Sigh

What did Jesus do when the Pharisees started bugging him? 

He "sighed deeply in his spirit." 
Mark 8

I know what that looks like.  It's when your heart drops or your blood pressure rises, but you don't let it show.  You feel the emotion run deep and piercing, but you maintain self-control on the exterior.  I think this past Christmas weekend had me sighing in my spirit more than any I can remember. 

It began with high hopes, as we piled into the mini-van with duffels and gifts and food to share, along with an assortment of cords for the kids' new technology, embarking on a five-and-a-half-hour road trip to Illinois to visit my dad and step-mom. 

When we arrived, there was an immediate spirit of heaviness.  My step-mom's father had been in a terrible car accident three months ago, and she had been on the road many times a week to be with him and her mom at the hospital.  She was weary and tears spilled over many times.  Deep sigh. 

My dad was missing his father, who died in October.  He had been my Opa's caregiver for 6 years as he battled Alzheimer's in a nearby nursing home.  It was grueling and heartbreaking, but his absence seems equally hard and Dad is depressed.  Deep sigh. 

I don't know how to comfort my dad.  I gave my step-mom and him a beautiful stone transformed into an oil lamp, and wrote them a poem about carrying light through the dark times and fanning each other's flames. 

They cried when they read it, and we ate dinner by the light of the rock.  But, still, I don't know how to connect and stay connected to my dad.  I want to give him this hope and faith in Christ that lights my way, but that is not what he wants.  Deep sigh. 

I long for sweet times of connection with my kids and their grandparents.  It's happened in the past while singing and guitar playing and writing silly songs together.  There were a few lighthearted moments as they pulled up funny apps on their iPods and convinced Granny Cathy to download Talking Tom Cat so that they could all play at the same time.  But mostly, they went their own ways, watching football, playing games, acting shy. 

Dad and I usually get to make some music together, but where was I?  On the couch most of the weekend with the stomach flu or food poisoning, trading good conversation for many, many visits to the bathroom. Deep, deep sigh. 

But the soul-deep, guttural groan that I masked with a compassionate smile came when we visited Grandpa Bob in the hospital.  I thought I knew what a person would look like after 3 months in ICU.  I knew he would have a trach and many wires and that he had grown thin.  But he was an unmoving, unwaking, ghostly skeleton of a man, who last Christmas was a friendly, barrel-chested farmer with a big grin and hug for us at the door.  What are they all to do, Lord?  How long can they endure this?

I am glad to be home, nursing my stomach back to health, praying for all this suffering. Praying for:

 ...the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair...
Isaiah 61:3

But on this windy, bleak, mid-winter day, there are just deep sighs.

My Favorite Christmas Poem

In the Bleak Midwinter
Christina Rossetti, 1872

In the bleak mid-winter Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak mid-winter Long ago. Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him Nor earth sustain; Heaven and earth shall flee away When He comes to reign: In the bleak mid-winter A stable-place sufficed The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ. Enough for Him, whom cherubim Worship night and day, A breastful of milk And a mangerful of hay; Enough for Him, whom angels Fall down before, The ox and ass and camel Which adore. Angels and archangels May have gathered there, Cherubim and seraphim Thronged the air, But only His mother In her maiden bliss, Worshipped the Beloved With a kiss. What can I give Him, Poor as I am? If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb, If I were a wise man I would do my part, Yet what I can I give Him, Give my heart.

Melancholy and Mistletoe

Irony:  when the husband you affectionately call "Scrooge" because he grumbles at all the Christmas hoop-la pulls you under the mistletoe and suggests you adopt a more festive attitude, then plants a big kiss on you. 

He's right.  A sour spirit has descended on me lately.  I feel desperate for a place where everything is peaceful and quiet and clean and done.  Instead I hear noise and squabbling; I look around to see so much UN-done.  Even if I did it an hour ago, it is now UN-done.  Even if I scratched everything off my list, I have added more to it.

Why am I trading peace for angst?  Why am I hunkered down in a place of ingratitude when I know why and how to live full of thanks?  Why is everything bugging me? 

A plethora of excuses cross my mind:  lack of sunlight and fresh air, too much sugar, not enough sleep,  too many demands,  too ambitious of a schedule.  But these are symptoms, not the root cause. 

Countless times I have advised friends to lower expectations, enjoy the moment, count their blessings, be still and know that God is God.  

It seems I need to dig awfully deep to take my own advice.  But you don't find the root by walking around in circles on the grass.  You have to get out the spade and dig an ugly hole. 

Today this moves to the top of my list: some internal gardening (and maybe a nap in the sunny window seat.)  Because when the man of the house gets home tonight, I'd like to beat him to the mistletoe. 

A Fascinating Movie: The Adjustment Bureau

Until last night, couched with my favorite guy after the kids went to bed, I had never seen a movie quite like this.  The writer was clearly grappling with this proverb from Scripture:

Many are the plans of a man's heart, but God's purposes prevail. 

Prov. 19:21

What does that mean, really?  Are all of my plans superseded by God's will?  How much divine intervention is injected into my free will?  These are mysteries the greatest minds have not solved and the Bible does not fully answer, so I suppose they are best saved for heavenly revelation. 

But when a Hollywood writer throws out a suggestion as to how this is accomplished, it makes for a fascinating movie, with Matt Damon at the helm.  Angels in fedoras, passing through magical doors.  An unsuspecting man accidentally glimpsing the other side of the veil.  An unseen God called "The Chairman."  There are no halos and supernatural, gauzy figures.  These are serious, sometimes brutal men, with a job to do, and woe to the angel who falls asleep on the park bench! 

Can our passionate plea persuade God to "rewrite" our story?  This is the central question the movie attempts to answer.  Scripture says YES.  Moses' plea for the Israelites and Abram's plea for Sodom and Gomorrah, where God is in conversation with these men of faith and allows Himself to be persuaded to be merciful are two examples.  What would be the point of intercessory prayer otherwise? 

If you've ever wondered if you've "entertained angels unawares" (Hebrews 13:2, KJV) you will appreciate this movie.  Personally, I pause at that Scripture and look around suspiciously.  It means there are flesh and bone angels walking around, right?  Have they brushed up against me?  Have they diverted my path to protect me or to accomplish some greater good?

OK, I don't want to give too much away, but I can't stop analyzing this movie. My son is taking a Biblical Worldview course called Starting Points this year, so we have spent much time together analyzing authors' worldviews in such books and movies as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, The Narnia Series, The Wizard of Oz, and It's a Wonderful Life. Up next is Frankenstein. I guess I, too, am being trained to think more critically about the stories I read and watch.

The next time you spill coffee on your shirt, which puts you behind in your schedule, you might wonder:  was it chance or was it the "adjustment bureau?" 

My Little Rose Petals

Wasn't it yesterday that I would arrive in that cozy room, collapse in a chair after long days spent with babies and toddlers, and be loved on by sweet, young moms and older, wiser mentor moms.  MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) was such a blessing back then.  I gained some dear friends from that group, and though life has led us down separate paths, we still meet once a year for Fondue in January.

Last night, as the busy moms decorated the room for their annual Christmas celebration, I was setting up my music equipment to perform a concert for them.  Their little preschoolers were exploring everything, toddlers were dragging around blankets like Linus, babies were resting on hips, little fingers were finding my keyboard, eager mouths were trying to sing into my microphone.  I felt a little like my son playing defense on the basketball court!

I brought my daughters and their friend to assist me, and to sell their beautiful satin flower clips for their fledgling business, Rose Petal Designs.
 

In six years, my daughter, Megan, has gone from clinging to my leg, not wanting to be left in childcare rooms, to manning my powerpoint and running her own little business.  I watched her gently redirect curious preschoolers away from my equipment and bless one little girl with a free clip because her mom didn't bring money. 

I observed my 8-year-old, Grace, being saleswoman of the year, as she informed potential customers of the great value of these little clips...how you can remove the feathers if you prefer...how they make great Christmas gifts and wouldn't your little girl like this purple one?  At my last 2 concerts, they sold $150 worth of clips.  Stunning!

All that time spent teaching my children respect, self-control, hard work, and compassion is beginning to bear fruit.  Spending so much time with them as a homeschool mom, I tend to focus on their weaknesses and lack of maturity, but yesterday, seeing how they handled themselves in public, juxtaposed against who they were just a few short years ago, I was proud of them.  So proud.  

I shared these three pictures with the lovely MOPS moms to let them know how quickly time passes.  The first is our Christmas card picture from 2003.  The second is what happened right after we took that picture.  The third is our 2011 Christmas card picture. 

Time is the most undefinable yet paradoxical of things; the past is gone, the future is not come, and the present becomes the past even while we attempt to define it, and, like the flash of lightning, at once exists and expires. ~Charles Caleb Colton

Ecce Ancilla Domini!

This painting by Dante Gabriel Rosetti captured my imagination this morning.  It is entitled:  Ecce Ancilla Domini!, or "The Handmaiden of the Lord." 

I have been reading from the Revised Common Lectionary lately.  It has wonderful scripture selections that coordinate with Advent, and it includes related artwork, where I came across this oil painting from the mid-1800s. 

I read the fascinating account from Luke, where Mary is visited by an angel bearing life-altering news. 

Luke 1:26-38
1:26 In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent by God to a town in Galilee called Nazareth,

1:27 to a virgin engaged to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. The virgin's name was Mary.

1:28 And he came to her and said, "Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you."

1:29 But she was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be.

1:30 The angel said to her, "Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God.

1:31 And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus.

1:32 He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David.

1:33 He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end."

1:34 Mary said to the angel, "How can this be, since I am a virgin?"

1:35 The angel said to her, "The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God.

1:36 And now, your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son; and this is the sixth month for her who was said to be barren.

1:37 For nothing will be impossible with God."

1:38 Then Mary said, "Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word." Then the angel departed from her.

Most art related to The Annunciation of Mary shows her in peaceful contemplation, but Rosetti rejected this.  Look at her.  Startled awake.  Recoiling.  Unsure.  It must be a more accurate representation of a person's reaction to a visit from an angel.

I wonder how much time passed between this visit and Mary sitting down to write the Magnificat.  How long does it take drastic news to settle on a person, to burrow its way into acceptance, to be embraced and magnified by the soul.  How much pondering must take place before you can treasure it all up? 

I know, these are deep, rhetorical questions for a Tuesday morning.  Maybe I'll just close with a few the words from my song, All These Things (CD:Herald),  inspired by this tender shoot of a woman.

All these things I treasure up

and I ponder them within my heart

and they change me

 and they move me

to follow hard after God

Things I did not want to happen, not my plan

I didn't understand

I did not know if I would bend under the weight

or if I would break

All the pieces of the portrait of my life,

shadows and light

shadows and light

Then the message of the angel in the the night

pointing out the way that is right



Cookies and Apologies

I learned a hard lesson about honor yesterday.  The stage was set for a lovely afternoon of baking with Nana.  The tree was twinkling, the Christmas music was playing, the counter was covered with all things delicious and fattening, and we were ready to make our traditional favorites:  Scandinavian almond bars, double dip chocolate bon bons, and Amish sugar cookies to decorate. 

I handed my mom an envelope, which included a Snapfish picture card of the kids and my annual Christmas letter.  She read the letter and chuckled here and there at my comments.  You see, I try to make my letters a real glimpse into our lives, and not pretend our lives are perfect (that would be pretending!)

The problem came when Grace asked my mom to read the letter aloud.  As she began to read in her gentle voice, I instantly panicked.  I knew there was a certain line in there that would offend Gracie's tender little heart, even if it was true.  So I whispered into my mom's ear to skip that line, which she did.  Gracie, however, was on to me. 

About 5 minutes after we put the letter away, she came up to me and earnestly asked to read the letter.  My heart fell.  I knew this was not going to go well, but that I had to honor her request.   I gave her the letter, she read the telltale line, and then she hurried up the stairs in tears.  I followed her, feeling terrible.  All kinds of hurt tumbled from her mouth.  "How could you, Mom?"  I really didn't have a good answer.  I knew she wouldn't understand if I explained, "I was trying to be real, to encourage others with our foibles.  See, I put funny stuff about myself, too." 

I just said, "I'm sorry, Grace.  You're right, it wasn't nice.  I will change it.  I will tear open every sealed and stamped envelope, and replace the letter." 

She reluctantly accepted my offer.  I knew she didn't want to miss the afternoon of baking to sulk.  She taught me how careless I can be with my words, and that I have to remember she is not quite at the age where she can laugh at her own weaknesses. 

There are so many warnings in the Bible about bridling our tongue.  Today, I choose this one to tuck in my mouth:

Set a guard, O Lord, over my mouth; keep watch over the door of my lips!  Psalm 141:3

I continue to struggle with how to use my voice to encourage and tell stories about my life that are real and true, while still honoring those in my family.  Perhaps today, you can learn from one of my many mistakes. 

When the Season Draws You Deeper

This time of year sends me swimming in nostalgia.  I purchase a new ornament for the children each year, to represent their interests and stage of life, and as the delicate icons came out of their tissue wrap, I am swept back over the years.  Winnie-the-Pooh, Cub Scout, ballerina, tea cup and saucer, Care Bear, pink pony.  You can imagine the burden on the boughs as they hold memories of 3 kids and 18 years of marriage. 

We have a second little tree in our master bedroom.  We call it the anniversary tree, and it holds ornaments selected each year of our marriage, beginning on our honeymoon.  On a yellowing slip of paper, I write down the year we bought each ornament and what it represents.   Pink booties for Megan's arrival, a tiny picture of the house we built, a little gold cruise ship, a butterfly to remind us of "Songs with Wings, " one of the CDs we made together. 


Sometimes I imagine the timeline of my life, from birth to now.   It doesn't look like the straight time lines that come in our homeschool curriculum, ready to write dates and paste pictures.  It looks a bit like an irregular heart monitor print-out, with blips like peaks and valleys.  There are big valleys that made my heart pound.  There are moments when the peaks are off the page, so mountainous were they.


Upon each event on this time line, I can stamp a promise of God.


1991:  I have suddenly, joyously drawn near to God, after 20 years of wandering.  This peak is stamped with Romans 10:9  If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.


1993:  I am crying.  Dave has lost his job right before our wedding.  This valley is stamped with Jeremiah 29:11  For I know the plans I have for you,” says the Lord. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.


2000:  I am looking bleakly at a toddler and a baby.  My husband is in Asia for 3 weeks.  I am downcast, feeling far from God and wondering, "who am I?"  This valley is stamped with Romans 8:38-39  And I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love. No power in the sky above or in the earth below—indeed, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord.


2005:  I am laying passed out in a pool of blood on the bathroom tile.  The baby is gone and I am in the valley of God's cupped hand.  It is stamped with Job 1:21  The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away.  Blessed be the name of the Lord.


2007:  God is doing a new thing in me;  He is painting a vision on my heart for a music ministry.  The peak is nearly off the page! Isaiah 43:18-19  Forget what has happened.  Don't keep going over old history.  Be alert.  Be present.  I am about to do something brand new!  It's bursting out, don't you see it?


2011:  I am feeling in the center of God's will, doing what I love.  Homeschooling, songwriting and performing, serving others with my children, giving out of God's generosity to me.  All this stamped with Ecclesiastes 5:19  Moreover, when God gives a man wealth and possessions, and enables him to enjoy them, to accepts his lot and be happy with his works--this is a gift of God.


Someday, any day really, the time line will end.  There is a stamp ready for that moment:  Revelations 22:4 They will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads. There will be no more night. They will not need the light of a lamp or the light of the sun, for the Lord God will give them light. And they will reign for ever and ever. 

If I Die Before I Pray...

This morning, as the warm light of day began to lift the darkness and the hunters spilled out of trucks across the field, I sat cozy in my spot and took a little gem of counsel from Spiritual Classics, Richard Foster, ed. 

photo by Dave Pearson

It was the strangest thing I've read on prayer, written by an anonymous in The Cloud of Unknowing centuries past.  He wrote,

"Let me start by saying that the best thing you can do when you start to pray, however long or short your time of prayer is to be, is to tell yourself, and mean it, that you are going to die at the end of your prayer."

What?  That's not very affirming.  Some weird monk must have thought of this.  

But you know what, I tried it.  I took the posture of reflecting on my own demise.  Immediately, tears sprang to my eyes.  "God, thank you for all of this..." I choked.  "God, I can die now, because you are good and I am forgiven and the universe will not stop spinning without me.  You are the power and the glory."

Many have looked death in the face and trembled.  The rest of us can let our imaginations lead us to that small and humble place where we glimpse a purer, wider, broader, deeper vision of God.

Fear of Average

My great joys growing up were always the "slam dunks:"  successes rewarded with the point or the A or the solo or the lead role or the accolade.  If I was in an activity in which I couldn't bubble up to the top, I would quit and look for an opportunity to rise in something else. 

My son is on a basketball team that emphasizes defense.  Maybe this is common among coaches, but it seemed a little foreign to me.  When I played three years of basketball in middle school, I recall that it was all about the points.  Getting the ball and driving to the basket.  The first email from the coach of the Homeschool Defenders team was about the priority of defense. 

This got me thinking that deep inside, I've always feared being average, being one of the under-appreciated defense.  One thing that homeschooling and staying home to raise my kids has stripped me of, though, is my penchant for slam-dunks.  If there is a continuum of homeschooling aptitude, I am right in the middle.  My children are average performers.  No spelling bee champs or violin virtuosos.  I don't see full-ride scholarships in the future.  They aren't perfectly mannered or running a hobby farm.  At the end of a day of homeschooling, I rarely feel we have accomplished much.  A messy house.  Some refereeing between siblings.  A great deal undone. 

But there is something different lifting to the top now.  A fresh humility that cracks the egg of ego and spills out compassion and prayers.  Like Jacob, I wrestle with God often and come in last always.  But the last shall be made first in God's kingdom order, so can I really lose? 

I can put my arm around a friend now and say, "I know, it's hard.  There's no formula for perfection.  There is no basket for slam-dunks."  

And that, I think, is what God loves to see rise within us, like a great flock of birds bursting into sky. 

Between Mother and Son

The relationship between mother and teenage son is getting trickier.  He, the solid blond toddler who was so ready with a giggle, the lover of planes, trains, and video games, the handsome Cub Scout standing at attention...I, the mother/teacher who always said I cared more about the child's heart than the academics, have come now to regular battle over the heart and the academics. 

Conversations with my husband have trailed back to our days as 8th graders and concluded our son is in a far better place than we were back then, as we desperately tried to find our identity within the walls of a middle school.  Yet, we didn't have to live with our teacher and principal, right?  The boundary lines are in strange places when you home school, and are always moving as you grapple with new stages of development, new levels of freedom, and new demands of academics. 


There are benefits.  I pray more, for one, than I do in peaceful times, and I am startled awake by God's gentle answers.  He says, "Look, I am working on that boy's heart.  Do you see the changing, forming, molding?  Do you see Me in his bright smile?  And look, I am working on you, too.  Did you notice how calm you stayed today?" 


And I say, "You're right!  I see it."


Why do we pray and then forget to watch?


Yesterday began with a snarl between us...him reiterating how much he hates a certain subject, me counting its benefits yet again, him growing silent, sulking.  Me praying, "Help."


And then it happened, a moment of reconciliation like rain in the desert.  He found me sitting on the floor in a spot of warm sun, looking at old photos crammed in a box; photos of him as a baby and toddler and goofy clown, with arms swung around his younger sisters, posed with the family in front of a backdrop of wonderful memories.  He moved toward me for a closer look, until our shoulders touched and soon we were laughing heartily together. 


I have an image in my mind now like a photograph.  Mother and son walking backwards on a timeline , so that they can attempt to move forward again, refreshed.

Letter to an Athiest

While doing an image search this morning, a blog titled "Why Missionaries are Extremely Destructive" caught my eye.  It was a rant from an atheist against Christian missionaries and the indoctrination of children by the Church.  I occasionally read what people are saying on this topic because I used to spout such things, and because it challenges me to draw deeper into my understanding of faith and service. 

Here is my reply:


Dear sir,

I am sorry that you feel so betrayed by your Christian upbringing.  For any acts of unlove or judgement or hypocrisy you saw in these tender years, I apologize.  We humans fall so achingly short of God's beautiful, compelling standard.  We are to be light and salt and end up being clouds and lemons sometimes.   


You feel that what I am doing to my children is indoctrination.  I suppose I am guilty.  This faith flows from every fiber of my being, spills from my heart, leaks out through my smile, excites me so much that I have to share a verse or a story or a song with my kids because they're my favorite people in the world. 

Do you have a passion for something?  Do you share it with your children?  Do you teach them the rules of football or an appreciation of music or how to hunt a deer?   When they come of age, they will be free to choose to love or hate football or music or hunting or God.  Just like you.  In the meantime, they are with us constantly and we are bound to rally around something.

You say missionaries fly to other countries and tell people what to believe; that they shower them with gifts and then (your favorite word) indoctrinate the poor, helpless, uneducated souls.  Have you met a missionary lately?  On the whole, they are the most humble, sacrificial people I've ever met.  Long term missionaries give up almost every conceivable comfort to live as an alien in another culture, and they are promised nothing in return.  Have you felt an irresistible urge to go and do something?  Did you do it?  What kind of sacrifice did it require?

You criticize short-term missions, highlighting the one particular day they spend on recreation.  When did you use most of your vacation to visit a poor part of the world?  I've talked to many who have...I've never heard one of them describe it as a vacation.  No, their eyes glisten and their voices crack, and they will always be haunted by the need and humbled by their blessings, and I'm pretty sure their bank accounts are heavy with fingerprints of compassion.  To me, this means a lot more than writing an occasional check to United Way, as good as their work may be.

Now let's consider the "path of destruction" left by the missionaries.  A kind, energetic person from a prosperous country comes to me, offers me clothing, food, a shoebox of gifts for my kids, a Bible in my language, teaches me a song, makes me feel special, and then leaves after a couple of weeks, I would feel quite blessed, not ransacked, by the experience.  Lovely people have breezed in and out of my life and left a sweet impression.  In fact, their fragrance drew me into a faith that has changed my life.

The first part of my own life was spent being against Christians, and I would have left some encouraging comment on your blog back then.  But do you have any idea how much joy there is in being for something so big and powerful as faith in Jesus Christ?  If you could only have a fresh taste of it, a renovation in the architecture of your philosophies, I believe you would grasp and hold this Love, which is unlike any you have known.

Admittedly, I am more mystic than theologian or scholar, and I am not here to defend my theology.  I am instead compelled to speak from the heart; a heart that is broken and spilled out for people who suffer both from physical need and from spiritual desolation. 

Thank you for challenging me to evaluate my motives for serving and to recognize that we as humans are cursed with a bent toward selfish gain. I do, however, think your anger could be directed in much more productive directions, like toward warlords who deny their people available nutrition, or toward child traffickers or slave-owners, instead of people who are trying in their small way to help, based on a Spirit within them Who abhors apathy as much as hypocrisy.

Spit and Polish Veneer

I once had a piano student write her name in the dust on my piano.  That proves how much I hate to dust.  I nearly grumble at sunny days when the light presumes to cast it's filmy glow on my furniture.  My neighbor girl said our house smells like dusty perfume.  I told her, "I'm not sure about the perfume part." 

Really, dusting is so low on my priority list that it has to jump up and down and wave wildly to get done.  Or my mother-in-law has to visit.  Or I have to host a party of not-that-close friends.   

Do not blame my mother for this.  She keeps a very tidy home and did her best to teach me how to use a dust cloth.  Blame the 1000 other things I'd rather be doing.  Like blogging...or staring out the window.

Christ said of the Pharisees in Matthew 23,

They talk a good line, but they don't live it. They don't take it into their hearts and live it out in their behavior. It's all spit-and-polish veneer. 

For some reason, reading this makes me think of dust.  More accurately, how my dusty house reperesents a change in me. 

I spent the first part of my life with a spit and polish veneer.  If I got straight As, if people could see how talented I was,  if I could get everything just right, I would feel worthy.  I was loud about my victories and quiet about my vices.  Actually, I tried to pretend my vices weren't there, or didn't matter.  "Sin" was an antiquated, religious word that just ladened people with unneccessary baggage.


When I accepted the truth of Christ in college, it wasn't because I suddenly became aware of my sin.  For me, believing in God answered deep-seated questions. I understood on a theoretical level that the gap between God and me existed because of sin, and that Christ bridged the gap, but I had not truly embraced my own contribution to that gap.


Scour the insides, and the gleaming surface will mean something. -Jesus' plea to the Pharisees, Matthew 23 


Years of God's grip on my heart has squeezed out the truth.  I am dust.  I am the "chief of sinners."  Well, Paul called himself that, and so did John Bunyan, but I beg to differ.  It is I. 


God has a beautiful, compelling standard for pure loving and righteous living, and I fall woefully short. 

Example 1:  Yesterday, one of my piano students was accompanied by her grandma, who had never been to my home, and all I could think was, "Oh no, my house is a mess.  What will she think?"  I was relieved when she didn't come inside.   


Examples 2-4:  I say nice things to people even while my mind is judging them.  Christ called those kind of words a "clashing cymbal." 


I pray that God uses me as an instrument of His love and then fret over some note I played wrong on the piano at a concert. 


I ask God for wisdom in parenting and then let the kids watch 3 hours of T.V. 

Examples 5-a million:  meet me for coffee and we'll talk.


The funny thing is...and this faith is full of strange twists...that the more I face and confess, rather than preen and polish, the more usable I am in God's kingdom; the more His power can scour. 

Thankfully, grace, that thing we call amazing, is a transparent covering over all our foibles and faults... not unlike a layer of dust.

Change of Scenery

In the course of a few hours, I traveled from curt wink and “you betcha” to slow smile and “how y'all doin'." The difference between Minnesota nice and North Carolina southern hospitality is wide as the Blue Ridge Mountains, and the comfort I find in being courteous-friendly at home suddenly feels “aloof” when compared to the “never-met-a-stranger” mentality of the south.

At home, I would never stop a stranger on the street to tell him it's my birthday and wouldn't he like to know who all is here visiting me? In North Carolina, my Great Uncle Wilburn told anyone who caught his eye that he just turned 90 and all these nice people standing here looking slightly uncomfortable on the sidewalk are here from Minnesota and Florida, and by golly, they kept the visit a surprise!

In Minnesota, our stories are fairly short, we drop details here and there, too worried we might bore our company. At least I do. After 3 days in NC, I know all about Second Cousin Linda's local friends and a lot about the ones from Texas. The stories were served with piles of wonderful food, steaming cups of coffee, good-natured teasing, and lots of drawl. No one was in a hurry, and it reminded me that the only time God was in a hurry was when He was portrayed as the prodigal's father, running to meet his long-lost son at the end of the lane.

I loved this time with my Southern kin. It wore me out and filled me up all at once. At home, there is a lot of space to go our separate directions, but here, in a little country cabin, squeezed together in the way that fosters community, we enjoyed familial love, the kind Dolly Parton used to sing about with banjo and fiddle and a side of grits.

I imagine Jesus would approve of this style of fellowship...up close, loving, interested. It was like He was there in the room with us, chewing a caramel by the fire and nodding as Cousin Linda gave him credit for healing the mass on her pancreas, and winking affirmation that yes, indeed, He made sure He answered her prayers for parking spots when we went downtown. I felt Him close as I took an early morning run through the autumn-tinted hills, and I saw His light shine through Great Aunt Betsy's eyes when she touched my arm and said, “Now, Jill, you are doin' an excellent job raisin' those children a yours.”

I'm home now. Monday morning. With new recipes and some stories to tell.  Thanks, y'all. 

Rules of Humility, Part 2

I read the sage words of Jeremy Taylor again, feeling the truth, wincing at the rub.  Why is it so hard to leave Vanity Fair?  It's walls are lined with flattering mirrors, it's halls are filled with affirmations, the furniture is comfortable and people beneath you peel grapes and drop them in your mouth.

 



And what are we trading this for?  Washing someone's dusty feet. 

I can't explain it, but when God reaches his hand through skin and bone and wraps it around your heart, He resuscitates you from the suffocating vice grip of this place.  He becomes your pulse, and when you try to look back on things you used to love, He squeezes harder and you feel the constriction.  You quit gazing longingly at Princess Whosoever's fancy house and start considering the slums and huts of starving children.  You end the coveting of another's gifts and begin using your own. 


Some people think you're a bore.  But there are others who recognize the light emanating from you, and they are drawn.   

Rules continued from yesterday's blog....


Rule Five:  Never be ashamed of your birth, or your parents, your occupation, or your present employment.  When there is an occasion to speak about the to others, do not be shy, but speak readily, with an indifference to how others will regard you. 


Rule Six:  Never say anything, directly or indirectly, that will provoke praise or elicit compliments from others.  Do not let praise be the intended end of what you say.  Do not ask others your faults with the intent to have them tell you of your good qualities.  You are merely fishing for compliments. 


Rule Seven:  Always give God thanks for making you an instrument of his glory for the benefit of others. 


Rule Eight:  Make a good name for yourself by being a person of virtue and humility...but do not let your good reputation be the object of your gaze.  Be like Moses, whose face shined brightly for others to see but did not make it a looking-glass for himself. 

-Jeremy Taylor, The Rule and Exercises of Holy Living

Rules of Humility

We've been reared in a culture where self-esteem is paramount, where egos are stroked and caressed, and where subtle fishing for compliments is an art.  Facebook and blogging feed fiercely into our addiction for affirmation.  Does this ever run through your mind..."Oh, I will have to post that to see what people will say?"  Just yesterday, I bragged on Facebook about beating the boys at cards and basked in the virtual back-slapping from a few friends. 

Today, I drew up short.  A few pages of words written by a scholar in the 17th century shook my shoulders and slapped my cheeks.  "Wake up, sleeper.  You have work to do." 

The text, taken from The Rule and Exercises of Holy Living by Jeremy Taylor (1613-1667) was so rich, I thought some of you might be hungry for such words.  I would like to share them, rule by rule, over the next few days.  If you roll your eyes and think "legalistic," that's fine.  After reading this, I definitely won't take it personally :)

Rule 1:  Do not think better of yourself because of any outward circumstance that happens to you.  Although you may, because of the gifts that have been bestowed upon you, be better at something than someone else (as one horse runs faster than another), know that it is for the benefit of others, not for yourself. 

Rule 2:  Humility does not consist in criticizing yourself.  It consists in a realistic opinion of yourself, namely, that you are an unworthy person. 

Rule 3:  When you hold this opinion of yourself, be content that others think the same of you.  If you realize that you are not wise, do not be angry if someone else should agree!  You would be a hypocrite to think lowly of yourself, but then expect others to think highly of you.

Rule 4:  Nurture a love to do good things in secret, concealed from the eyes of others.  Be content to go without praise.  Remember, no one can undervalue you if you know that you are unworthy. 

No one can undervalue you if you know that you are unworthy.

Have you read a more counter-cultural statement than that recently? 

The Limp

I am asked often about my plans for my music: have you been writing new songs?  Are you working on your next CD?  Are you trying to get on the radio?  Have you ever submitted your music to a famous singer?  Do you think you'll ever go on tour?  Do you have a lot of concerts coming up? 


Six years ago, when I began to record and perform my music, these questions confused me...and the possibilities excited me.  I have a whole journal full of entries in which I wrestled with these exact things.  But like Jacob, who literally wrestled with God and walked away with a permanent limp, I have climbed off the mat with wisdom and a certain kind of limp. 

Do you know what Jacob said before the wrestling match began? 

"I am not worthy of all the unfailing love and faithfulness you have shown to me, your servant." Gen. 32:10

This is a wise place to begin a wrestling match with God.  To know you're going to lose, but to recognize you've already won.   

I learned on the wrestling mat how to answer these curious questions.  Yes, I am always writing new songs.  God created me to receive holy stirrings and articulate them in the form of songs.  I can't think of a time since my early 20's when I haven't been crafting a song. 

Out of His storehouses, he has given me recording equipment and a talented, devoted husband/producer, so yes, I will record more CDs.  I don't worry about how many sell or take up space in my basement.  My greatest pleasure is giving them away when the Spirit moves.  I appreciate the people who are willing to pay for them so that I can put that money back into the ministry. 

When the questions turn to fame, touring, and promotion to bigger audiences, I confidently say no.  My time is better spent supporting my husband, investing in my children, and serving in my church and community.  These things produce lasting fruit.  Several times I have heard someone say, "I saw your CD for sale at someone's garage sale."  What a great reminder about things that pass away!  I always limp away from comments like that. 

Yet, I've also learned not to undervalue my contribution.  One of my songs underscored the last months of a dear child's life, as she went from hospital bed to the arms of Jesus listening repeatedly to "Would You Do This For Me."  Singing that song at her funeral was most heartwrenching.  

A two-hour concert of my music raised thousands of dollars for people in Haiti, leaving me mystified that God would use someone like me to rally a churchful of people to open their purses and share.   Again, I limp. 

I have a phrase inscribed across the wall above my piano that says, "Where words fail, music speaks."  I am thankful that God has given me opportunities to tell of His love through music, because the words alone do not come easily.  I stumble in conversations about God because they seem to fall short of His greatness without the full accompanyment.  They sound trite, like platitudes. I have friends whose anointed words flow freely, but as for me, I speak of God in "hymns and songs." 

And always the limp. 

The Morning Altar

Clean the slate, God, so I can start the day fresh.  Keep me from stupid sins, from thinking I can take over your work...Accept these words when I place them on the morning altar.  from Psalm 19, The Message

I put something on the morning altar every day.  A thanksgiving.  A plea on behalf of another.  A confession.  I need that sense of starting clean, refreshed, accepted, empowered, and full of grace and gratitude, because it doesn't take long before I'm feeling a little  

                                                dirty...guilty...defeated...negative...angry. 

Usually by noon. 

It's not like I'm completely grimy, but I feel the pureness of the morning slip away as I face life in a fallen state. 

Today I place food on the morning altar: not a spotless lamb on a stone altar, but my hour by hour choices of what goes in my mouth on the altar of prayer.  You see, this is a constant battle for me.  I am a well-informed eater and pretty much know the Weight Watchers point value of any food; I can give you a list of filling foods full of fiber and good nutrition, and I can cook up a beautiful, colorful, well-balanced, Michelle O'Bama kind of meal. 

But since I was a little girl, junk food has called to me like a harlot in the street.  It tempts me with promises like, "Just one little bite.  It won't make a difference."  But of course, one turns into many and the whole episode turns into a spiritual battle, where I say to myself, "Are you trying to feed your stomach when it's your spirit that needs a boost?"  The simple act of eating becomes a willful sin of self-indulgence. 

Forgive my hidden faults.  Keep your servant also from willful sins; may they not rule over me.  Psalm 119: 12-13 NIV

I need boundary lines in pleasant places, where I co-exist in a world of tempatations, but don't over-indulge, where I find more pleasure in eating wisely than impulsively.

Everyone has private battles, but when we believe in a Mighty God who invites us to lay whatever haunts and stalks us on the morning altar, we have hope and power and victory to claim.  Oh, that I could claim it today.  And tomorrow.  And the days to come.

Life on a Rope Swing

My children spend nearly every recess break on our rope swing. 

It propels them to dizzying heights, as they launch off deckside, skim the tired blades of grass below, and soar skyward on the far side of the yard.  If they're in the proper position, they can land squarely back on the deck, or they can choose the long pendulum ride, on which the swing finally stills to the equilibrium point.

I've swooped on it myself many times.  It provides the tummy- tickling thrill I love, but by the third pass, it reminds me I am almost 40 and no longer have tolerance for pendular motion.  Somewhere on the continuum of life, I went from joyful swinging, to gentle pusher of the swinging babe, to wild underdog-giver, to happily watching from the deck chair.

In my women's Bible study last week, we passed the baton of prayer requests around the circle, and many ladies uttered the need for balance.  One wise soul told us that balance is like a pendulum...you just kind of brush by it on occasion, but never settle there for long.  Most of life is spent on the upswing or downswing, where you can feel it in your stomach. 

Gallileo figured out the pendulum, which in Latin, means "hanging."  I like the phrase "massive bob."  Yes, that phrase well describes many scenes in our lives.  Big things.

The smallish things, too, disrupt balance.  I think of the pendulum when I pass by the vacuum cleaner, which has been patiently sitting in our 2nd floor hallway for over a week.  Instead of using it, I bend to pick up plugs of dog hair, buttons and barrettes, paper scraps and mystery objects, and tell myself I should just finish vacuuming, but I don't have time because Megan needs my help in math, and there are piano students coming at 3, and the kitchen counter is crying for clearance, and what on earth did I just climb these steps to get?  Life can feel less like a pendulum and more like a brisk game of tetherball. 

I want everything done at once, running smoothly, spilling over with contentment, all needs met, with energy to spare.  Sometimes I want to be the miniature ballerina in the music box, poised lovely on tiny toes with pleasant music underscoring the day. 


Why did God place in us this longing for balance and then create the pendulum model of life? 

Perhaps balance is not worth chasing after. Could it be that the sense of well-being we long for is found in the rope we hang on to, no matter the trajectory, no matter the amplitude; the rope that is tethered  not to a limb, but to the heart of God?

What Breaks and What Breaks Through

At 6:30 yesterday morning, I was deep in lectio divina (sacred reading), communing with my God through Psalm 105, hunkered down in the phrase Be alert to signs of God's presence.  I imagined Him taking me by the hand and pointing out wonder upon wonder. 

At 7:00, I heard it begin to rain, though the room was filled with the bright, pinkish light of a promising sunrise.  I stepped outside to the unveiling of a rainbow...a complete arch, bursting with color...a hint of a second one appearing as one by one, each robed member of my family came to join me under the umbrella of our giant oak.   Absolute joy on our faces.  Gratitude spilling from our mouths.

Oh, what a morning had broken. 

At 4:00 I got news that a life was changed forever in my family.  My step-Grandpa Bob, dear man, hulking farmer with a barrel chest and twinkling eyes, did not see the semi truck when he pulled onto the highway.  The next thing he knew, he was in a hospital bed, broken all over. 

I spent the rest of the day trying to sort through promises and realities, platitudes and hard truths, assurances and doubts, as I listened to my sweet, little piano students make young music.  I woke up today still aching for Bob, his wife, his daughter (my step-mom), the extended family gathered around his bed in Peoria. 

I want so badly to take him by the fragile hand, ease him out under the oak, and point him to the rainbow.  But it is gray and colorless today. 

Brave

You set out to do the extraordinary,

you brave, homeschooling mother

Armed with the consummate classics:

Tom Sawyer, Little Britches, A Wrinkle in Time

and piles of God's Heroes:

Amy Carmichael, Nate Saint,

and some days you think you'd rather be

on the Amazon with the natives

than in the living room with

your own flesh and blood,

who've got you at the end of your rope,

or is the end of the spear?

The oldest fusses over analyzing sentences

while secretly peeking at football plays

Another disappears from her math lesson

and magically reappears out the window,

a pendulum on the rope swing

And why is the youngest in tears over

their, there, and they're?

All day long you point

to the piano the dishwasher the next problem

the key word the vowel team the pile of towels

the board game spread across the couch

the half done science experiment on the counter

the dog

begging for dinner

You wish you could control their eyes

while your own wander to the

hummingbird at the feeder

and you privately long for wings

The words nag:

Am I enough?

And then you remember...

the first school was in a garden

So you say to the children,

let's go pick the rest of the vegetables

There is going to be a hard freeze tonight

And, blessed, you call it a lesson in

biology, meteorology, home ec, and religion

Suddenly you notice

their roots have eased down a little deeper

and you feel just a little braver

today

Seventy Times Seven

I stood in church yesterday, singing and worshipping at one level, but wrestling at another, trying to be a good soldier and take captive the enemy thoughts.  I was battling feelings of betrayal and rejection. 

It was the most innocuous, indirect kind of rejection you can imagine; I would be too embarrassed to detail in a blog, and yet my mind kept wandering back to it and my body responded in clenched jaw and knotted gut. 

"Let it go," I told myself over and over.  "Forgive.  Forgive.  Forgive.  You are here to commune with the God of the universe who humbles Himself to dwell in you, and you are fixated on the ridiculous." Yet all morning those viral thoughts invaded. 

I think I understand what Jesus meant when he told Peter in Matthew 18, "No, you don't forgive your brother seven times.  You forgive him seventy times seven."  In other words, as many times as it takes to let it go.  Every time the angst rises up, you stamp it "forgiven."  It's not that a brother or sister is going to break your heart 490 times.  It's that your mind is going revisit the hurts over and over and you are going to close your eyes, take a deep breath, and call it forgiven.  Every.  Time. 

Until the healing comes.  And what does the healing look like?  It looks like you walking in his or her shoes, changing your point of view and finally, understanding. 

It is you moving beyond this offense and praying that all those people that you have offended would be kind enough to stamp "forgiven" across every thought of you.