On Seeing God, or Not… Maybe we SHOULD, buy that calendar.

Re-post from Dec 08

The roads were slushy and slippery. My mind was more on them, than on listening to the radio. (Funny, how concerned about the road I can be, when I’m NOT the one driving…) Between Christmas music and ads for mega-vitamins, I vaguely recall hearing the ad for the RBC “Our Daily Bread Calendar”.  The ad said that the inspirational calendar can help you see God, everyday. Not a bad deal, for a “donation of any amount”.

What I recall much more clearly, was the conversation that followed.

Noah:  “Mommy?  I’ve never seen God.”

It was part statement and part question.  I could tell he was concerned that he’d been missing out on something others might be experiencing. That everyone else could see God- but he couldn’t.

Mommy:  “Neither have I, honey.  Not with my eyes.”

I stopped short of telling him all the ways I’d seen evidence of God’s presense in my life.  I learned the hard way not to give TMI. (Sometimes, when a child asks “Where do babies come from?”.. They really just mean does the “baby aisle” at Walmart, actually sell babies.)

I waited for the follow up question… I waited to see if he was questioning God’s existence based on his ability to see, hear, or otherwise sense Him.  I was ready to answer with a verse and the sunday school teacher’s standard answer.  The questions, didn’t come.

Noah:  “Maybe we should buy that calendar, then we would!”

Mommy (giggling under her breath):  “Maybe we should, Noah, Maybe we should.”

To be honest, somedays, I wish that faith could be that easy.  Part of me wishes,  I could open a calendar page and see God, at least on the days when he seems so far away.  On those days a flip calendar where he could be found would be nice… wouldn’t it?

Maybe  not.  Do I really wish I served a God who fit on the page of a calendar?  Probably not.  I’d rather have the adventure of experiencing God’s power in the crushing roll of waves, and his light in the brilliant diamonds I see in the dark, night sky.  I’d rather search for him and find him in the people he’s painstakenly created, and the world he formed for them to live in.  I’d rather stumble into a real, living example of his character, than a flat, one dimensional photo.

Mostly.  But then- once in a while….it would be kind of nice to flip a page and find a him there. Smiling at me.  Listening to me.  As visible as he is powerful and real.

Maybe we should order that calendar, afterall…..

Lord- the simplicity and complexity of the children you’ve given me to care for- amazes me.  Thank you for the honor of being a mother.  Thank you for being in my life,in both visible and invisible ways.  God for the days when you seem far away- help me to remember both how close you are- and how much better it is to love a God who doesn’t fit on a calendar page. I love you Lord- – amen!

 

When the answer is on the other side of the door… OPEN IT!

Due to the death of my grandmother- I’m reposting articles this week… I hope they touch you in some way during this Christmas season.

She’s lonely. She’s bored. She’s depressed and feeling useless.

And I feel… well…helpless and frustrated with a side order of confused.  I just don’t get it.  the truth is, there are answers to most of her issues- just outside her door. If she’d open it, that is, which she will not.

After a collapse and a month in the hospital, our family had to transfer my grandmother to an assisted living center.  We  knew she wouldn’t be a fan, but thought she’d adjust, in time.  We carefully packed up things to help her feel at home and set up her new apartment. It didn’t help.

It’s a beautiful place, the staff is terrific, her  neighbors are great and welcoming, but it isn’t home.  She wants to go home.  The families goal is to get her  home.. but- we honestly don’t know if or when, that can happen.  It’s hard to see her so upset.  It’s hard to not have any answers about when she can go home.

It’s also frustrating knowing that she COULD make the best of it, but isn’t.  It’s hard to know that she doesn’t HAVE to be lonely, but is.  It’s hard to know that it’s for the best and necessary and that she hates it anyways. It feels like ramming your head into a wall trying to convince her to try and connect. It’s sad to see her answer the door when someone knocks only to hold the door at a crack and speak through it instead of going out or inviting someone in. It’s hard for everyone, but especially for gramma.

“It isn’t home. ” Is all she can say, when we try to talk her into making the best of it… She’s right of course, it isn’t home.

While driving back from a recent visit, I felt overwhelmed, afraid and frustrated.  I cried out to God:  (ok, I yelled at him.. I do that sometimes…) “I don’t get it!  She doesn’t HAVE to be miserable! Why is she being so stubborn?  It’s hurting HER!  All she has to do is open the door!  I don’t get it!”

“You don’t? Are you sure?”  Was the un-expected response.  Since no one else was in the car.. I knew that either my conscience or my God had spoken.  Either way.. I also knew the voice was right.  I DO get it.

I’ve been there, on the other side of the door, refusing to open it.

Until a few years ago, we’d been a very active part of a local church.  We loved our church.  We loved the people and the ministry that God had called us to while there.  It was an integral part of our lives. Sadly, things happened and we had to leave.

Since- we’ve visited several churches…but just haven’t found a place to call “home.”  We’ve spent several months at churches.. visiting- getting to know people.. and then leaving, because it wasn’t Home.

On that drive.. I realized I’ve been acting a lot like my gramma. Standing behind a closed door- talking to people through the cracked door with the chain on. Maybe it’s time for me to stop being so stubborn, make the best of it even if it’s not “home” and open the door.

Maybe- just maybe I’ll find I’m already at my new home… all I have to do is open the door.. maybe that’s all you have to do too.

 

Nest Unrest.

Re-post – My Grandmother passed away last night- so I’ll be doing some re-posts of fav pieces-for a few days. I hope you enjoy them.

For weeks-last year, I watched and waited. Daily, I snapped progress pictures.  I watched as bits of my yard, were woven into a home for a tiny red-breasted, family to be.  I observed a devoted momma , carefully build a softly lined home. I watched her mate keep a careful eye over her as she gathered, and wove.

Finally- came the big day.  When I peeked into the nest- it was no longer empty, it cradled tiny blue eggs.  I kept a safe distance- and watched her daily warm and tend them.

I watched carefully, because she had built her nest in the motion detector, flood light next to my patio door. The light goes on and off all night, as every racoon, bat and stray cat and possum, ambles by.   The flood light gets hot enough to burn your hand.   It was not a good place for the nest- but, we held our breath and hoped for the best. The eggs never hatched.  I, cried.

Recently, I again noticed bits of my yard being woven into a home in the flood light.  She was back. I felt sad for her.  Didn’t she remember?  DIdn’t she know?  The light and constant interruption of my rambunctious family would make it impossible once again, for her eggs to survive.

I worried.  I watched. I debated. ”Do we pull the nest out and hope she moves somewhere safer?  Do we leave it and hope the un-hatched eggs were a fluke?”  I waivered daily- and then decided-it had to be done before it was too late. I asked my husband to pull out the yard bits that she’d so carefully woven, in hopes that she’d move on.  He did.  I cried.

A few days later- we watched as yard bits, again became woven.  This time?  It is in my favorite willow tree.  A much better place for her to nest.  I’m watching.  I’m waiting.  Maybe- maybe this year there will be a tiny family.  For now- I’m glad we did the hard thing- and un-rested her nest.

I’ve experienced this in my life- too. Not just in my yard.  I’ve tried to settle in where  I shouldn’t have.  I’ve made decisions that seemed like good ones at the time, only to have God lovingly reach down and unrest my nest- encouraging me to move along to a safer, or better place to nest.  Each time  it’s happened, I’ve questioned and felt angry at God… “Why would God rip up what I’ve worked so hard to build?”

Over time, I’ve learned that when God un-rests my nest- He has a reason for it.  Sometimes, I find out (later) what the reason is-  sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I’ve found it had nothing to do with my choices- but with the changes God could make in my by stretching and growing be by re-building. Slowly- I’m learning to trust Him and his direction, more than my perceptions and plans.

Maybe today- you feel like your nest is in unrest. Maybe you feel like what you’ve worked so hard to build, has been plucked out from your carefully chosen place.  Maybe you have questions, maybe you feel angry.  If so— I pray you find hope- in the truth that if God is unresting your nest— it will be for good, like it was for the Robin family in my backyard.

One of my favorite passages that give me hope in all nesting circumstances is Jeremiah 29:11-14-

11 For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. 12 Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. 13 You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. 14 I will be found by you,” declares the LORD, “and will bring you back from captivity. ^[b] I will gather you from all the nations and places where I have banished you,” declares the LORD, “and will bring you back to the place from which I carried you into exile.”

Dear Lord- I pray that you’d guide and direct the weaving of our lives and homes- I love and trust you- no matter what- amen

 

A tea cups worth of dignity….

Re-post from June- 2009

When the caller ID showed the number– I knew something was wrong.   I was right.  My grandmother was in the hospital.. and it was the “you need to come visit now,” kind of call.

I didn’t know what to do, so I did what I could, and what i always do.  I made a care pkg of love.

This weekend- I had tried my hand at making jam. It had actually turned out, so I thought I’d bring some up to her.  My grandmother ALWAYS made home made jam in the summer.  It is part of our family story. I remember prying out the carefully poured parafin to find an amazing elixir of liquid summer.  I can feel the cool jelly jar in my had even now and taste the sweet-tar fruit on toast with butter.   My grandmother was born in Wales, so I added fresh scones and clotted cream, along with a box of tea bags to the little care package.  Tea time is a daily tradition and is something we’ve  always enjoyed together.  All I could think- was grandma needs tea, and hospital tea won’t do.  Packing up tea was something I could DO to help.

We made the drive to the hospital in quiet.  When we arrived, we  had to look hard to find the outline of her tiny frail body in the hospital bed. She had trouble speaking, but tears came to her eyes when she saw me.  I smiled.  It was worse than I’d thought.

I did not know is that she hadn’t eaten in days, and that scones would be out of the question.  Still, I wondered if a bit of jam and cream would be good.  I asked the nurse and with her  approval..I asked grandma if she wanted a taste. I offered her a bit of jam and cream on a spoon,  Grandma nodded her regal approval.  .  That was enough.

My grandmother’s mouth and throat are parched from dehydration and diminished use. Every swallow is obviously painful, a sponge to wet her mouth has been on the bedside. But honestly- it just didn’t seem right. Her regalness- sucking a sponge was wrong, and while compassionate care.. it wasn’t what she needed to improve.

The idea that grandma needed tea, would not leave my mind.  Tea, makes everything bearable, if not better. Our family has had pots of tea during wakes, during wedding planning, on lazy afternoons and after every holiday meal..(even the fourth of July.)  the kettle has NEVER been anywhere other than the stove top. Like the  Rock of Gibraltar, it doesn’t move. I decided to try to get her to take a bit the next day.

Shortly after arriving,  I asked if she wanted a bit of tea. “That would be wonderful” . Was her answer.  It was more words in a row than we’d heard in days. I grinned. “YOU got it grandma.”  I was quickly reminded of this:   My Grandmother doesn’t drink tea through a straw, nor from a styrofoam cup.  ”That would be disgusting”  grandma would say.

Standing in the hospital room, I longed for the kettle. I longed for the teapot and limoges cups she’d served me from.  I wracked my brain for how to accomplish tea in this place. The gift shop held the answer. a pretty blue china cup. I washed it in the bathroom and ran back to grandma’s room.

With warm water from the cafeteria, we brewed up a fresh cuppa.  My aunt raised it to her parched lips.  Grandma wanted more. A few minutes later.. she COMPLAINED. It wasn’t hot enough.  We laughed. “We don’t want to burn you!” Grandma reprimanded: “Don’t be ridiculous.”  We promised the next cup would be warmer.

And it was.

Something shifted in Grandma with those cups of tea.  A spark of herself ignited.  It couldn’t have been caffeine.  It was decaf.. It was a spark of her dignity.

Dignity is an even more fragile thing than my grandmother. (She tips the scale at a childs weight.) My grandmother is a proud and proper woman, dignity is her MO. Being bedridden and immobile is a type of hell for her. She cannot care for herself, she cries when “certain  of her needs”  require the help of others. Those china cups of tea helped make her feel like herself.

I don’t know what the future holds for my grandmother.  We know that at nearly 90, time is short.  Her prognosis is guarded at best.  But I know this.. a tea cups worth of dignity can make a difference in this moment.

I hope that today- if you’re confronted with an overwhelming situation- one that leaves you feeling like there’s nothing you can do,  that you will do what you can. Sometimes just being there is enough.  Sometimes a  smile.. or an  offered  cup of cold water- or a hot tea.  There is something.. however small that you can do to make a difference in this moment, for someone.  Do it.

A timely re-post from this summer

 

An open letter to rebellious pores and persistent pimples

Dear Rebellious Pores and Persistent Pimples:

Don’t look around confused and innocent, like. You know who you are. Yes, you.

I am talking to  you, Rebellious Pores #1-6 billion and seven who have been pumping enough oil onto the surface of my skin for 30 years to power several third world nations.  And yes, you too, Persistent Pimple # 4,768,321. Location: A Sector, B Quadrant, 2.5.

Also known as: In the shadow of left nostril.

To you, I say: I am impressed with your consistency and perseverance . Or rather, with your evil, malicious, ugly, and (often) pain filled, doggedness.  You have been my (monthly) worthy adversaries for 30 years. I  know I am supposed to be a woman of grace.. and I do believe that God works all things together for good… but really?

I hate you and wish you’d be GONE.

You suck time, money and emotional energy like a hormonal leech. It’s been hard to convince my kids that their college tuition has been invested in my private war against your terrorism.  Terrorism?  Yes. Terrorism. Why? Because you do not attack on all fronts, like a traditional war. No.. you are more diabolical to my follicles.  YOU attack like a terrorist, in just the most vulnerable and tender spots: my right cheek, left nostril and the side of my nose.  Of course, occasionally you try to throw me off and attack my chin or forehead, but I’ve been tracking you like a beagle on bacon. You can’t fool me.

I worry that someday, Al Gore will wage a personal war against me.  Why? Am I paranoid?  No—The acids, lotions, vitamins, drying agents, and snake oils I’ve purchased to slay you, are the most plausible cause of  global warming, I’ve heard. It’s true, I am haunted by guilt and the imagined screams of polar bears, each time I apply them.

Despite their tortured cries-, apply them I do. I am a woman obsessed.   From Retin A to Pro (not so) active.  From Acids to lotions, with labels like potions, apply them, I do.

And I WILL.

Why?

Because, to you I ALSO say: I will prevail. There will be peace (at least) on my face.

I will not give up. I will fight you to menopause, and beyond!

Be warned.  I was recently blessed with luck.. and won one of these beauties in PINK!—and it’s got my name engraved on it..

This momma’s goin’ high-tech… prepare to DIE.

Signed-

hopingmyfacewillclearupbeforeIlooklikeasharpei

in michigan

 

Force bulbs for Christmas- not Fun, (it will save you a trip to the ER)

The wind  was howling,the snow swirled past the window. There was  little cash for Christmas gifts. And I was stressed and disappointed with the holiday in general.  Our (half) of a duplex was for sale, and the stress of trying to keep it clean ( & ready to “show”) with two little ones was making me (and everyone around me) crazy and miserable.

At my local MOPS group that week- we had made these cool ornaments with just cinnamon and applesauce. It sounded like the solution to both my cranky-ness with my kids.. (we needed to have some fun together) and my minimal budget for Christmas gifts. I bundled everyone one up against the cold and headed out to buy bulk cinnamon and applesauce.

We arrived home, cold, tired and hungry. Everyone needed a nap. (Mommy included) This was not to be, I was on a mission. We were going to make ornaments and have fun together, or, (quite possibly) die trying.

I turned on the “Johnny Mathis Christmas album” .. put our matching aprons on and showed my 6 and 3 year old sons how to mix the applesauce and cinnamon into dough.

It had started so innocently, and smoothly. The boys helped measure and mix like pro’s.

Right about the time I started feeling like a scene from a Christmas movie…I noticed rust colored clouds of cinnamon floating through the kitchen and into the living room. They settled into the mauve (don;t judge me- this was the 80’s)  carpet to create an insoluble, but holiday scented,  mess. Shouts of “Be careful!,” and ” Don’t get cinnamon on the carpet!” soon drowned out poor Johnny.  Chunks of cinnamon scented concrete were becoming “one” with the kitchen floor.

The pressure of making ornaments “fit to give” spread through me like a virus. I was soon- re-rolling the dough to make it smoother and took all the non-Christmas cookie cutters away so that we wouldn’t be making dinosaurs for Great Grandma’s tree. My oldest totally lost interest, and went to watch PBS. The youngest, continued on.

When we were finished and still breathing, I called it a win. Ornaments were drying in the oven, (to speed things up a bit.. I tend to do things a bit last minute;) The house, while dirty and freshly stained, smelled wonderful.

That’s when, I noticed strawberry colored patches popping up all over my youngest. His face, arms and hands were puffy and raw looking. Tears welled up in my eyes. I thought: “Great. No money… no gifts… the house is a mess and now the “baby” is sick!” I got scared. I called my husband home from work.

I was pretty convinced I had killed the kid. NOT GOOD.

A quick trip to the urgent care center revealed a reaction to the cinnamon. A little bath in colloidal oatmeal and frequent slathering with hydrocortisone calmed the rash, but not my heart.

That night I cried myself to sleep, the tears and sobs were also prayers, worded and otherwise. I felt like a bad mother. I felt like an idiot and a failure. I couldn’t even just have a fun afternoon with my guys. I was sure I had ruined Christmas.

In the morning, I grabbed my coffee, and my Bible, while it was still quiet and the moonlight shown on the snow. I opened it to Luke. I read the Christmas story. I thought about Mary… so young… I wondered if she felt she was ready to be a mother. I wondered if she felt awful for not having things all ready for her child’s birth. They couldn’t even find a room to birth in. They ended up in a stable. Smelly animals surrounded them, hay poked her in the back, she didn’t even have a “proper” layette.  I wondered how she felt.

But- there she was- the mother of The Christ Child. I flipped to the Easter story- and re-read that, too…the two stories were one. A light switch flipped on for me. The baby’s birth that I was trying so hard to honor, celebrate and share, perfectly. Had led to the Savior that I needed, yet again, so desperately. Much more desperately than sidewalks and bigwheels.

I felt like everything shuffled back into place. My priorities, lined up again. By the time the boys woke up, I was ready. We continued through the rest of our holiday with joy and rest. No more worrying over the gifts, we could do what we could do. That was all. No more worrying about creating perfect “Christmas memories” with the boys… we decided to just let them happen.

Every year- (my oldest two are 18 and 15 , now) we retell the story of the ornaments, and forced fun. We laugh, every year. Sure- I still get caught up in the hustle bustle and pressure to create a Martha Stewart Christmas scene….but then- inevitably, I get a whiff of cinnamon. And I remember. The baby in a manger- who grew to be savior…. and get back to the heart of Christmas…. till the next time, I need to be reminded.

“Dear Lord- I know that Christmas isn’t about packages and bows and gifts and decorations… but, I get sidetracked so fast, I barely know it’s happening till it’s nearly too late. Please God- help me to remember, help me to follow the star and be reminded of of the sacrifices you made- leaving heaven at God’s right hand.. to be born in amnager and die on a cross, so that the world could have peace, love and forgiveness. I love you Lord- and thank you, – oh- and lord- thnx that we can laugh at that Cinnamony Christmas.. and learn from it..amen…”

Oh— wondering about the title? I always remember too late that I WANT to force bulbs for my Christmas centerpiece one year…married nearly 20 years and have never remembered in time to actually do it;)

(re-post form Laced with Grace 2007)

 

Starbucks, a Smile, and the world is a better place.

It was one of those “Black and white” days of winter.  Where the world is painted in shades of dirt.  The slush on the road was the exact color and consistency of dryer lint.  Or maybe, it was the stress of buying gifts for everyone we know, that made it seem that way.  The holidays can be like that.

Especially when you’re in a time and money crunch and are in a trying to get it all done now, mode. Which, we were.

As we drove, there were more reminders of how bad things are economically, than holiday decorations on every corner. I’m pretty sure there were literal “signs of the times” because I saw them. They read: “We buy houses” and “Call NOW, to avoid foreclosure!”

No more silver bells on every street corner, only store closing signs.  Just when the signs had started to melt together like a marketing slush pile, one jumped out at us.

Or maybe it wasn’t the sign, it was the huge, slush dripping, black man holding the sign that caught out attention. With one strong arm he held the sign, and with the other he waved. He had a smile warm enough to melt an iceberg. (I may have suspected he was high-for just a minute.  Just being honest!) I looked a little closer- iPhone in hand in case I needed to report a drunken signer…But he wasn’t smiling vacantly, he made eye contact with each passing car. He was smiling genuinely. (Who knew people still do that?)

I couldn’t help but smile back. Neither could every other driver on that road. It was more contagious than swine flu.

My husband noticed too. “See that guy?” My hubby said.  “He must be freezing!”

” Yeah, I can’t help but smile! We should get him a coffee or something…” I replied. “Well, maybe when we’re done.” I suggested, looking at the clock and wishing it would sloooow down.

By the time we’d turned the next corner and found a parking lace at the mall, I’d forgotten all about he smiling man and the hot coffee.

We finished our errands, then drove to the nearest Starbucks for a treat to celebrate sticking to our budget.  As I held the white chocolate mocha and let it warm my fingers, I remembered that warm smile.

I thought I was losing it when I looked up to see the “STORE CLOSING SALE” sign walking towards the coffee shop. I wondered if I were about to be visited by a ghost of Christmas past…..then I worried whether Starbucks was the next store to close.. (that would be tragic.) Funny how one worry leads to another, isn’t it?

No worries, no paranormal episode being filmed and Starbucks wasn’t in fiscal trouble.  It was time for the smiling sign holder’s coffee break.

“He’s STILL SMILING! I said to my husband. “Hey, …Buy him a coffee, he’s gotta be freezing!!” I told hubby- but he was already reaching for his wallet. We were on the same page. (The first time that day- let’s just say Christmas shopping together can be brutal.)

Hubby walked to the counter with him and offered to buy him a coffee.

I strained to listen while they talked.  (And not look like a SBUX eaves dropper while doing it..)

“You seem to like what you’re doing..” Hubby said.

“I like having a job” Said our sign holding friend.

“Been doing this long?” Hubby asked, curious.

“A few months. I worked for a moving company before the economy tanked.” He said,  warming his frigid hands around the iconic paper cup.

The talk lasted just a bit longer than the coffee. By the end? My husband was  sure it had been a “divine appointment.”  The kind you don’t have programmed into your blackberry.

When the man excused himself to the restroom, my husband returned, looking perplexed.

“His birthday is coming up.. he has twin girls…times are rough but he’s glad to be working… I feel like I should give him something, do something to help.. but I don’t want to you know.. make him feel bad..he’s working, not begging.. you know what I mean?” Hubby said.

“Just be honest with him.. tell him you want to do it to thank him for what he’s doing…making people smile….  If that doesn’t work, tell him to use it to buy something for his girls…for Christmas.” I offered, thinking a little cash to buy gifts for the kids would be rough for anyone to turn down!

Hubby reached for his wallet. I watched him walk over as our new friend was picking up his sign getting ready to head back out into the cold.  I couldn’t make out words as they talked, but my ears strained to hear, anyways. They seemed more serious and intense this time.  I prayed silently: “Lord, please don’t let this offend this guy, let it bless him.”

My heart skipped a beat when I saw those two big men embrace, each with tears in their eyes.

He’d accepted the gift without offense.

We didn’t solve the economic crisis, or get him a more stable job. We just did what we could. So did he. He gave warm smiles and waves to drivers facing their own economic crisis’ as they drove to Christmas shop,  we gave a Venti’ and a few bills to a guy struggling to make ends meet.

In our own ways, we all made a difference that day, to each other.  And, just maybe to the world.

What will you do to make a difference, today?

 

On a stone altar-I not only don’t GET Abraham, I want to hurt him….

The cold crept up though the granite boulder I sat on. It seeped through my well-padded backside and settled into my spine.  Cold, clumsy, fat and scared is how I felt. The sun had barely risen and held no warmth, except a promised one. I pulled my hoodie tighter around my growing stomach and turned the pages of my bible in search of comfort.

What I found was about as comfortable as the granite I sat on.

¹ Some time later God tested Abraham. He said to him, “Abraham!”
“Here I am,” he replied.

² Then God said, “Take your son, your only son, Isaac, whom you love, and go to the region of Moriah. Sacrifice him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains I will tell you about.”

Not, what I was looking for. I was pregnant, hormonal and afraid. I was looking for peace. DUH. Instead of peace- the doctors phone call haunted me:

“Your tests came back with soft indicators for Down Syndrome, you need to make an appointment with the genetic counselor.” In that instant,  I’d lost peace. Instead of wondering about my baby’s gender, I was now afraid my child would die. I was afraid my child would struggle. I was afraid he’d be rejected. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to handle it. I wondered where God was.

I wanted my excitement back. I wanted my peace back.

Instead, I opened the page to see God tell a man to kill his son. I kept reading. I saw a man lay his beloved child on a cold rock and lift a knife to kill him.  Fear and anger welled up in me.

I hated Abraham.

“That altar is cold! Is he nuts? Where Is Sarah? I’d kill him if he was my husband. THAT’S HIS BABY! Would he really do it? What an idiot.” (Umm I maybe actually think like this, am I the only one?)

I slammed my bible and walked back to the camper. If this was the comfort God was offering- I didn’t want it.

I let the door slam as I entered. I wanted everyone to be awake with me in my misery.

It didn’t work. They snored on.

Trying to shove down the anxiety I felt, I started to clean. I grabbed a shopping bag to put it away and out fell a blue, silk edged Winnie the Pooh blanket, I’d bought for the baby. Tears filled my eyes.

I imagined myself holding my baby in the blanket, I imagined the blanket never holding a baby.  I imagined the blanket draped over a tiny coffin, and I imagined it wrapped around a tiny Down Syndrome baby.

I wondered if Sarah had a blanket for Isaac. I wondered how Abraham had overcome his fatherly instinct to comfort and care for his son, to lay him on a cold stone altar.

“Maybe he didn’t.” Was the response. (It was either God or my imagination, but I heard it.)

“The Bible LIED?” I asked. Kind of hoping it had.

“Maybe Abraham didn’t lay him on a stone altar, maybe he lay him on my lap. Maybe you should lay your child there too.”

I was pretty sure Abraham wasn’t the only crazy one. He had a new neighbor in crazy-ville: ME.

I let the words sink in.  Not an altar, a lap. A fathers lap. I wasn’t convinced.

“In your lap? I can’t. I have to take care of him.” I replied. (Once you’ve gone to crazy-ville you may as well stay a while. )

“I will. I already AM.” Was the reply.

“I can’t let go.” I answered.

“Neither can I.” Was the reply that brought me back form Crazy-ville.

The truth is I could let go, if I really tried, and if I really trusted.

That day didn’t end my fear. But, it did become a place to return to, like the rock on the beach I’d sat on,while searching for comfort. Only instead of coldness creeping up my spine, it brought warmth. It brought peace, and yes, comfort.

On a lap, not an altar.

God hadn’t promised everything would be alright.   Instead, he met me where I was, and gave ME a warm lap to crawl into, a place where I could lay down my little one. Not a cold stone altar, but the lap of a loving father.

He didn’t change my circumstances, but he did change my perspective.

I don’t know what you’re feeling today, maybe you’re afraid, maybe you are angry, maybe you have read that same story and wanted to put the beat down on Abraham, like I did.  I’m praying that God will meet you where you’re at, and show you what you need to see, whether (like me) you like it or not.

Dear Lord- I pray that you’d constantly remind me to trust you.. that you’d constantly remind me you are not a cold hard, judging God but a loving father, into who’s lap I can climb and find peace.  I love you Lord and pray that you will meet each one that comes here, right where they are. Amen

 

Enchilada Communion- an intimate encounter with AIDS-

I stared at the fork in my hand.  I stared at the steaming pan of enchilada’s in the middle of the table.  Through the steam, I saw the smiling, gaunt face of my red-headed, dying friend and his beautiful wife. I smiled back. I looked to my left and saw my husband, to my right sat my toddler, forks also in hand.

“What if the doctor’s are wrong?  What if we can catch it from a fork?” I hated the thought, even as it formed. It was 1990 and until then, AIDS had been a news story, health ed and gossip topic to me. Suddenly it was very real. It was frightening, deadly and risky.

That day, AIDS stopped being a news story and became part of my story.

Why?  Because it was killing our friend.

Fork in hand, I had a choice to make. Would I allow my fear to pile hurt on an already bloodied and dying friend?  (There were some who whispered that people dying from aids “were getting what they deserve. And had brought it upon them selves” We saw how much this re had hurt them more than the virus. itself.)

Or, would I trust in God and live the gospel I said I believed?

I swallowed my fear, I dug into the pan, filling my plate, my husband’s and son’s with enchilada’s,  sauce and cheese.

Around that table, we shared a communion of enchilada’s and diet coke. We laughed. We cried. For a few moments-we lived the gospel.

I remember his bony, scaly red hand as we held hands to pray. I remember the tinge of fear again invading my heart as I reached out to clasp it. I remember the smile and warmth that met my hand in return.

A man with leprosy came to him and begged him on his knees, “If you are willing, you can make me clean.”  Filled with compassion, Jesus reached out his hand and touched the man. “I am willing,” he said. “Be clean!” Immediately the leprosy left him and he was cured.

It wasn’t because we were fearless or a good people. We aren’t.  We did it because we’d be desperate for touch if we were dying. And because the example we have is Christ . He touched the un-touchables of his day.

I wish I could say that prayer brought healing. It didn’t.

Our friend died.  Because AIDS kills. Every single day.

Some ask where God is when people suffer.  I think he’s eating enchilada’s and drinking diet coke with them.  I think he holds a rough, scaly, bony hand in prayer.

When we let Him.

Today is World AIDS day.

My question to you is- Will you let him?

Wondering what you can do?  Here are some ways to touch someone:

World Vision Sponsor a child affected by AIDS

Bloodwater- Donate $ to help find a cure and to help treat those who hurt.

In honor of our friend (Alan) we’re sponsoring a child through World Vision.  His name is Daniel- he is a first grader who lives in Tanzania.

 

Lessons in Compassion and Inclusion on the Playground

The Autumn sky threatened rain.  I parked my car in the school parking lot, choked down a burger, fries and iced tea. I needed sustenance before I went in to help with my second grader’s class “Math Explorations” assignment.  (The fact that I failed almost every math class I’ve ever been in, didn’t come up on the background check. Whew. )

As I sat in the car, I contemplated the wisdom of entering a room of 24 rabid second graders, smelling like french fries. (I envisioned a mob scene with back packs instead of pitchforks.)

I knew they were rabid because I’d just witnessed them filing out the door for lunch recess. They looked like they’d dumped the rest of their Halloween candy into their lunch boxes, before mom got a chance to toss it.  The term: JACKED UP could describe the behavior. Let’s just say I know Where the Wild Things Are.  They are at my son’s school. (Which means:  he fits in fine.) I turned on some classical music and to “center myself”. Whatever that means.

[Bored by the music and sad attempt at centering-] I looked up to notice a rubber wheeled, off- road style wheel chair near the door.  In it, sat a radical little helmet wearing, wild dude. He had pirate stickers all over his helmet and a “born to be wild” bumper sticker on his wheel chair. (Or I made that up, but you get the picture.) He was alternately, throwing sticks and bouncing a ball.

Alone.

My heart went out to him.  All those rabidly fun kids, running past him to go play and he’s left alone. Tears filled my eyes.  I’ve been left out and alone. Not just as a child, but as an adult.  I hate it.  It’s not fair.

Right about the time I was considering risking being “the creepy woman” who wandered onto the playground and played ball with the wheel-chair kid.  A hoodie clad, second or third grade fellow  ball bouncer, ran over to him.

The boy in the wheel chair cautiously tossed him the ball. A test of trust, I think. If the ball was tossed back, all was well, if it was chucked at him or snatched away, it was just another episode of playground trauma.

I held my breath. The boy bounced it back. after a few tentative bounces, they moved on to throwing sticks for distance and height. (They both should have been wearing helmets, they took a few sticks to the head. Come to think of it, they will probably get in trouble for that,  if they get caught.) A few more kids came over to join in the fun. They broadened the game. (Or trouble making, depending on which side of the school fence you’re on, I suppose.)

I smiled. And let out the breath I’d held in fear. I experienced inclusion. No teasing or targeting. No excluding. It was connection and compassion. There was care for the one who was left out. Compassion on the marginalized. Sounds like the gospel to me.

¹⁸“The Spirit of the Lord is on me,
because he has anointed me
to preach good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners
and recovery of sight for the blind,
to release the oppressed,
¹⁹to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”^{[e] Luke 4:18-19}

I want to be that kid hoodie wearing ball bouncing kid, when I grow up.  I want to be the one who reaches out and includes, instead of excluding the different.  I want to have compassion that moves me to action. I want to make that kind of difference, every day.

What about you?

Dear Lord- I pray you’d bless those boys I saw on the playground today. I pray that you’d give me and all who read, the courage to reach out and to take the risk of bouncing the ball. Let us catch your compassion and live it out on the playground of our lives- I love you Lord- Amen