereign LORD!  There is no one like you, and there is no one but you, as we have heard with our own ears."

And I boldly pray now, O LORD, that You hear the prayers we prayed that afternoon and answer them fully and completely, that those great-grandchildren would always walk in the paths of God, and that the rest of the great-grandchildren would choose God's ways as well...

"be pleased to bless the house of your servant, that it may continue forever in your sight; for you, O Sovereign LORD have spoken, and with your blessing the house of your servant will be blessed forever."

How does one keep all the wonder and thankfulness and joy within from those surprise gifts that sometimes come one's way?  By turning it back to praise.

text: 2 Samuel 7

A Life Story

Returning often to this post in my mind.  The yellow climbing roses that face Bill's old house are in full bloom and I smell them, his gravelly voice playing in my mind, "those yellow roses are sure pretty, my favorites."

Then today I enter Larson's Bakery to grab some cast off buckets and turn to look straight into the face of his daughter Jill.  It's his face only prettier and younger.  I can tell she misses him.  Misses the house she grew up in and only a year ago lost as a regular part of her life.

He's a man I never want to let myself forget.  And as I stand at my yellow roses, I pray somehow he's in heaven, enjoying roses perfected.

"Now what age is it that they start to walk?  It's been so long since mine were little that I forget."

My little one's walking this summer and Bill's not around to ask the question or see the answer bounding into his yard.

He's asked it of my five and three year-olds when they were babies. But not this time.  Not ever again.

I knew when we moved here and met our 89 year-old neighbors we'd likely experience loss.  Now we have and I miss them terribly.

Bill and Ruth.  Once it got nice out you could count on them sitting in front of their garage with the door up, cigarette lit, enjoying the shade of the birch tree and the house.

And if you stopped to say hello to them you could count on them asking you to sit down, and Bill getting up and giving you his rocker while he went to get those plastic white chairs stacked just beyond in the garage.

Froggy was right there too and the boys always loved to hear him croak.  When the batteries died, Bill searched for his old ones and tried them till he found some with juice left, and with shaky Parkinson's disease hands, he'd get old Froggy working again.

You'd hear stories of World War II over and over.  Some funny, some scary, some just about the gigantic Begonias in the South Pacific.  And he'd always mention how much he missed their old friends Bernie and Hal.

His laugh was deep and rich, mind sharp, and delight in the children, weather, stories of of adventure were real and deep.  He always wore a stocking cap and a large sweatshirt that hung off his thin frame, and was tough on the outside.

Once, when Dawsy was very young and in love with cars, he threw a rock at Bill's.  A dent in the driver's door to prove it.  I offered more than once to get it fixed.  He just shook his head with a sparkle in his eye and said, "This is Ruthie's car and she doesn't use this door.  I don't think she'll ever notice."   

There was the time they took us blackberry picking.  Bill had this special stick he brought along that was formed in such a way you could use it to pull down the top prickly branches so as to get to the hard-to-reach blackberry gems.

In terms of material possessions, they had very little.  We even watched their kids throw all of their belongings into a large dumpster after Bill fell into a final sleep.  But Bill and Ruth had time, and they gave it freely to people who came their way.

I've always felt something sacred in living right next to them, no fence separating our yards. Here, a home bursting with new life, babies born every other year. There, the finishing of golden years, life coming to a close. 

Shortly after Bill died, his niece came to our door crying and holding a Bible.  It was the large print edition Brian had given Bill when he had told him he couldn't read all those small words.

She was in tears, and asked Brian, "Do you know if he prayed?"

Brian had no definite answer for her, but only hope in the conversations they had and his interest in learning about God.

I've misplaced Timmy and find him climbing up Bill's vacant deck.  Bill would smile to see him walking, climbing, and attempting to run. 

Each life a gift...those God places in my path I must not forget.  For there is purpose in the meetings. 

a repost from the archives as summer emerges and Bill used to emerge as well

Seeing Clearly

"I saw you early this morning, more weary than the centuries since Abraham--since Adam.  My heart broke.  I said, What is he thinking?  Does he love me now?"

Those lines keep returning to my mind this day they call Good Friday.  How He, Who was before Adam, chose to go through torture and beyond.  For everyone.

It was hard, when I read with the children, and was explaining to them what it meant to be scourged.  And my chest lumped up as I pictured His back.  Then how they put a crown of thorns on His head and I picture the piercing thorns point inward to His human brain.  I didn't want to keep on reading.

Worst was the mocking actions, putting a purple robe on Him in His wretched state and pretending to worship.  It is too much.  Awful, horrible, downright wrong.  And I don't want to read it.  Think on it.  Look at Him.

But I do.  I look at Him.  See Him in His pain and vulnerability and absolute weakness.

Because looking at what He did and still does for me frees me.  Gives me clear sight.

This morning I sat at the optometrist's with dilated eyes.  No contacts or glasses and all looked like trees.  I talked with a woman and her two year-old but I didn't really know what they looked like.  Just blurry blobs of tree.

But this day, this awful, awesome day.  It restores sight to my eyes.

For in seeing Him, in receiving His gift of being crushed for my sin, I am healed.

Healed to see life clearly for what it is.

We take the Christmas tree trunk and saw it in two.
We take a nail and drive the pieces together.

And I see His pain.  And I see His gift.  The gift of the real me, rebirthed by His death.

Quote taken from Reliving the Passion by Wangerin, Jr., p.136,  book photo of three of our favorite Easter stories.

When Do We Start?

It's past bedtime for the four and six year old but we couldn't quite reach the blankets for the mess.

After a lengthy clean they crawl in and I tell them a story about when I was a girl.  When I celebrated Easter at Grandma and Paga's home. 

Their eyes shine thinking about searching for eggs in the pasture and closing all the windows up while we waited for the uncles and Grandpa to hide.

Little girl then asks a very common question around here.  "Where was Conner and Raleigh and Dawson and Timmy and me then?"

And she can answer it herself, too.  "Were we a thought in God's mind?" 

Yes, yes, dear one.  A thought in God's mind.  Waiting, waiting to bring the gift of you to me.  A much better gift than an Easter Egg hunt.

Before the beginning of time, she, the boys, me, you, all a thought in God's mind.  He purposing time, place, people, characteristics, all.  For Him.  For His purposes.  For a plan larger than fathomable.

My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. 
When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. 
All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.

Indeed.  How easy it is to flippantly encounter others, live my days, involve myself in me when God ordained each one.  Each one a thought in His mind before I ever came to be.

...he himself gives all men life and breath and everything else.  From one man he made every nation of men; and he determined the times set for them and the exact places where they should live.



Dear little daughter, believe.  Your life is full of purpose.  Ordained by God exactly.

God did this so that men would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from each one of us.

Seek Him.  Reach out for Him. Know He is not far from any of us.

text: Psalm 139.15,16, Acts 17.25-27, NIV

Life Together

Returning often to this post in my mind.  The yellow climbing roses that face Bill's old house are in full bloom and I smell them, his gravelly voice playing in my mind, "those yellow roses are sure pretty, my favorites."

Then today I enter Larson's Bakery to grab some cast off buckets and turn to look straight into the face of his daughter Jill.  It's his face only prettier and younger.  I can tell she misses him.  Misses the house she grew up in and only a year ago lost as a regular part of her life.

He's a man I never want to let myself forget.  And as I stand at my yellow roses, I pray somehow he's in heaven, enjoying roses perfected.

"Now what age is it that they start to walk?  It's been so long since mine were little that I forget."

My little one's walking this summer and Bill's not around to ask the question or see the answer bounding into his yard.

He's asked it of my five and three year-olds when they were babies. But not this time.  Not ever again.

I knew when we moved here and met our 89 year-old neighbors we'd likely experience loss.  Now we have and I miss them terribly.

Bill and Ruth.  Once it got nice out you could count on them sitting in front of their garage with the door up, cigarette lit, enjoying the shade of the birch tree and the house.

And if you stopped to say hello to them you could count on them asking you to sit down, and Bill getting up and giving you his rocker while he went to get those plastic white chairs stacked just beyond in the garage.

Froggy was right there too and the boys always loved to hear him croak.  When the batteries died, Bill searched for his old ones and tried them till he found some with juice left, and with shaky Parkinson's disease hands, he'd get old Froggy working again.

You'd hear stories of World War II over and over.  Some funny, some scary, some just about the gigantic Begonias in the South Pacific.  And he'd always mention how much he missed their old friends Bernie and Hal.

His laugh was deep and rich, mind sharp, and delight in the children, weather, stories of of adventure were real and deep.  He always wore a stocking cap and a large sweatshirt that hung off his thin frame, and was tough on the outside.

Once, when Dawsy was very young and in love with cars, he threw a rock at Bill's.  A dent in the driver's door to prove it.  I offered more than once to get it fixed.  He just shook his head with a sparkle in his eye and said, "This is Ruthie's car and she doesn't use this door.  I don't think she'll ever notice."  

There was the time they took us blackberry picking.  Bill had this special stick he brought along that was formed in such a way you could use it to pull down the top prickly branches so as to get to the hard-to-reach blackberry gems.

In terms of material possessions, they had very little.  We even watched their kids throw all of their belongings into a large dumpster after Bill fell into a final sleep.  But Bill and Ruth had time, and they gave it freely to people who came their way.

I've always felt something sacred in living right next to them, no fence separating our yards. Here, a home bursting with new life, babies born every other year. There, the finishing of golden years, life coming to a close. 

Shortly after Bill left us, his niece came to our door crying and holding a Bible.  It was the large print edition Brian had given Bill when he had told him he couldn't read all those small words.

She was in tears, and asked Brian, "Do you know if he prayed?"

Brian had no definite answer for her.

I've misplaced Timmy and find him climbing up Bill's vacant deck.  Bill would smile to see him walking, climbing, and attempting to run. 

Each life a gift...those God places in my path I must not forget.  For there is always a purpose in the meetings.  Always.