Thursday, May 15, 2014

Crossing the Jordan

Let's face it. 
At "my age", myself and my peers are looking more toward the journey ahead. We are spending less time looking back over our shoulders and all that has brought us to this season of life.
Oh, there will always be fits of nostalgia, bursts of wistfulness. For the most part, though, it seems we are asking questions like Where am I heading? How are the kids doing? How are my friendships; are they current?
And we think about our legacy -- our non-monetary inheritance we will leave to our children and our grandchildren.
Have we taught them to love the things of eternity?
Have we lived out our faith in such a way that they, too, are storing up treasures in heaven where moth and rust do not corrupt?
Also these days we're doing away with mirrors; I am, anyways. Oh, they're handy for brushing hair and applying makeup and making sure there's no residual guacamole in between the teeth...but for our reflection -- to really see who we are -- we need to look into the faces of our peers. In the wrinkles, the laugh lines, the battle scars, the deep and knowing eyes, we see ourselves too. We see our own reflection.
We get this glimpse, this insight, this Aha! moment. And we get to really see how we're doing. 
What you may sometimes forget is, while you are looking to your friend for affirmation, she is looking into your eyes and quietly thanking God that you show up in the middle of her mess. You show up when she is hurting. 
She sees in you her biggest cheerleader. You may not realize this, but you are helping her navigate the crooked scary places in her own jagged journey. Yes, you. You come to the middle of where she is; the middle of her mess -- and you see her and know her pain because maybe you've experienced something like it. Maybe you've endured the pain and crossed safely to the other side.
In some seasons, it might be her turn to see you. And what she might see, reflected in your eyes, is your heart -- your heavy heart, heavy like a stone. A heart burdened with worry over a rebellious child. Or sad with regret over an argument, an unkind word, a rift in a relationship. She senses you are aching for things to just be okay again. Her gaze looks past the surface cheer and sees your bitter, closed heart, scabbed over with unforgiveness.
Unforgiveness gathers momentum, and becomes swift and deliberate, like a raging river. So there's this amazing story in the Bible. It's the book of Joshua in the Old Testament. In there, you'll read about the entire nation of Israel crossing this river in one day's time. They crossed while the river was at flood stage! What happened was a miracle: the priests were instructed to carry the ark of the testimony into the river. As soon as their feet touched the water's edge, the water from upstream stopped flowing. It piled up in a heap a great distance away, while the water flowing the other way was completely cut off. Can you even imagine?
The thing about your heart is, God can restore it. He can do anything. Even bring a salve to your scabbed over hurts, gently unfold your fistfuls of fury.
He can run interference -- send in your testimony, carried by your friends, who hold your story and at the powerful hand of God, see you safely to the other side. You will look back and see that you have crossed the Jordan. And that's no small thing.

"Lord, help me to stand in the hurtful places next to my dear friend. Help me to gently lead her to the river's edge and together we'll dip our reluctant toes into our own raging waters of anger and resentment. May we find ourselves standing in the middle on dry ground. 
And may she stand on her regrets and use them as launching pads to better days  ahead.



Amen."

Thursday, April 24, 2014

Reclaiming the Territory



"If you know what you want, then you're one step closer to it. If you take a step in that direction then you're actually making it happen. Think small when it comes to steps and big when it comes to dreams.”
(From Begin with Yes by Paul Boynton)

Who knew? I always thought you had to accomplish a goal or hold up a diploma or show your credentials or beam at the camera, trophy in hand – in order to realize a dream.
But the writer suggests you are already swinging something into momentum if you take a step in that direction. That's pretty cool.
So here's a shout-out to all of us who feel stymied by inertia. To the one who is in between jobs, staring at another email that says, “We'll keep you in mind.”
For the one with big ideas and empty pockets, edging ever closer to the safety of a “real job” with a steady-income-minus-the-dreams.
To the shadow-dweller who has something to say to the world, but hangs back, silenced into obscurity by the prettier, the brighter, the smarter ones.
For the one still figuring things out, feeling confused by the critics; just wanting a mentor to come for the journey.
To the person leaving a cluttered desk at the office, returning to a chaotic household, wondering when life shifts into neutral.
For the unrestored, the broken. The one ready to forgive, but nobody's beating a path toward the reconciliation.
To the one like you, like me – holding that piece of chalk and staring at a blackboard of symbols and numbers which absolutely do not add up.
These are the gloomy in-between places, the gaps that yawn, the caverns that loom black and bottomless. These are the intervals of the-not-yets, the waiting, the places where the only answer is an echo of silence.
But maybe, just maybe, we're stepping in a direction that holds the answers.

The other night, I sat for an hour in total silence. It turned out to be a blessing, a benediction on what had been a noisy day. All that day, I had pursued an answer to a life problem. I had pushed words into the air with my prayers and pleadings. Unsatisfied, I had turned up the car radio and thrummed out the questions in my head with a drowning out melody and back beat. When that didn't work, I gave way to anger and listened to the darker voices of doubt and fear. They only led to confusion and more questions.
Drained and at wit's end, I drove to a favorite spot for viewing the sunset. In golden, utter silence, almost without breathing, I witnessed the hand of God putting the world to bed. A green and gently sloping landscape was bathed in reds, oranges, purples and pinks. An American Flag unfurled audaciously in a crisp breeze. Trees-not-yet-green looked hushed and majestic.
The world stopped, and I bore witness to it.
God placed His signature across the horizon as the sun gathered in the rosy light and penciled it neatly across the tops of hills. Hills in silhouette. Orange orb dipping behind, silent and profound.
Blessed, blessed benediction.
I drove home.
The Great Silence had tapped me on the shoulder, inviting me to be okay with no-noise. Exhausted now, I rested in its presence, reveled in it.
Later, the questions would come again, niggling me with their persistence. But my new ally, Silence, pushed a hush against the noise, and I slept all through the night.
Silence – and I – reclaiming lost territory. Taking back the unknowns and learning to live with them. Learning to live inside the intervals, the in-betweens, the not-yet-but-maybe-soons, of life.
Allow Silence to join you in the journey, and take an hour some evening to witness the unfolding of a glorious, golden sunset.


Wednesday, April 16, 2014

An Unfaithful Vigil


We say we'll keep watch, but we fall asleep.
This week as I pause in the holy hush of Jesus' willing death on the cross, I need to look and see and understand my vigil falls desperately short.
Consider these passages from Mark, Chapter 14:

They went to a place called Gethsemane, and Jesus said to his disciples, “Sit here while I pray.” He took Peter, James and John along with him, and he began to be deeply distressed and troubled.
Eugene Peterson, in The Message, paraphrases it this way: “He plunged into a sinkhole of dreadful agony.”
My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death,” he said to them. “Stay here, and keep watch.”
Jesus then moved away from the three and began to pray. When he returned and found them sleeping, he said, “Simon, are you asleep? Couldn't you stay awake for even an hour?”
(Selections from Mark 14)

Twice again, Jesus went away to pray. And twice again, he returned to find his friends asleep. He had asked them to keep a vigil with him, and they had failed at even this simple assignment.
I remember being absolutely stunned when I first encountered this passage in the story of Jesus' crucifixion. It was shocking to think his best friends would ditch on him like that. Self-righteously, I indulged in the idea that I'd never do that; I'd never fall asleep during the holiest of vigils, the night before my Savior's death!
But as I journey and grow wiser in my faith, I understand his followers, The Twelve. I get it. Because, how many times have I failed my Lord? Too many to count. And how many times have I listened to a sermon and decided it was for someone else, but not for me? Too many times, way too many times. How often has He asked me to keep watch? Warned me to be alert to the enemy of my soul? Gently chastened me when I wound another?
Asked me to stay awake in the garden?
A simple request. A profound honor. A no-brainer. Just. Stay. Awake. But I don't; we don't, not always and not at the most critical moments.
So I suggest we cut the disciples some slack this Holy Week and think about what they didn't have.
Those guys did not have the New Testament Pocket Guide with Study Notes at the bottom of each page. You laugh! But it's true. Yes, they had the Lord, in the flesh, the Great I Am in their midst. Jesus taught and blessed and performed miracles and washed their feet and served The Last Supper. They had front row seats to all of it.
But the Gospel, the Good News, was still unfolding. The story of the perfect lamb, as prophesied in the Ancient Teachings, was about to come true. They were a part of the story, but they didn't have the entire picture, like we modern-day Believers do.
Jesus, at the end of their time together in the Upper Room, explained what would happen in the hours ahead. He tried to warn them, to tell them a time was coming when he would be destroyed and they would disperse in fear and confusion like sheep without a shepherd.
He even knew the ways in which they'd fail!
Jesus told the men a Comforter would come; the Holy Spirit.
But think about it. Those guys couldn't look it up by Chapter and Verse, and then cross-compare it with other translations.
It was a final meal with feet-washing, followed by a profoundly vulnerable time of Jesus putting them into the care of God as a benediction. Combine this intimate time of sharing with fear and political unrest and angry mobs and betrayal just hours away.
They had face-to-face access to The Savior but they didn't fully grasp His words. They were ordinary humans with flaws and doubts and God chose them to be part of the Plan of Redemption.
They only knew He had called the Passover Meal His own body and blood – broken and spilled for them. How strange that must have been, and really kind of scary. And confusing.
Let's float them a little grace this Holy Week approaching Good Friday. In the doing, we might also be able to receive grace for our own inadequacies.
As Anne Lamott so transparently puts it, “I do not understand the mystery of grace – only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us.”
And so, rather than being disappointed about the garden napping, I see the disciples with a stirring of recognition.
Jesus saw Peter, James and John at their worst – and He loved them anyway. However often they failed Him, He would never fail them.
And when I am unfaithful to watch and stay awake, He still loves me enough to die for me.
Make of me a faithful vigil in the heart of darkness, I want to be a sentinel through all the dark hours. When the deep darkness falls, let me be your star. Name me One Who Watches Through the Night. Reveal to me the holiness of lingering with mystery. Employ me in the holy art of waiting. O teach me to live with a vigilant heart.

>Litany of the Hours






Sunday, April 13, 2014

Something The Lord Made

"When God is going to do something wonderful, it starts with something hard." Anne Lamott

The movie, "Something The Lord Made," starts with something hard, nearly impossible. Two talented men are thrown together in a world dominated by bigots; one is a respected heart surgeon, the other is a black man who might as well be invisible. Except for his hands. We'll get to that in just a minute.
Dr. Alfred Blalock is a pioneer in his field. It's the Depression era. He needs an assistant - he finds the quiet but brilliant Vivien Thomas. Thomas, the Dr. discovers, has an uncanny grasp of new trends in the field of heart medicine. He also has an astonishing set of hands: the agile, skillful hands needed in the critical intervals between life and death.
Pushing against the prevailing racism of the time, Blalock brings Thomas into the operating room. He praises Thomas' hands as being "like something The Lord made."
I love this true story. It's a story of greatness recognizing genius. What could have been squelched due to "class" or "color" was reverently celebrated and, much later, awarded an honorary doctorate.
If you boil the story down to its essence, what you have, really, is a miracle -- a miracle set into motion by a Creative God, and, more importantly, a witness to the wonder. The privileged surgeon has talent but esteems his assistant as one set apart.
Society pushes Thomas to the margins, but medical science needs him. And that's another miracle: countless "blue babies" plagued by a desperate lack of blood oxygen, are saved.
Writer Anne Lamott says it beautifully: "When God is going to do something wonderful, it starts with something hard. And when He is going to do something exquisite...it starts with something impossible."

Saturday, April 12, 2014

Sitting with the Discord

For those who think I wake up with rainbows and shamrocks swirling around the room, think again. 
I love to write, and I particularly like to lean into the positive stuff of life. There, are, however, days and moments that wound. There are odd niggles of doubt and sometimes huge dark caverns of grief. They come at random times, even in the middle of joy. Especially in the middle of joy.
My faith teaches me we live in a fallen world. A world where tiny seeds shoot up green and strong in tiny bits of earth inside Dixie Cups to flourish and delight and, eventually, die. 
A world where pet goldfish are named and loved and sung to by a child who's heart will break because the fish will not live forever.
A world where laughter spills out only to be interrupted by grief and bitter salty tears.
A world where hands reach for one another and also where hugs are rejected. These contrasts are listed in the Book of Ecclesiastes. This is a portion of God's Word that reveals truths and challenges the status quo.
A blogger friend recently helped me grapple with the idea of what he calls "writing my truths".
"How," Ken wanted to know, "does an honest writer pen the truth without causing pain?"
His daughter wisely suggested we "keep the essence but protect the innocent".
I like that. Keep the essence. Keep from wounding.
Still, it's a fine line. For instance, I want to blog about a rift between me and my best friend. I could wait until the mending happens, but what about today - the way I'm gazing sadly across a canyon of misunderstanding? What about the anger that still churns? And the truth that I should rush toward forgiveness and yet I remain locked in resentment - what about these essential doubts and struggles?
A writer wants to speak in an authentic voice. So arriving at Reconciliation requires a gritty view of the fallout in the harsh light of Now.
Writing my truth changes things. Revealing the angst can hurt. What's odd is my concern for the offender: wanting to protect her from seeing the flesh wound her own words inflicted.
A counselor once advised me to "Sit with the discord." She meant I should stay still and have a good hard look at what is Real and what is True. Even when it hurts. Her counsel was wise, because I have learned, over and over, that our Loving Father will not keep us locked in discord for longer than we can endure.
Think of a night at the symphony. The program promises Mozart but delivers Noise. You feel gypped. You want a refund. But wait! As you shift uncomfortably in your seat, a sweet note emerges. Then another. Then healing layers of harmony are settling around your shoulders, and you know you are moving toward Reconciliation.
You simply had to sit with the discord for a while.
That's my truth today: Writing it down can be good. It may hurt. Revealing it requires the courage to write from a broken, discordant part of myself.
Telling it lays raw the flaws in my character that maybe you don't want to see.
But if my being honest gives you courage to look over the rim into your own abyss, then we've made a connection. It's going to be okay. 
Unseen mending is set into motion. For a little while, though, we must sit with the discord. One sweet note will shift our view; the world will recalibrate, the harmonies will return.

Thursday, April 10, 2014

Shaking Winter Loose




April is the month that sets the year in motion, shaking winter loose, turning the world towards the sun, blooming into nature's brightest colors. This change of season is so full of momentum, no wonder we call it spring.”

This delightful quote comes from the pen of Vivian Swift and her book,
When Wanderers Cease to Roam”. In this charming celebration of settling down, Vivian exchanges her worn rucksack for a permanent home in a small town. She begins to explore the neighborhood, discovering little waterfalls and ancient entrances and enchanting little streets named after trees.
In the chapter, “April,” she writes of “Shaking Winter Loose”.

Shaking winter loose. I love that phrase. It makes me think of my grandma in days long ago, when she did her annual spring cleaning. Grandma would “shake the winter loose” when she hung quilts and blankets and curtains on the clothesline out back. She throttled them with a broom and I giggled. She handed the broom to me, and I gave the blankets a few whacks.
Laughter and sunshine and shaking winter loose, with the promise of hot cocoa and homemade cookies in Grandma's snug kitchen.
She would sweep and dust and I would help. I keenly remember the way the dust particles danced in a shaft of sunlight.
Shaking winter loose.
The still crisp breeze of April ribboning through the windows, colliding with the aromas of Baking Day: bread, sticky rolls and pies.
This side of heaven, there is no aroma more splendid than that.
Shaking winter loose.
It also means rummaging through the closet for last year's sneakers and lighter jackets, shaking off the doldrums with a walkabout. It calls for the yearly ritual of walking familiar streets to take in new things: porch furniture, early blooms, robins on worm patrol, babies in strollers, toddlers on tricycles.
Winter's dull blanket is swaying in the wind, shaken loose and pulled back to reveal the unclothed trees of pre-bloom wonder.
Memories, too, are stirred awake. I can see Grandma, looking regal in her everyday apron, brewing coffee on the old wood stove for Grandpa, cranking open the windows and sweeping out the wood chips.
Dust mites, earth's dormant gems, are scattered awake to dance in the ribboning breeze.

Winter is shaken loose, and the world is reborn.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

I'm Nobody! Who are You?


I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us -- don't tell!
They'd banish us you know!

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell one's name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
>Emily Dickinson

Lately I've been listening for the peepers. A Spring peeper is, according to Wikipedia, "a small chorus frog."
Small, perhaps, but mighty en mass with all those chirpy voices rising into the night. Peepers fill their vocal sacs with air until they look like a balloon, then they let out a "peep" as they release the air.
I love it. 
The sounds in the boggy back fields near my mom's house are so wonderful this time of year. Evening's Great Silence has been unlocked. The tiny heralds of Spring inflate and release their mini balloon warbles in a chorus of celebration.
A spring pond full of peeping peepers can sound like sleigh bells jingling -- only louder.
The poem above, by Emily Dickinson, is one of her most famous and playful works. Ironic, since the author penned nearly 1800 poems but published fewer than 10 of them in her lifetime. 
The peeper frog is tiny; no bigger than your thumb-nail, and its balloon chirp is a comical part of nature. So it is with Dickinson's pithy verse: brief and whimsical.
Yet the combined impact of thousands of these little frogs is, well, shrill and clamorous. It's a collection of chirps, warbles and trills that joyfully announce the next season.
Is it Spring yet? Are we finally rounding a corner? 
Daytime temperatures are getting balmier, and green shoots are popping up everywhere. Porch swings are coming out of storage, and barbecue grills are being called into service. 
The happiest commotion of all is what you'll hear when you lean into the breeze and hear the sounds it carries: the peepers returning and reclaiming the night.