My Three Words for 2013

Each year about this time, I do some business with God, listening to His insistent voice urging me to steady the wheel.  It's not a matter of fishtails or u-turns, but more a matter of distracted driving, the kind where you hear the rumble strips, correct your course, and become momentarily more alert, only to meander a few miles down the road.  Choosing three guiding words for the years helps set the course and align the wheels with God's will.

Last year's words were thrift, nurture, and decrease.  One of my goals was to shop almost exclusively at thrift and consignment stores for clothes.  Achieved!  With the exception of a couple of outfits and souvenir T-shirts, I happily managed this goal.  All three kids now love Savers and Goodwill, and Megan's newly-decorated room was almost completely thrifted.  Canopy bed from Craigslist, antique vanity from the clearance room at Kismet Consignment, $5 vintage rocker from Savers, side tables from other rooms in our home.  Fun!

I wanted to nurture more relationships in my life outside of my dear family.  Near-weekly breakfasts with girlfriends, dinners with my mom, and starting a church community group in our home were God's provision for this desire of my heart.  I have a quote over my mudroom door that says, "God provides, but He doesn't throw the worm in the nest."  I had to be intentional about this, setting up dates, seizing opportunities, and making connections, but the fruit is delicious and I will continue this good habit.

How did I decrease?  Well, I put on several pounds, so I didn't decrease the food consumption!  I went way overboard on school curriculum.  Fail.  My closets and cupboards are bulging at the seams, so I didn't do an epic job of decluttering.  I guess I will revisit this for 2013.

Here are my three words for the new year:

Reduce...synonym for "decrease."  Let's try this again!

Order...I am most productive when I have systems of order in place.  But I'm always changing up my systems, looking for improvements, and then abandoning them altogether.  For 2013, I'm going to decide on one plan for my quiet time, one plan for home/meal organization, one plan for school organization, and one plan for my exercise.  I'm going to see what it feels like to stick with ONE THING.  This will be HARD for me!

Spacious...Psalm 18:19  He brought me out into a spacious place; he rescued me because he delighted in me.  I love this verse.  It reminds me that God rescued me out of my self-centered little world so that I could serve Him in a spacious place, in this wide world.  Homeschooling in Rochester, Minnesota, is like living in a safe little bubble.  But I am called to the ends of the earth for Christ.  I want my worldview to be broad and spacious.  I want to serve in concentric circles:  God, family, friends, neighbors, community, country, world, whether it is with my hands or my money or my music.  The needs are deep and expansive, but if I am deliberate, I can meet them one at a time.  

Anyone interested in choosing your own three words?

Messy Worship

I came across a word today that caught my attention:  messy worship.  I could have followed the internet bunny trail to see what the blogger was referring to, but I thought I'd stop and just consider it myself.  

My pastor reiterates often that we are created to worship and we all worship something:  God or idols.  In 1 Samuel, the people are told (loose translation,) "If you want to return to God, throw your idols in the river."  They threw them in the river, alright.  Then they ran to the place where the tide washed them back up on the shore, and they took them back.  

Now, that's messy worship...and oh, so familiar.

Then I think of my son, who is enamored with a genre of Christian music that is, well, messy in its sound and approach.  He passionately wants me to understand the power of it and insists that it draws him to God in a way that "traditional" worship music does not.  Is there a line in the sand of what is God-honoring worship?  Is it better to listen to Taylor Swift croon about her break-up than it is to hear For Today's gutteral battle cry for the Lord?  Noah had me watch a video of For Today's drummer.  He quit the band to become a missionary in South America.

Worship can be messy.  

I stood on the stage of our church last night, rehearsing a solo with a glorious orchestral and choir accompanyment.  I sang these words:  "Make my heart your Bethlehem...be born in me."  I long for God to reign in my heart, and yet my heart is deceitful above all things (Jer. 17:9.)  

It's messy.  Forgive me, God.

But I will sing through the mess.  I will cast my idols down as many times as I need to.  I will find beauty in the messy, screaming battle cry.  I will accept that the mess comes with choosing the MESSiah.  I will worship.  

Breaking Bread with Statistics

I almost didn't get where I was trying to go last night.  I had a big crock full of dinner for 16 people, but when I drove up to the building, it was dark.  I guess I didn't get the memo that the location had changed.

For several years, our family has volunteered with Interfaith Hospitality Network, whose mission is to serve homeless families in crisis by providing shelter, meals, and many other gracious services.  I partner with someone every 6 weeks or so to make a meal, serve it, and eat with the families.  

I panicked last night when I realized I didn't have anyone's phone number.  My meal partner was a stranger. I couldn't get a hold of the coordinator or the office.  My husband sat at his work desk, trying to find old messages in my gmail account that would give a clue to which of the 20 or so host churches they could be meeting.  

"Gracie, let's pray," I said, and she dutifully started pleading, "God, help us get where we need to go so we can feed these families."  

And then one call led to another to another, and we were blasting off to the right church.  Grace and I looked at each other, eyes shining.  "God did that," I whispered, and she bent her sweet little head and thanked Him.    

Twenty minutes late, we walked into a room rampant with toddler screams and children racing in circles, with parents on their last nerve.  I dished out the food as quickly as possible and suddenly, calm was restored.  Grace and I looked around for where to sit.  The tables were pretty full, so we could have sat at an empty one, but I've learned it's better to just squeeze in with the families and do what you can to be an encouragement.  

So we adjusted some chairs and joined a hodgepodge of kids and adults.  Two of the little girls were around Grace's age, and it took the three of them all of 5 minutes to decide they were friends and to plan what they would do when the meal was over.  First doll house, then hide and seek, then board games.  Grace and I couldn't get enough of 3-yr-old Micah, who was the spittin' image of Rudy Huckstable from the Cosby Show.  

I spent the remainder of the evening talking with the big barrel of a man across the table about his street-tough beginnings, the price he continues to pay for his past, his sold-out love for Jesus, and his deep longing to get his life turned around and provide for his wife and little girls.  In a place that often has a spirit of heaviness, where people are very reluctant to open up to a stranger, he was such a bright and hopeful spirit.  It's the difference vibrant faith makes.  

What I love about serving struggling and marginalized people is that you lose labels and categories and you realize that they are just people like you.  Their eyes hold pain mingled with hope.  After a season of political drama and people on their polarized high horses, it was good to be breaking bread with the "statistics."  I don't want to misrepresent myself though.  I spend the majority of time in my comfy house with my homogenous group of friends, or carting my kids to their activities.  I could do SO much more, and there are amazing people who pour out their lives for others in ways that leave me speechless.

Church, let's get our hands dirty.  

Stop complaining about the government, and just be Christ to someone.  Stop with the ideological discussions on how best to rescue the masses, or worse, let them flounder on their own, and invest some time and money in a few lives here and abroad.  That's my prayer for us, for me.

Holy Determination

I read the first chapter of Ruth this morning.  I've read her story many times, but it struck me differently today; perhaps because I am looking for people who do radical things.

Ruth was radical.  She was determined to cling to Naomi at her own personal sacrifice, at her own peril, and probably against her better judgement.  She saw in Naomi a worthy cause, and she didn't care what other people would think.  Her determination silenced Naomi's protests.

The story is scary to me.  It makes me ask some hard questions about safety, security, sanity, and sacrifice.  It makes me evaluate what I cling to...my cozy home, my family, my comfortable faith.  Honestly, who or what is my Naomi?  The right answer is Christ, but do my choices reflect that?

Ten of us gathered recently to explore this idea.  There was a spirit of holy determination to better live out this faith we profess, to give it teeth and nails.  But mingling with determination was fear and doubt about how successful we will really be in leaving our holy huddle and entering the wilderness.

Just as Naomi tried to dissuade Ruth from leaving her safe home, Jesus tried to talk his disciples out of following him by pointing out all they would be sacrificing: comforts, relationships, respect.  Will we take his warnings and say, "Um, alrighty then, I think I'll stay put here on my soft couch and thank you kindly for my salvation."  Or will we take the challenge?  

I have no plan.  I am, instead, trying to be fertile ground, asking God to plant seeds that will take root, change the landscape, prevent erosion, and bear fruit.  I'm praying the fruit will be unrecognizable to me; completely new and wonderful, sticky and dripping with the glory of God.  

Holy Discontent

My sweet friend sat in the chair, verbalizing an emotion that is difficult to articulate.  She didn't want to sound ungrateful , but she was dissastisfied.  What should she be doing with her time?  What will count?  What will matter to the Kingdom of God?  She was pent up with frustration and ambivalence, unsure of her next step.  

A few comments were tossed to her from the group of ladies...enjoy this peaceful time...pray for contentment.  They came with good intentions, trying to ease her internal struggle.

But I recognized her angst.  I have felt it, too, in recent months: seeing so much need and recognizing my own well of resources, but feeling paralyzed, not wanting to jump into just anything.  I gave her a word for her emotion:  holy discontent.  Those of us who have become dissatisfied with our quest of the American Dream, with our lovely homes, our cozy little family times, our beautiful churches complete with fine coffee, giant screens, and mega sound boards, our Christian conferences and Bible studies where we fill up but don't do much to pour out because we're too busy investing in our American Dream and our pretty churches.  

Ministries that were once monumental efforts to me, like parenting, homeschooling, and music ministry, are now comfortable as God has blessed me with skill and resources.  When I was on the learning curve, trusting God in my weakness, I felt smack in the center of His will.  I'm certainly not an expert at any of these things, but as I've developed a certain amount of proficiency and can say, "I know how to do this pretty well," I think it's time to venture into deeper waters, beyond safe pastures.  

Enter "holy discontent."  

So my prayer is this:

God, I see needs that far exceed my ability to meet.  Don't let me rest until I've done something.  Send me into deep waters.  Send others with me.  

May God break my heart so completely that the whole world falls in.  -Mother Teresa

Unplowed Ground

There is was.  In black and white with the little bitty numbers on the onion skin paper.  God knocking me over the head.  Again.  

"Break up your unplowed ground."  

I mean Jeremiah had a ton to say this morning about evil and sin and mocking God.  He would never have been voted president by shaking his finger at the camera and saying, "America, you have grown fat and sleek, and your evil deeds have no limits."  Jer 5:27-28, minus "America."  

Eyeroll.  Change the channel.  Ah, there, a rerun of Friends.

But when you open the Bible with the attitude that God IS going to tell you something you NEED to hear, and that the message with supercede time and culture, then you can see truth bleeding all over the page and into the present age.  Into your life.  

"Break up your unplowed ground."  

OK, where am I hard, dense, packed down, trampled on, thorny, bristly, apathetic?  

The sharp blade severs the soil, cutting all those weedy roots woven like a tiny prison, turning up fresh loam, loosening what was tight like a gag.  But only because I consent.  Because I'm tired of claiming only the comfy parts of the Bible like blessing and unconditional love and grace, thinking I can write my songs, and homeschool my children, and make my home a haven, and serve when it is convenient.  

David Platt in Radical and Jen Hatmaker in Seven and Katie Davis in Kisses from Katie point out my unplowed ground.  What am I doing?  What am I planting?  Why is this faith of mine so easy?  What is the point of all this accumulated stuff?   Where shall I go?  How messy shall I get?  How much shall I spend?  

How bright might I shine?  

How much might grow?

Lessons from the Superior Trail

Last Thursday, Dave and I embarked on an adventure to the North Shore, beginning with a lovely night at the Inn at Palisades, complete with a breakfast of blueberry scones, smoked salmon, and a gorgeous view of Lake Superior.  This was the sunrise that greeted us Friday morning...

Before we left for the trail head, I combed the river rock beach for smooth stones to bring home for the kids.   I tried to memorize the color of the lake, like turquoise jewelry, with glints of sapphire and sparks of diamond, framed by fire-red sugar maples and weathered rock outcroppings.  This was a sign of good things to come.

I soon traded thick down-comforters, bay window seats, and scones, for the few things I could fit in my backpack.  First, a mummy bag for sleeping in 30 degree temperatures.  We just studied the life of Queen Hatshepsut of ancient Egypt, the female pharaoh who wore a beard and called herself "him."  I wonder if she ever laid in her sarcophagus before she died.  That's what a mummy bag feels like. But it's warm, thank goodness.

I packed my sleeping mat, a few layers of clothes, wool socks, a towel, a water bladder, a book by Anne Lamott, which I didn't read but used for pressing colorful little leaves, a deck of cards, biodegradable toilet paper, and a water filter.  I still can't believe I drank liters of water that trickled brown and skanky in narrow creek beds.  My one luxury was Megan's furry Minnetonka moccasins for walking around the campsites.  Oh, and a pack of Big Red.  And Trader Joe's dark chocolate.    I carried the tent poles, but Dave carried the rest, including all the food and cooking supplies.

Lesson #1:  You don't need much.

We were only backpacking for 2 nights and 3 days, mind you.  But we met a young woman who hiked the entire 2,200 miles of the Appalachian Trail with the same stuff we brought. Jesus tries to teach us to love things less and lean on each other more.  Think how lightly he traveled.  Why are we so convinced this is a bad 
idea?

Lesson #2:  What you do need is:  water, food, shelter.

Christ promised to provide these things.  Better yet, he promised to be the spiritual versions of these things.  But like silly putty, we stretch our basic needs into misshapen and bloated wants, and suddenly they weigh us down, make us fat, become like chains around our wrists.  What if I counted every individual item in my house?  Every book, every plate, every art supply and piece of clothing.  I think I would get discouraged and quit after one closet.  Walking for 3 days with my bare essentials on my back proved something I choose to ignore.  I am a glutton.

Lesson #3:  Never say, "It's downhill from here."

I lost track of how many times I thought we had climbed the last hill of the day, only to round a bend and face another rugged ascent and equally precarious descent. Imagine climbing up and down and around the bluffs of Winona.  Yeah, it's like that.

Occasionally there were actual wood or stone steps, but more often the surface of the trail was composed of tumbled rock, tree roots, or slippery gravel and leaves.  Best not to get cocky and comfortable about your next step in life.  Stay alert.  But don't forget to stop for the view.  The higher the climb, the better the view.

Lesson #4:  Love the ones you're with.

Some people backpack alone, like our new friend, Ellie, who was on her 14th day of hiking the entire 200+ miles of the trail, but Dave and I leaned hard on each other for every task, from cooking to setting up camp, to closing hard-to-reach zippers, to guarding open-air latrines.  He was full of gratitude that I consented to join him on this adventure, and I was full of appreciation for all his planning and confidence.  At home we often settle into our roles and forget how much we need each other.  The wilderness erased that.  For a few days, at least.

Lesson #5:  Close your eyes and memorize.

This is a relatively new practice I've adopted.  It started on the 4th of July a couple of years ago.  I came home that night and wrote a song about memorizing the details of that breezy, balmy, firefly-rich, laughterful night with friends.  Now I purposefully stop and close my eyes in certain moments, memorizing sounds, smells, textures, emotions; breathing deeply and chanting in my head, "Memorize this.  Memorize this."  It makes a difference.  

I suppose I should stop here, though I'm sure I could dig deeper and wax on.  A final thought...Whenever we are in the car together, my Boy Becoming Man and I listen to the audio recording of Do Hard Things by Josh Harris.  This wilderness trek was a hard thing.  But, frankly, the harder thing is to apply the lessons I've learned on the trail to my comfortable, habitual, excessive, everyday life.  Oh, to be who God created me to be by loving the things of this world less and the people of this world more.

Because I Love Him...

Because I love my husband, I let him talk me into this.  Months of preparation and hundreds of dollars later, we are completely outfitted for a 3-day, 19-mile backpacking trip along the Superior Trail.  We leave tomorrow.  He was kind enough to book a B&B for the first night, but the next two nights will be in our pup tent in 30-40 degree weather.

Because I love my husband, I'm trying not to think about the fact that we will have no chairs to sit on, no toilets, no heat.  He assures me we can probably find a log to sit on, and he reminds me that I've squatted plenty of times in the deep woods over the years...it's...freeing.  Oh, and he'll keep me warm.  Promise.

He is so excited about all the great food we will eat, which we've been dehydrating all summer.  Lasagna, chicken tetrazzini, hungry man breakfast, asian chicken and rice, and even hummus for lunch.  Other than the fact that you have to add the word "stew" to the dish when you rehydrate it, I have to admit the meals are pretty tasty.  He even made little de-natured alcohol stoves for us out of beer cans.  We'll have coffee and hot chocolate, he assures.  He planned everything to his typical enginerd's nth degree.

Lest you think ours is a nearly 20-year marriage of romance and adventure, let me correct you.  There are dry seasons where we treat each other like roommates.  For years, he traveled incessantly with work and I wanted to wring his innocent neck for leaving me alone with 3 little ones.  We forget our anniversary sometimes...like, the last two years, when my mom had to remind us.  Next year is the 20th.  We promised each other we wouldn't forget!

I have a big, long list of "perfect, Proverbs 31-type wifely behaviors."  Kiss him when he walks in the door.  Never tell him "not tonight."  Never complain about him to others.  Smell good.  Cook good.  Be kind.  Give him back scratches.  Be frugal.  But this list is like many other lists I've made over the years...great ideas, poor execution.  My heart is willing, my mind is persuaded, but my will is stubborn and selfish.

I'm hoping my trek into the wilderness will somewhat compensate for the swiss cheese holes in my character.  It's gotta count for something!

This Is Not the Song I Meant to Write

This Is Not the Song I Meant to Write

“These are not the lines that came to me…”-Billy Collins

This is not the song I meant to write

The one with clever insight

And the heavenly melody

The chorus crammed with majesty

It’s the late night tune of a tired mom

An ordinary psalm

From the kitchen chapel, drinking Snapple

Washing dishes, praying wishes

This is not the song I meant to sing

It should have been inspiring

But it’s out of key, no symphony

And the rhythm isn’t steady

I should probably crumple up these lines

They’ll never make a dime

Go fold the clean clothes, thaw out the pot roast

Scrub the floor and pray some more

This is like the middle of a book

That isn’t very good

It doesn’t make you laugh, it doesn’t make you cry

You  keep reading on but you don’t know why

This is not the song I meant to write

I’ve wasted all this time

I’m going to the back yard, out in the deep dark

to write a good song, I hope I won’t be too long

Peace, Balance, and Other Pipedreams

On behalf of myself and others, I have prayed for peace more times than I can count.  Peace in the midst of trials; peace about a decision made; peace for the haggard mind.   I wonder why peace is the hand that holds me one moment, and the kite string that slips through my fingers the next.

If I decide to be at peace with a situation, wham! a torrent of discontent washes through me. Peace is not a perpetual rain, it is an oasis in the desert, where you splash your face and drink before it evaporates in the heat.  

Christ said, "Peace I leave with you.  My peace I give to you, not at the world gives, but as a friend." 
 -John 14:27

What does He mean?

I think He means that we are travelers passing through this awkward world, and what we need more than anything is a friend.  The world says peace is a lack of interior conflict.  Christ implies that peace is a Friend who reminds you that heaven alone is the absence of conflict.  

This all wraps around to an odd truth, which dawned on me while driving home yesterday listening to Andrew Peterson's new CD.  Peace comes from accepting there is no peace...here, yet.

Balance is as elusive as peace.  That earth tilts on its axis is no coincidence; it is one of a million natural word pictures operating as a metaphor for life on earth.  

We, as eternal beings, were never meant to find balance and peace in the confines of time.  We long for more time, so that everything that we value can receive our attention, but the hourglass, the pendulum clock, the sun dialing across the sky...they are all unforgiving.  

So I splash my face and call it one day closer to peace.

I Will Not Be Moved

I will not be moved.

That phrase keeps rising, like bubbles breaking on the surface, from songs and scripture and readings I've done recently.  

It's what I've needed to embrace after a season of wrestling with God and myself about a multitude of things.  

Psalm 125:1-2 Those who trust in the LORD are like Mount Zion, which cannot be moved, but abides forever.  As the mountains surround Jerusalem, so the LORD surrounds his people, from this time on and forevermore.


I think back to my trips this summer, where 90% of my time involved setting my feet on rocks and being surrounded by mountains.  And yet spiritually, I felt I was floundering in the water, like my daughter who panicked in the deep Canadian lake waters and had to be rescued.  By me.  

Does God feel the same kind of pleasure/relief that I felt setting my shaking daughter's feet on the rock?  When he hears me say "I will not be moved," does He sing for joy, and rouse the angels for a chorus of glee?  
⁷ 
For the Lord your God is living among you.  He is a mighty savior.  He will take delight in you with gladness.  With his love he will calm all your fears.  He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.
-Zephaniah 3:17



I was part of a healing prayer on Sunday.  My friend, Kelly, just learned that her breast cancer is back.  Stage 4. I was privileged to touch her knee and plead with God on her behalf.  On her children's behalf.  

I don't know if God will choose to miraculously heal her.  I promised Him that I would tell the story and sing the song, no matter what.  But I can tell you that something healed in me during those 2 hours.  The Rock beneath my feet rose up, a tectonic force pushing upward the great, heavy crust of my faith to form a mountain.  I rose up.  God came low.  The space between us was imperceptible.  I poured every passion and plea I had into Kelly, because, if nothing else, I wanted her feet to be firmly planted on the Rock of her Salvation, too.  


This song has spoken deeply to me.  Take a moment to listen.  

A Way to Build Up a Woman

My friends and family heard me call it a mid-life crisis.  I described it as being a tangled thread with no notion of how to tend the knot.  I wrote a morose song about it that no one needs to hear. 

It was a summer of juxtaposition for me.  I had two wonderful vacations in the most rugged of God's landscapes...to a remote island on a glorious lake in Canada, and to the open-air cathedral of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. 

So much rock and water and beauty this summer.  God was near in my encounters with nature. 

He sent me symbols of reassurance:  a dragonfly molting to its final, winged phase of life...an ancient symbol of maturity and depth of character; and a geode...nothing outwardly beautiful, but a treasure of gleaming surprises within. 

I had clarity on my vacations, but each time I returned home, I felt that familiar knot of discontent and ambivalence.  I read books about others feeling similar angst. Guess what...they were 40-something. 

Do you know what was more meaningful than dragonflies and geodes and a sweet, patient husband?  This (abridged) email: 

Late one night last week, thoughts were coming to me about ideas I should send to you in an email...

Here's my prayer for you from Isaiah 41:9-10,

"'You are my servant'; I have chosen you and have not rejected you.
So do not fear, for I am with you;
do not be dismayed, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you;
I will uphold you with my righteous right hand."

Praying for you,
Gwen

I wrote the scripture on a notecard, and each time I read it, I feel God speaking into my internal snarl.  You see, a consequence of this struggle is that I've barely cracked open my Bible this summer.  I was even in a Bible study in June and managed to avoid reading the Word.  There is a wall built up, so I have been looking for human wisdom in biographies and novels.  They are thought-provoking, but ultimately lacking.

God managed to circumvent my belligerent attitude by quickening the spirit of a faithful woman, who obeyed the prompting to relay His message.  The wall is crumbling, because I know He is strengthening me and helping me, and calling me back.  He's told me so.

Let's take the time to do this for each other.  It's how we build each other up and break down strongholds.  Be God's voice into a woman's life.

H.A.B.I.T.S. for the New School Year

I was out wogging this beautiful morning.  I used to be a runner.  Four miles a day.  That was the month before my 20th class reunion.  I've taken extended, intermittent breaks from the concrete and treadmill.  I'm trying to get back into the routine.  When I'm outdoors, I'm a wogger.  Walk the hills, jog the rest.  Oh, somewhere in there I gained back the 15 pounds I had dropped when I was a runner.  Funny how that works.  I need another reunion on the horizon!

Wogging outdoors can be a highly creative time for me.  I've composed songs and come up with all kinds of homeschooling ideas while burning calories.  Today, I was talking to God about the upcoming school year, which begins on Monday at Riverwood Academy, when I looked at a neighbor's mailbox and saw the number 1111.  I hadn't noticed it before.  I love that number.  I don't know why, but I often see it on clocks or on the treadmill and it makes me smile and think of God.  Like He's winking at me. 

My idea came just after 1111.  I was thinking about some of the unproductive habits we've formed in the lazier hours of the summer and how we need to focus on developing or rediscovering good habits.  So here's my idea:

• During our family meeting on Sunday, we'll brainstorm words that begin with the letters in HABITS.  Health, Attitude, Benevolence, Inspiration, Training, Service, perhaps.  I want the whole family to pitch out ideas. 

• Once we settle on a word to represent each letter, we will take some time the next week to find Bible verses that correspond, and they will become our memory verses for the first part of the school year.  I am planning to use this wonderful notecard review system this year. 

• We'll talk about how to apply each concept as issues arise. 

• I will buy big wooden or cardboard letters spelling "Habits" at Hobby Lobby and spray paint them silver.  We'll write the chosen word on each letter along with the verse reference.  Then I will hang them in our living room.  Giant letters are so trendy right now, anyway.  This will serve as a daily reminder of what we are striving for.  When we stop noticing them, I'll spray paint them blaze orange.  Ha!  I found this example on Pinterest:

I'll post the final project when we're done.  In the meantime, I'm going to enjoy the last 4 days of my loosy-goosy, messy, lazy, sugary summer. 

Godspeed to my fellow homeschoolers.

Island on a Northern Lake

I try to tell people that healing came on our trip to a remote island in Canada, but I don't expect them to understand.  Who really comprehends another's interior life? 

One morning, on a quiet bench at the scenic point of the island, I tried to capture it.

Island on a Northern Lake
July, 2012

The granite stone
mossed green and messed
with fragrant pine
invites the step of the pilgrimer
who comes in search of nature's time
slower, more divine

Sky is everywhere
above with billowed cloud
and caught in mirrored lake
and for the sake of
tired souls
extends its healing grace
its wild, full embrace

The poet finds her words again
among the timber tall
and crying gull
then lays her pen aside
to join the children's chilly dive
breathlessly alive

The silent slip of sleek kayak
dripping oar on glassy lake
leaves behind the clenching world
rippling out
in gentle wake

And, then, the moon full bright
rising over stand of pines and stony cliff
Signalling shift toward gathering night
and northern dreams
and inner light

Graffiti Grace

Their story captivated me.  How creative you have to be when you live in a country where 3% of the population is Christian and God has called you to be a missionary there. 

"How do we do this, God?"

"Graffiti," God answers.

And so began their campaign to erase the prolific graffiti from the public surfaces in their town in Spain.  It was a brilliant plan.  What city and neighborhood leaders wouldn't back a plan to beautify their environment? 

My favorite part of the story:  a tunnel, a mural, an artist.  First they paint black over the graffitied walls of the tunnel.  Then the artist on their team begins to paint his beautiful vision.  Who should wander up but three young, delinquent, graffiti artists and taggers, curious about this project.  (Why does the number 3 always make the story better?)

In a stroke of inspiration, the artist puts the boys to work helping with the mural.  It catches the attention of the newspaper.  In the end, there is a community celebration and private prayers that the tiny seeds planted along the way would lodge and grow in hearts and eventually grow into a church. 

I love a good story, but when it rainbows a bigger truth, I am truly moved.  God takes the grimy, graffiti-stained walls of my life and paints them fresh and blank.  He gives vision and community to slowly, faithfully paint the mural, which tells the story, which is meant to be shared and celebrated.

My life mural is not finished until my last breath, but there are milestones to be celebrated as portions of the picture are completed.  When He brings unlikely people and circumstances to contribute to the painting, doubt and resistance flare up, and I must remember He is there in the tunnel holding the completed sketch and nodding approval, as He reassuringly whispers, "It's OK.  You think they are going to wreck your painting, but actually, they are painting the most beautiful parts, and they are making you a better artist."

Because I loved their story so much, Rob and Nancy, the missionaries from Spain, left an envelope for me on my music stand with the words "Thank You" written in crayon.  Inside was this pastel drawing by the artist in their story. 

My eyes blurred with tears when I saw it.  COME, He says.  Be fully in this story and trust Me all the way.

Drips, Stains, and Restraint

This is the story I read the morning I stepped out on my deck and screamed.

I am a child and it is nearly Christmas.  I stand on a kitchen chair pummeling cookie dough with a rolling pin.  I wallop the bag of flour right off the counter and it explodes in a cloud of white dust.  I do not move, waiting for my mother's reaction.  "What's your favorite cookie shape?" she asks.  I find my voice.  "A star."  Smiling, she hands me the tin cutter.  "Make lots of stars while I clean up," she says. -Sue Monk Kidd, Firstlight

This story seared my conscience.  How I've shamed and belittled my children for much less than a flour bomb. 

Later that morning, I stepped into the lovely dappled light on our deck and looked down.  Then looked again.  Then let my eyes trail down the steps and across the lower level.  Then hurried down to look across the length of the deck.  The deck that we built last year.  The NEW deck.  Then I screamed through clenched teeth. 

From one corner to the other, up the stairs, and across the top level, were splatters of dark red stain, like the drips across the driveway from a sprinkler-soaked child.  For a moment I thought someone with a severed limb had run to the kitchen, but no, it was not blood that stained our blond wood.  It was, indeed, stain.  The color of the newly stained playset. 

I saw the can of stain and the paint pan neatly placed on the rocks where they should have been.  And then it dawned on me.  The sponge brush was tucked in its Ziploc bag in the refrigerator, waiting to be used for final touches on the playset.  Someone who shall remain nameless did not realize how drippy a stain-drenched paintbrush is when carried from playset to kitchen.  Gulp.

I had a choice to make.  Somewhere in my brain was an arsenal of shame-based words that no parenting book ever had to teach me.  But those go-to words had been covered over during my early morning quiet time by a story of a wise and tender mother who chose the path of love and grace. 

I went inside and drank some more coffee and washed up the morning dishes.  Then I took my beautiful gift of a child onto the deck and said, "We're going to figure out how to clean this up the best we can.  You can help." 

"I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't know.  I'll help."

Imago Dei....What I Saw at Bluewater

I looked up from my shady spot under the tall red pine to watch a young boy and an older woman dipped back into the cool lake waters.  They had come before this group to declare their devotion to Christ through the ceremony of baptism.  In God's immense creativity, He designed a beautiful symbol that will forever be a step in the Christian faith: descending into the waters of death, then bursting forth new and sputtering and dripping with life. 

I remember Dave standing next to me, smiling a nervous, encouraging grin as we took the same drenching journey almost 20 years ago.  Our dabbling, half-hearted interest in Christianity had taken a dramatic turn into full-blown faith, and baptism was our way of saying, "No turning back.  No turning back."  Since then, God has slowly, steadily taken over my eyes, as I've honestly sung and believed the words "Be Thou My Vision." 

What I was really paying attention to as I stood under the pine last Saturday was not the baptism, but something that caused a sting of tears in my eyes. Four children from four different families were all within feet of each other.

Joswe sat on the ledge.  He is the son of missionaries from Spain.  He has a chromosomal anomaly which you don't notice until he tries to communicate with you and is difficult to understand.  He makes you listen more intently than you listen to others, because you find that you can understand him if you make the effort.  He is enraptured by rhythm.  I had asked him to play the djembe drum during one of our worship songs and he was perfectly amazing. 

Near him sat Ariana.  She has a physical malformation that renders her small arms permanently bent and out of proportion with her body.  But God gave her a tender sweetness, a self-determination, and a servant's heart.  Earlier, I had watched her wash the tables in the dining hall.  To move the wet cloth, she had to have her cheek nearly on the table, and I wonder how far we are willing to bend to serve others. 

Young Levi is the pastor's son.  He also has a chromosomal issue and is difficult to understand.  But I loved his fresh, unfiltered comments.  "You're strong," he told me, looking at my bare arms.  "I lift weights," I told him.  He nodded, approvingly.  That sealed our friendship for the weekend.  He wants to have 9 children when he grows up.  Six boys and three girls. 

Next to Levi was Mariah, moving in her dance-like way.  Her seizures got so serious that Mayo doctors severed her corpus-callosum, which connects the two sides of her brain.  It corrected her seizures, but it makes her a handful for her two amazing parents.  Kind of like a permanent 2 year old in a 9 year old body.  My goal was to persuade a smile out of her over the weekend.  I didn't quite accomplish that, but I did take a damp towel and ran it gently over her warm, sweaty face, and she looked at me squarely with her large gray eyes with something like a thank you.

I'm not sure that anyone else noticed these four special kids so near each other in the crowd.  But I believe I was meant to notice, because in my vision, they were glowing and the phrase imago dei was flooding my mind.  Image of God.

These child-souls were drenched in the image of God.  Washed in the glow.  Baptized in sacred love.

Since I Turned 40

Since I turned 40 in April, I have sensed a tightening, like the dragonfly on the dock in Canada, confined by a dark, hard exoskeleton, while pushing her bright green head out the tiny opening. 

I watched her molt all morning, emerging, growing, brightening, spreading, until she was many times larger than the shell she would leave behind.  Then she was gone.  Maybe she was the one who landed on the slat bench next to me on the last day of vacation, reveling in her next chapter.  I was envious.

There is a knot that needs untangling.  I haven't been talking about it.  Or praying.  Or writing.  Or thinking, really, but it's not going to untangle itself.  It will have to be written smooth, because most of the problem solving in my life happens internally, spilling into written words.  Such is the way of the introvert writer.

When a woman has everything to be thankful for, like a faithful God, a rock solid husband,  healthy, cheerful kids, good friends, and a lovely home, she takes that nebulous angst and palms it like a ball of clay, making it as small as possible.  Then she swallows it and lives with the pit in her stomach.  Sue Monk Kidd calls it "an obscure longing for something I cannot name." 

The Bible says that "while we are in this tent, we groan and are burdened."  2 Cor 5:4  There is a groaning in me that cannot be ignored, a nameless burden.  Is it a longing for heaven?  Is it an invitation to a new chapter or bigger wings?  I don't have an inkling of the root or the purpose, but I suspect it's a univeral experience, and that, like Lady Dragonfly, I am simply molting.

Marriage, Tolerance, and Popping Bubbles

In light of recent events in the news, I have felt compelled to figure out where I personally stand as a Christian on the issue of gay marriage.  Why does a stay-home mom living in her little homeschool bubble care what the courts decide?  Primarily, because young people care, and they are the future of the church. 

I had a conversation with a high school student recently on the topic.  She is torn up by the way the church is viewed as hateful and intolerant of homosexuals.  She has friends who are gay and yet she wants to live authentically for Christ.  I heard the cry of her heart, but I didn't have a thorough, thoughtful response prepared.  Time to pop my comfy bubble and figure this out.

So I've been reading and reflecting.  I came across this article that gives a balanced, relevant, compassionate, and biblical framework for the cultural dilemma.  I've copied the conclusion of Mr. Sider's lengthy article here, but if you are intrigued, you can read the whole of it here.  The paragraph I highlighted touched me deeply.

"The evidence, as we have seen, is clear: The legal redefinition of marriage would have far-reaching negative consequences. Abandoning what every civilization for millennia has understood marriage to be would harm children and undermine religious freedom. What can we evangelicals, who have lost almost all our credibility to speak on this topic, do to promote the historic understanding of marriage?

First, we must truly repent of the deep, widespread antigay prejudice in evangelical circles. We must ask forgiveness for our failures of love and concern and stop elevating the sin of homosexual practice above other sins.

In the life of the local church, we must distinguish homosexual orientation and practice. Someone who is publicly known to have a gay orientation but lives a celibate life should be just as eligible for church leadership as a heterosexual person who has been promiscuous but now lives in a faithful heterosexual marriage or remains celibate. We should develop church settings where celibate persons with a gay orientation can experience strong, supportive Christian community.

Second, we must set our own house in order by dramatically reducing in our families the devastation and havoc caused by heterosexual disobedience. Our argument that the tiny gay community undermines marriage is hypocritical unless we admit that by far the greatest threat to marriage and family is the sinful failure of husbands and wives to keep their marriage vows. If we cannot resist adultery and divorce and model wholesome, joyful family life, we should admit that we have nothing credible to say in the public discussion of marriage.

Almost everyone longs for something better. Jesus’ followers know the answer to that longing. Evangelical husbands and wives who keep their marriage vows for a lifetime and raise their biological (and adopted) children in joyful, wholesome families would be one of our most powerful evangelistic tools. They would also give us credibility when we promote the historic understanding of marriage.

To do this we will need to teach biblical truths on sexuality, marriage, and divorce at every level, from preteens through retirees. We will need extensive Christian marriage counseling and programs such as Marriage Savers. We will need to resist the culture’s narcissistic individualism, already too visible in our churches, and develop congregations that are communities of mutual accountability and even church discipline—in the wonderful words of John Wesley, “Watching over one another in love.”

Third, we should seek to change the divorce laws, especially no-fault divorce. When children are involved, the law should deny no-fault divorce and in other ways make divorce more difficult. This, not gay marriage, is the area of marriage law that affects the vast majority of our children. We should be spending the overwhelming majority of the time we devote to marriage law to changing the law that permits cheap divorce for heterosexuals.

Finally, we must treat gay people fairly. Gay couples want to have, and deserve to have, such basic rights as that of the family member or spouse to visit a loved one in the hospital. One significant way to give them these rights would be to support the legal recognition of civil unions. (These unions also should be available to such others as a single person looking after an aging parent or a bachelor brother and spinster sister running a business together.)

Other legal procedures might meet gay people’s concerns. But I see no problem with a carefully written law that defines a number of rights as part of a legally recognized civil union. That does not mean that those rights should include everything but the name of marriage. Given the purpose of marriage law, some rights and benefits—specifically those designed to strengthen the likelihood that children grow up with both biological parents—belong only to those who are married and not to those in civil unions. That would be fair, and also a test. If the gay community’s real agenda is to legitimize the homosexual lifestyle, the community will reject civil unions. If the agenda is, as many now claim, to gain appropriate benefits and rights, the gay community will accept civil unions and not press for gay marriage."

--Ron Sider is president of Evangelicals for Social Action and professor of theology, holistic ministry, and public policy at Palmer Seminary at Eastern University

Do I Matter?

I have taken a breather from blogging and immersed myself in research for homeschooling next year.  I am enthusiastic and a little frightened about entering the high school phase with Boy Becoming Man, while teaching my middle and elementary school girls, but we seem to figure things out as we go.  Preparation and flexibility: my motto. 

A worthy topic has captured my heart and pulled my attention away from the Ancient History syllabus and Biology labs: three teen suicides in one week in my area of Minnesota, with much buzz about bullies, school responsibility, and social media. 

My heart aches.  I want to shake everyone, from the precious child about to end her life, to the parents, the administrators, the media.  Don't you understand?  What lies beneath it all is a lack of understanding of the value of your soul.  I would throw every school book to the wind if I knew my kids were wondering, "Do I matter?"

My job as parent and teacher would be worthless if I could not tell my kids over and over:  you were created by a loving God, you have a purpose in this world, you have access to God's mighty power and healing comfort, you were designed to reflect His glory. 

But so many parents don't tell their kids this.  They don't believe it themselves.  Public school personnel can't say it, whether they believe it or not (though the good ones do!)  Children can't hear it enough.  So they believe the lies from their peers, the media, themselves. 

I get it.  I grew up believing my value came from pleasing others and succeeding in the task before me.  I craved male attention.  I see in my children something different.  A solidness, even as they experiment with fashion and music and figure out their talents and interests.  I know there is and will be wrestlings, wanderings, and mistakes made, but we have given them a foundation that is not made of the shifting sands of the world.

On Christ the solid rock I stand.

A Finger in the Wound

How does an artist know which stroke is the last?  The Incredulity of Thomas, painted by Caravaggio in 1602, makes me wonder.  At the technical level, it is stunning in its realism and detail, a feast for the eyes, each fold of cloth and wrinkle of forehead a tasty morsel.  But when a painting tells a story that you believe and stake your life and reputation on, it is mesmerizing.  When you acknowledge that it could be you jamming your finger incredulously into Christ's wound, it is worthy of reflection. 

Another Easter celebration has passed, but I want to continue living in Thomas mode.  Not in his initial doubt but in wonder and steady recognition that indeed it all is true.  I can study it with furrowed brow and sense Christ's very present help.  His very presence.  He is the Divine Artist, each stroke is intentional, and he knows when the painting is complete.

When the Sign is Crooked

I am home from Good Friday service, where all was dim in a minor key, and a rustic wooden cross stood lonely at the front of the room.  My son, this Boy Becoming Man, hung sign after sign on the cross:  wounded, betrayed, scorned, pierced.  The violins cried.  The choir sang dissonant chords .  By the middle of the service, the cross was full of harsh and scathing words and the mood was somber and hushed.

Then something strange happened.  My son and his friend were hanging the final sign:  It Is Finished.  In doing this, another sign was bumped so that it hung loosely from the crossbeam.  Suddenly, the symmetry was lost, and I had this urge to straighten it.  Were the boys really going to leave it dangling for the rest of the service?  How distracting.  It was as if this powerful, thought-provoking, noble symbol of our faith had become like a picture frame hung askew, where all you notice is the crookedness despite the beautiful art. 


Rejected....that's what the sign read. 


Slowly, I comprehended.  This cross was not meant to be a gleaming, aesthetically pleasing emblem of my faith.  It was a tool of torture and death, and I am glad for the awkwardness of it tonight, because now my mind's eye lingers on the sideways word:  rejected.  I am reminded of how often I reject Him and leave Him dangling.  He pursues me with Hosea's passion, yet I am fickle and flirtatious with the world.  This is the sin I nail to the cross.  Over and over.


In two days, the dreadful words will be replaced with songs of deliverance.  The reject will become the object of my praise, and all will be righted.  O glorious day!