Essays
Spring Arrives (#SmallWonder Link-up)
Dead mums staggered
in the flower bed outside
the kitchen window
and rattled their bones
at me all winter long.
Today, under a
warming sun,
I bent and broke
their brown branches
at the base where new
green leaves spoke
spring’s surprise.
Then I walked around
the house, surveying
winter’s damages.
Like the disciples
returning to the tomb,
I found in death’s bed
signs of life.
This never fails to
astonish me,
like Christ popping
through locked doors,
bright with light,
a daffodil.
* * *
We finally have a #SmallWonder button! If you want to use it, simply copy the image, then add it to your post or sidebar with a link to www.afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com.
Are you or do you have writer friends local to the PA, Maryland, New Jersey area? If so, would you consider attending or sharing the information about the upcoming writing retreat to be held here at the farm house? You can find more details under the Writing Retreat tab.
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Return Again: The Blessing of Being a Prodigal (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
After the meeting I feel depleted, empty.
I return home to the house, the woodstove, the dog and cats,
the gerbils tucked together into a tight ball in their plastic tunnel. This internal absence follows me and I try to
open my hands, my heart to it. I feel
lost and far from home, not the physical concrete place with the smell of
animals and the constant tumbleweeds of shed hair, but the place inside of
me.
I pile wood on the fire in the wood stove and reheat old
coffee which I forget to drink before trading Chuck Taylor’s and jeans for wool
socks and leggings. I roll out the yoga
mats and cue up a fifteen minute video, hoping to find a pathway home through
the stretching out long of legs and limbs and torso. The little cat winds between my legs, leaving
a trail of fur in her wake, then throws herself at my feet, purring. Bent, with my palms to the mat, I rub her
ears, her neck, and her eyes close in pleasure.
I follow the routine.
Opening, bending, breathing, moving as I am led until, at last, I’m seated
on the mat, the video complete. The
practice fails to work its magic this time. I’m closer to home, but still carrying a
distance within.
It’s then I think of the prodigal son, his leaving and the
dissolution that precedes his staggering return.
Every day, I think, that’s me.
In the parable, the younger son traveled to a distant land
and “squandered his property in dissolute living.” I used to think the point of the parable was how the prodigal son lost himself, but
now I see the heart of the matter isn’t how
he’s lost, but that he is lost. Like the older brother who imagines his
brother “devoured” the father’s property with “prostitutes,” I imagined
dissolute living referred to carnal sins, hedonism in all its various forms.
And maybe it does.
But a quick look at an online dictionary tells me
“dissolute” comes from the Latin root for the word “dissolve.” We know the son’s inheritance has been
squandered and dissolved, but the prodigal’s turning point has little to do with
money lost or sins committed and everything to do with identity.
“But when he came to himself,” the story goes.
A Jewish boy, feeding pigs in a foreign land – these
external characteristics serve to communicate how very lost this boy has
become. And what identity is it that
he’s lost? It’s not his identity as one
who does or does not sin, but rather his identity as one who has a place of
belonging. The boy’s return to himself
is intertwined with a return to his father or – as Parker Palmer puts it, the
question (or realization) of “who am I” leads, inevitably to the question (or
realization) of “whose I am.”
It’s not so much that the prodigal sins, but that he spends
his very soul, allowing himself to be dissolved of identity or, more clearly,
this is the way in which he sins. It’s
not that his carnal sins don’t matter, but that they merely reflect an inward
dissipation.
And if this is the case, then yes, I am so very much like
that prodigal.
Every day I wander dispensing my gifts as though through
their service I might gain some intangible thing – identity, respect, belonging,
maybe even also love. And sometimes in
that process I come dangerously close to losing the one thing Jesus says is
most valuable of all – soul, spirit, identity or true self. Richard Rohr refers to it as the “Immortal
Diamond.” A diamond never meant to be
spent, traded or squandered, no matter how great the reward.
The good thing about realizing you are in fact the prodigal
is in that very moment of recognition lies the invitation to return. The very awareness of lostness carries within
it, like a seed, the memory of belonging.
Here is where the spiritual disciplines begin, practices
which over centuries have been affirmed to help us find the path toward
home. The prodigal is not only one who
is lost, but one who returns.
The most blessed thing about being a
prodigal over and over again, which is the case for each and every one of us – is the opportunity it affords us to become experts in the journey toward home.
Blessed are those whom God allows
to wander near and far, for they
are
the seekers, the finders
who travel over stream and mountain
hunting out the
paths that lead toward
home. Blessed are the lost for they
shall be found. Blessed are those who
walk the path toward home. Toward them
the loving father runs.
* * *
We finally have a #SmallWonder button! If you want to use it, simply copy the image, then add it to your post or sidebar with a link to www.afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com.
Are you or do you have writer friends local to the PA, Maryland, New Jersey area? If so, would you consider attending or sharing the information about the upcoming writing retreat to be held here at the farm house? You can find more details under the Writing Retreat tab.
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Not Where, but With
I never
envisioned
being the
kind of woman
who drives
around with a dog
sitting
sentinel in the passenger seat –
I’m a cat
person, after all.
But she
loves to go, so I let her.
On straight
stretches I reach over
and bury my hand in her fur
and she keeps my seat warm
while I’m in the store.
For her, it isn’t about where,
but
with. The excitement of a car
ride is no
more tantalizing than following
me to the Little House where she curls
in a chair
and I sit, still in the driver’s seat,
pecking away
on a keyboard.
It
isn’t about where, but with.
Gerbil (#SmallWonder Link-up)
Tiny nose,
bulging eyes,
whir of
white
whiskers.
Pin-prick
precision
fingers
carry
bedding,
clutch
seeds.
Nest,
burrow,
run
‘round
the
wheel.
The cat,
obsessed,
incensed,
broods
on top of
her cage
sniffing,
spying,
swatting.
* * *
Guess what? We finally have a #SmallWonder button! If you want to use it, simply copy the image, then add it to your post or sidebar with a link to www.afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com.
Are you or do you have writer friends local to the PA, Maryland, New Jersey area? If so, would you consider attending or sharing the information about the upcoming writing retreat to be held here at the farm house? You can find more details under the Writing Retreat tab.
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Winter Blues: I Want to Seek, I Want to Find
Christ in the Wilderness – Consider the Lilies by Stanley Spencer
The trees hold tufts of snow, cold, white, cotton balls
lifted toward a pale blue winter sky.
Yesterday I painted three canvases.
I have no idea what I’m doing, paint-wise, but bold strokes of citrus
green and bright magenta seem to help with these mid-winter blues.
I could spend all day playing hide and seek with the black
clumps of pet hair scattered across the floors of this old house, all day
washing cups and bowls, corralling books into baskets and bins. And in the end, someone with a stroke of
genius will scatter paper, pens and tape across the carpet, we will read more
and more and books will fall across the furniture like snow, the dog will shed endlessly.
But whatever I paint green today will be green
tomorrow, that much I know for sure.
//
It feels as though I missed the train for Lent this year. No bold post proclaiming my intent, no quiet reflection inviting deeper reflection yet. Fat Tuesday came and went and the only ashes I saw on Wednesday were the ones I spread across the iron stove’s belly, the ones I sweep daily from the hearth.
I heard some murmurings online this year, from various quarters, about the practice of lent – certain groups reminding themselves, “We don’t do Lent, that’s for Catholics.” Someone else pointed out that Lent, in French, means “slow” and another focused on the Lenten call to wilderness living, the motion of removal and return modeled in the life of Christ.
That’s a lot to ponder and I could add my own unformed thoughts to the crowd, but instead this morning I’m leaning over a brown canvas outlining flowers first in pencil lead, then acrylic. A voice on one shoulder reminds me I don’t know how to paint, but in front of my eyes my hands create stroke by stroke a bright pink zinnia. As I work another voice whispers about the flowers, how their beauty is enough, how their impermanence does nothing to denigrate the gift of being.
//
This morning I’ll take our black tom cat to the vet. He’s been acting strange this week and his breath could knock a giant flat. I don’t know if there’s anything really wrong with him, but he’s been jumpy and bossing the dog around in a way none of us appreciates.
Do cats get cabin fever?
I don’t know, but the other day, with a plate full of bright magenta paint and that big, black cat standing nearby I was tempted to dip his paws in. I stopped myself just in time.
//
The bible doesn’t tell us exactly why Jesus went into the wilderness, only that the “Spirit drove him out.” For forty days he watched the birds, the flowers, the trees and streams. The stars unfolded their blanket across the sky before him each night, while the mother birds tucked their chicks into bed.
That’s the Christ I’m looking for these days – the one who watched the flowers bloom and fade, who baked fresh caught fish over coals turning to ash. Christ who bent to draw in the dust with his finger, who saw the word of God in the way a tree grows and watched the foxes tumble from their dens as evening fell.
This is the Christ I journey with this year, my canvases and brushes tucked under one arm, my cat and his vile breath under the other. I want to seek and find the wonder of this world like Christ did, the wonder that both is and is waiting to be, like strokes of paint on the tip of the brush, like the quiet seeds sleeping beneath this melting snow.
I want to seek. I want to find.
This is Four (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
Almost to the library’s exit, he stops and leans in the office
window. He’s Dennis the Menace with a
buzz cut. His puffy red winter coat hangs
unzipped and flapping, bright blue rain boots peak out from under brown
fleecy pants. Two library books travel
tucked under an arm.
“You organizing things?” he asks. The hand he talks with flaps along with his
words. I hang back, watching to see
whether the librarian will untangle his garbled words without my
intervention.
She does, and a short conversation ensues. He’s all charm and delight and she’s grateful
for an interruption.
Then, “Mom?” he asks, in his overly loud serious voice,
“What’s that heart shaped thing?”
It’s a whiteout dispenser, not exactly heart shaped, but
close enough. The librarian demonstrates
its abilities before the twins who peer in wonder.
“Mom?!,” he shouts again though I’m standing only a few feet
behind. He’s done with casual
conversation and pushing through the door.
“Can you get me one of those? I
can use it in my office.”
He has an office he built himself, under the laundry table
and, naturally, he keeps it well-stocked with office supplies. These he keeps separate from his tools which
are stored in a wide variety of tool boxes ranging from metal to cardboard to
plastic. And the tools and office
supplies are never mingled with his “weapons,” which he keeps in stashes in the
living room and his bedroom.
He’s my little “worker man,” the one who casually announces
how he will split his time as an adult, between working and helping me out at
home.
Before the brief window conversation he stood exploring the
library’s vestibule while I checked out a tower of books. “What’s this? What’s that?
Where’s the light switch?” he yells.
“Where’s the light switch?! I
found a light!” Like some little grand
inquisitor, he surveys every new environment, hunting out any unknown gadget or
machine.
In the children’s section, he hovers near the board books. He chooses a bible story book, because it has
a handle, a Dora book (because of its flaps) among others. His selections baffle me. I don’t want to bring home board books,
they’re boring and so small they’re too easily lost. In a compromise, I sort through the pile,
paring it down to a manageable mole hill and suggest we sit for a few minutes
to read the ones we aren’t bringing home.
For once, they accept my suggested deal without
negotiation. We pile together in a big,
red armchair forming a mountain of people, boots and coats. The twins rest, one on each leg, leaning back
against me as I lean back into the chair.
The weight of their bodies on me is a welcome comfort, the heat and
pressure of presence like I would imagine a hot stone massage might feel.
Their weight in my lap feels like coming home, always, and in the midst of its joy and comfort, I’m aware of this season’s ending.
We wander through a sparkly princess book about friends and
then two more picture books snatched from a nearby windowsill. The boys bake on top of me, zipped up fully
in their winter coats. They grow still
under the soothing waves of words and I feel first one then another yawn expand
and then deflate Levi’s barrel chest.
I’m caught here in this time between where one
moment my lap is filled with drowsy little boy and the next he’s amicably chatting up the librarian and collecting resources for the next time he needs to “work for awhile” in his office.
This is four, this moment between inhale and exhale that
lasts only as long as you can hold your breath.
But the truth is, it never lasts, nothing does.
Rather than holding my breath, I’m learning to breathe
deep, to lean-in to the blessing of each moment as we move along together,
these boys, these blessings and I.
* * *
Guess what? We finally have a #SmallWonder button! If you want to use it, simply copy the image, then add it to your post or sidebar with a link to www.afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com.
Are you or do you have writer friends local to the PA, Maryland, New Jersey area? If so, would you consider attending or sharing the information about the upcoming writing retreat to be held here at the farm house? You can find more details under the Writing Retreat tab.
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
The Social Mores of Gerbils and its Impact on Biblical Interpretation or Something Like That . . . (#SmallWonder)
Teaching is the closest I get to extroversion, which
explains why I (a fierce introvert) bottom out after every class.
When it’s going well I have a sense of flow. Connected to the materials I’m presenting, I
start to scat a little like a jazz singer, making free-associations, building
and linking ideas together. Sometimes
this involves funny stick figure drawings on the blackboard, other times
not.
One day the other week I was trying to explain the
incredible social divides bridged by the early house churches. Referencing I Thessalonians I listed,
“prominent women, Greeks, Jews and Gentiles” on the chalkboard.
“These people wouldn’t normally have anything to do with
each other,” I said, drawing a circle around the list.
The class of Sophomores stared back at me, listless,
silent.
I felt like Eugene Peterson describes in his bible study
session that led, eventually, to his ground-breaking gift of The Message translation,
Galatians, Paul’s angry,
passionate, fiery letter that rescued
his congregation from their regression
into culture slavery,
was on the table and nobody was getting it. Sweetly smiling,
they were giving more
attention to stirring sugar into [their]
Styrofoam cups than to the spirit
words that pulsed in Paul’s
metaphor’s and syntax. It was obvious they weren’t getting
it. (in Eat This Book:a conversation in the art of spiritual
reading, p. 133)
“Putting these groups together,” I said, “would be like
filling a whole room with cats and dogs.”
But no, that example wasn’t exactly right.
Pausing, I looked off into the distance just above the tops
of my student’s heads, as I listened, inspiration came winging and landed on
the tip of my outstretched mind.
“No,” I said, “you know what it’s like?” Excitement grew in my voice. “It’s like putting two gerbils in the same
cage. We got my son a gerbil for
Christmas, then my daughter wanted one so badly we got her one too a few weeks
after the first. But, apparently,
gerbils are highly territorial.
Introducing two gerbils from a different litter’s an incredibly
complicated process. So we built them a
joint, but separated cage so they could get used to each other’s scent and
share space without being able to fight.
But, the other day, one of the gerbils climbed over the divide and by
the time we got there, the bigger gerbil had bitten off the smaller gerbil’s
tail. The little gerbil was running all around
dragging her bloody stump behind her.”
“It was one of the grossest things I’ve ever seen,” I
finished, with obvious delight.
The students were definitely listening now. Many had their faces twisted, heads tipped to
the side, in a questioning manner.
“Well,” I added, backing off a little, “I guess the people
in the early church weren’t biting each other, but . . .” then I paused again
as a whole new wave of inspiration struck.
“Oh my gosh!” I added.
I was nearly shouting, “That’s exactly how Paul described it in one
of the epistles. ‘Stop biting and
devouring one another,’ he tells them.
Yes, it IS like putting two gerbils in a cage.”
I remember memorizing that particular phrase from Paul’s
letter to the Galatians as a high school bible quizzer, but a good twenty years
passed between memorization and comprehension.
Those words floated in the cells of my brain like dandelion fluff,
letters representing ideas until one day, in front of a classroom of thirty-three
students, a concrete physical association caused them to take root and blossom
into what Eugene Peterson describes as a “pop of delight.”
Words took on flesh, ideas became image, a word picture was
formed and I was so happy, so delighted.
We moved on then to the next topic at hand, but I carried that little
“pop” of pleasure with me and feel it still today.
May this joy – the joy of discovery, of unexpected connection
and its accompanying wonder – be yours as you journey through each of your
days. No thing is too small, too
trivial, too removed, to reach in and open the door of your heart.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Less Magic, More Tending (#SmallWonder Link-up)
“I think I was hoping today would be some kind of magical
time of rest and renewal,” I said to the gathered circle of participants as we
reflected together at the end of our day of silent retreat.
There were several smiles and at least one good snort as I paused.
They all knew the kind of month I had. Six trips to the pediatrician as one child
after another fell ill with a viral fever that ran high for days before morphing
into a bacterial infection. Then another
round of strep for my oldest boy and the pressure of hunting for an ENT to
address big-picture concerns. Plus, I
was working full-time, stumbling through lectures I hadn’t so much as glanced
at in seven years. Is it any wonder I
was sick too?
“It wasn’t,” I continued.
I tried everything I could think of. Settling into the quiet farm house, I read a
little, prayed a little and drank hot tea in a sunlit window. I even tried for an afternoon nap.
It was a miracle I made it to the retreat at all.
Secretly, though, I’d been hoping for more than a little magic, more than the miracle I got.
I wanted to come home with some good writing, a poem or two
to share here on the blog or, in the least, the beginnings of a post. I didn’t just want rest, I wanted
productivity in a different direction than the one I’d been running in all
month long.
But you can’t go from 90 mph to 0 in six hours flat. An object in motion tends to stay in motion
and the time and energy needed to slow down AND shift gears can’t be
underestimated. How could I be so naïve
as to think I could unwind AND be productive in such a short period of time?
This is what I’ve been thinking about in the days since as I
try to keep the fires burning at work and home, in heart and head. I’ve longed to bear fruit here in my writing this month,
it’s been painful to let it slide. But a
plant can’t bear fruit on command – the vine must be tended, each season
endured. And, for a few more days at
least, I’ve committed my labor toward teaching and finishing strong and
well.
By Friday I pledge to be done with my J-term class, papers
and tests graded and returned. And next
week I plan to begin the slow unwinding, the slow turning back again toward the
many things I love. The extra money from
teaching has been a much needed relief this month, to not be anxiously watching
the bank account for overdraft notices is a gift. But I’m eager now and longing to return to
tending my writing life, growing the deep roots and sturdy branches and, yes,
bearing fruit.
Thank you for sticking with me this month, #SmallWonder friends, as we celebrate one year of #SmallWonder posts! Some of you have asked about a button for the link – I know there’s been some buttons shared, but I’ve lost track of them. If you have a #SmallWonder button we could use, could you share it in the comments, please? Thanks!
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Worn, Weary and Threadbare (#SmallWonder Link-up)
(Ah, friends. Welcome. It’s still January, I have 7 more days of teaching to go. My husband has manned five pediatric sick appointments in the last two weeks and today we return together with our oldest son who’s illness doesn’t appear to be responding to antibiotics. So here I am, again, sharing something old, but entirely relevant to the now. May we each find rest when and where we can.)
Come unto me, all you who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.” – God
I came into the retreat like our old cat Samson used to come into our house after a string of nights out on the town. Samson would disappear and refuse to show up for nights on end as we leaned out the screen door, peering and calling his name into the darkness. A few days later, he would come dragging in, thin and dirty, walking slowly with a limp.
That’s how I felt that morning – I arrived completely exhausted. Life with four young children is like drinking from a fire hose, all struggle and gasping and refreshment to the point of drowning. The discipline of a monthly retreat has revealed the intensity of life lived between those moments of rest and I often arrive haggard, gasping for breath.
The day opened with an opportunity for each participant to write on a scrap of paper three words that described how they arrived. Then a large ceramic bowl was passed from hand to hand around the gathered circle as we named our words and laid our papers into the bowl.
It felt to me that others had much nicer words, like “rested,” “eager,” and “waiting.” But as I lifted the heavy bowl and dropped in my small scraps of paper three words escaped my lips like a cry,
worn,
weary,
and threadbare.
I passed the bowl quickly and sat quietly.
I listened and prayed throughout the morning as the tears rolled down.
Later, I found a sunlit window and sat curled in a chair soaking it in. I ate a quiet lunch that settled in me like a bowl of warm milk, full of soothing comfort. Then I returned to the retreat house and stretched out on a long cushioned bench. I wrote a little, read a little too, but eventually I gave in and, leaning to the side, I curled up there in the lap of God and drifted my way off to sleep.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
At the End of this Swaying, Fraying Rope (#SmallWonder Link-up)
(This is a re-post from January 2012 when the twins were just six months old and my older kids were 3 and 5. It was a crazy time. This January I’m working full time and my kids are sick (as is par for the course come January) – it is also a crazy time. In light of all the craziness, I thought pulling something out of the archives might serve me well. Enjoy!)
There’s a level of desperation around our house these days. Winter’s arrival has us cramped and snotty, sneezing and feverish. My husband and I make daily trips to the store for things we forgot and debate who should go to the Dr. next as we shuffle endless loads of laundry from basket to washer to dryer and back to the basket again.
It feels like an endless game of “whack-a-mole.”
One day, between phone calls and drop offs and trips to the library, I turned to see one twin chewing on the now-empty bottle of infant Ibuprophen. Running to call poison control, hurdling the baby gates with Olympic precision, I realized I don’t know for sure who drank the medicine. I doubled-back quickly to check both boys over, frantically searching for tell-tale sticky hands and berry-flavored breath. Thankfully, it was “not a toxic dose.”
I called the Dr. the other morning about our son who’s running a high fever after two days of antibiotics and left the wrong birth date on the message. I thought it was wrong as I said it and tried to correct myself on the phone. In the end the message went something like this, “His birthday is 8.11.2011. Or wait, that’s not right, it might be 8.10.2011. I’m sorry, I really can’t remember right now.”
I’m at the end of my rope, you see, hanging here white-knuckled with fingers grasped tight. As I dangle, gasping for breath, waiting for things to stop spinning, I’m reminded of Eugene Peterson’s translation of Jesus’ first Beatitude,
“You’re blessed when you’re at the end of your rope. With less of you there is more of God and his rule.”
How can this be?
Blessed, right here, right now, dangling, struggling, sagging with nowhere to go. Blessed because the end of me is not the end of everything, only the beginning of something more, Someone more.
Peterson’s words remind me of something I read a few months ago in Scott Cairns’ book, Short Trip to the Edge. Cairns is an Orthodox Christian and writes briefly about the role of a prayer rope, a string of 33 square knots used to focus the fingers and mind during prayer. As Cairns puts it, the prayer rope “does its bit to re-pair the inherent schism within the human person, [it] helps to . . . bring the mind into the heart (36).”
Reflecting on this image I wondered whether prayer itself might be like the weaving of a rope leading us deep into the heart of God – where we’re anchored and at rest.
The rope woven through prayer is so different than the one I work to climb most days. I struggle along the rope of my own striving like a scrawny adolescent in gym class trying to perfect the hand-over-hand technique necessary for upward momentum. This rope, the end of which dangles before me daily, is one of my own making, my striving, my success or failure.
But the rope of prayer begins where that one ends and leads downward out of myself or perhaps deeper in to the place where Christ now dwells in my heart as I asked him to all those long years ago. This rope of prayer, when I tend it and mend it, leads me to the places of deep blessedness and true security.
Once again I lower my expectations and ease myself down off of so many cliffs of my own making. I sit down, sink down into grace and love and with every prayer I find the courage to let go one more time, to lean-in to the blessedness.
Here I am, again, at the end of me; here I am, again, blessed.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
After
After
(Matt. 2:1-12)
After you
find the One for whom you wait,
after you
are overwhelmed with joy
and kneel to
kiss holy ground,
you might
also find yourself
returning
home by another road.
The ways you
once walked no longer
appeal. And though the way is dark
and takes
you further ‘round,
you will
know it at once to be your road,
the path for
which you were made.
– Kelly Chripczuk
Christ Creeps in Among Us (#SmallWonder Link-up)
The fog
comes
on little
cat feet.
It sits
looking
over harbor
and city
on silent
haunches
and then
moves on.
– Carl
Sandburg
//
In the long,
dark winter evenings, the older kids and I read our way through the Chronicles
of Narnia. In them Aslan, the God-figure,
is a large lion. As C.S. Lewis frequently
reminds his audience – Aslan is not tame.
Aslan walks
silently on great, padded paws.
He comes and
goes at will.
He’s seen by
those who look for him.
Yet, often
when Aslan appears the youngest girl, Lucy, is quick to squeal with
delight. She runs and buries her face in
the fur of his mane.
//
Every morning
Blackie, our long-haired cat, waits impatiently to go outside. Eager to investigate the yard, he pauses briefly
before the open door, then saunters out into the crisp early morning air. An hour or two later a soft thud announces
his return as he leaps to the closed kitchen window, the one with the broken
screen. There he waits, his fur coat
fluffed, green eyes blazing, a silent silhouette.
Seeing me
see him, he meows. The double-paned
glass mutes the sound, but I see his mouth stretch wide, his dagger-teeth flash.
I slide the
window open and he pushes through the screen, fresh and cold from his morning
stroll.
“Blackie!” I
cry, my hands slipping under and over, encircling him, lifting him to my
face. I bury my nose in his fluffy mane. I inhale the smell of the cool grassy fields
he wanders, the morning dew and earth. It’s
a moment I never want to miss.
This year, I listened beneath the hustle of the Christmas season, hoping to hear the silent padded
footsteps of Christ creeping in among us.
There are so many ways to miss his coming.
And yet, he comes again and again each year,
throughout the year. Like the cat
leaping to the window, the fog sitting silently, Christ arrives opening us, always, to the fullness of what is.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Trying and Letting Go (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
(#SmallWonder friends, this post is late! My apologies. We will be taking a break from linking up next Monday (12/28) and I’ll see you back here again January 4th.)
I tried to
make Christmas cookies twice this December.
The first
was a batch of chocolate covered peanut butter balls. I mixed the no-bake batter quickly before the
buses brought the older kids home, then I shaped them into balls while all four
watched TV. Lining a tray with parchment
paper, I put them in the refrigerator to chill, thinking we would roll them in
chocolate after dinner.
Then my
oldest son threw up.
The next day
he stayed home sick and by the third day the moment had passed. The peanut butter balls sat naked in the
refrigerator, stale and shrunken. “Just
eat them,” I said, at last.
Yesterday, a
week after my initial attempt, I mixed two batches of cookie dough – classic cut-out
sugar cookies and Martha Stewart’s chocolate peppermint cookies. I put them, covered, in the refrigerator to
chill.
And then,
yes, my older son threw up again.
Baking
cookies lost its appeal and I pulled the last bags of Thanksgiving’s turkey-barley
soup out of the freezer to thaw for dinner.
Today he’s home sick again and I completed my first “professional”
interview in years over the phone while he sat watching TV. The
call was dropped once and a visitor came to the door mid-conversation. This afternoon we’ll head to the pediatrician’s
office, again.
//
Last week I
met with my Spiritual Director. She told
me, in the nicest way possible, that I’m not the center of the universe. Also, when I complained about not being able
to do. it. all., she asked me, “What is most important to you during this
season?”
“Attending
to the mystery,” I said, “staying alert for all the ways Christ creeps in among
us.”
Of course,
that means I might need to let go of some other things.
Like baking cookies.
What do you need to let go of this week? What’s most important for you to hold onto in the midst of the holiday rush?
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
The Animals on Christmas Eve (#SmallWonder Link-up)
Legend
claims
at midnight
Christmas Eve
animals
received
the gift of speech,
but I
imagine
it was the other way around
that first
starlight night.
Animals didn’t gain
but humans lost,
for once,
their words.
Speechless,
they welcomed
the Word in silence,
led by the
animals
in a chorus of mute wonder.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Something Epic
He was a dead ringer for the kid from A Christmas
Story. A short, chubby boy with an
overgrown buzz cut and thick, dark rimmed glasses. Dressed in navy sweats from head to toe, he ran back and forth along the edge of the playground, arms pumping,
breath huffing in out-of-shape bursts.
On his third time past he stopped about twenty feet away
from my husband and I, equidistant
between us and the black plastic swings hanging on long metal chains. Inspired, he turned toward us, the nearest
available audience.
“I’m gonna do something EPIC,” he said.
Then he turned and ran, huffing and
chuffing, arms swinging and threw himself belly first onto a swing. To our watching eyes, it was decidedly un-epic. The
extended take-off added nothing to the quotidian talent of swinging on your
stomach – something any little kid can do.
But something in his confident declaration, his putting it
all on the line approach was truly legendary. And I loved him for believing it, for announcing it and following through.
What he did wasn’t epic.
But the way he did it?
Totally EPIC.
Some Mornings (An Advent Poem)
Photo Source: Picture from: B. Monginoux / Landscape-Photo.net (cc by-nc-nd)
O that you would tear open the heavens and come down . . . Isaiah 64:1
Some mornings the mountains
disappear completely, a great
wall of white cutting the distance
between presence and sight.
Maybe this is what Isaiah saw,
this barrier and, like a lover maddened
by desire, he cried out without thinking,
“Tear open the heavens and come down!”
Isaiah burned with longing,
his coal-singed lips tingling and God,
whose passion simmers long and low,
was slowly aroused by the pining of his people.
God came forth as a tiny seed
conceived by earth’s desire,
born in the rending wide
of heaven’s door.
To Wait in Darkness (Advent Week 2) #SmallWonder Link-up
(Our truck isn’t nearly this old, but some days it feels like it . . . )
See, I am sending my messenger to prepare the way
before me, and the Lord whom you seek will suddenly come to his temple. The
messenger of the covenant in whom you delight—indeed, he is coming, says the Lord of
hosts. But who can endure
the day of his coming, and who can stand when he appears? For he is like a
refiner’s fire and like fullers’ soap; he will sit as a
refiner and purifier of silver, and he will purify the descendants of Levi and
refine them like gold and silver, until they present offerings to the Lord in
righteousness. Then the offering
of Judah and Jerusalem will be pleasing to the Lord as
in the days of old and as in former years. – Malachi 3:1-4
By the tender
mercy of our God,
the
dawn from on high will break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow
of death, to
guide our feet into the way of peace.’ – Luke 1:78-9
The rattle-trap, red, Ford pick-up squealed out of the
driveway Tuesday morning and something broken inside of it gave voice all the
way to my husband’s work and back home again that night. He was kind enough to offer to help with
dinner and the kids before buttoning up an old shirt and heading out to the
garage to pop the hood.
Before heading to bed, we decided he would call off work the
next day to try to wrangle a repair.
In the morning the older kids climbed into their yellow
buses and the twins buckled into the van.
John was going to drop them off at preschool before heading to the auto
parts store. I headed out to the Little
House to twiddle my thumbs as us artist types like to do, grateful to be
excused from the thrice-weekly chore of drop-off.
Minutes later he burst in the door. “Can you come try to start the van while I
look at the engine?” he asked. “I can’t
get it to start.”
Out into the cold winter rain I went to turn the key. The van whined and moaned and finally I
pumped the gas enough to give it a coughing start.
“I guess I’ll leave it on at the parts store,” he said, “I
don’t want to get stuck over there.”
I stood in the driveway and watched him pull out.
We couldn’t leave the van running all morning and how would
we pick up the twins if we couldn’t get it to start?
//
I dread preschool drop-off because parents are instructed to
pull-in under a carport where a teacher approaches, opens the door, and helps
the kids out. Sounds simple, right?
Except when your door handle’s broken.
Three times a week I cruise into the carport in our ancient
burgundy minivan and lean back over the seats to pop the door open from the
inside before whatever teacher happens to be on duty can make a fool out of
herself wrestling the finicky handle.
Three times a week I watch the twins climb out while
silently hoping the teacher on duty won’t slide the door far enough open to
cause it to latch. Most days they do. Then I’m stuck climbing over the seat again to
unlatch the door and slide it shut.
It’s embarrassing.
Wednesday, the day my husband stayed home and the vehicles
went on strike, he didn’t know he needed to preemptively pop the door. Instead, he sat calmly in the driver seat
while one of the boy’s teachers yanked and pulled on the handle, trying to get
the door to shut.
With a mighty yank, the handle broke right off in her
hand.
“I broke your handle,” she said passing what was left to my
husband.
//
The truck ended up being an easy fix and it appears the van
was faking. In the end, I had more time
to write and work than I would have otherwise.
All’s well that ends well, right?
I will say that Wednesday morning I wanted to cry and nearly
did when I couldn’t figure out how we’d get the twins back home. My mind bounced between righteous indignation, (This is Christmas! This sort of thing
shouldn’t happen at Christmas!) and self-pity (Of course!).
Somewhere between the opposing poles of control and
resignation I found a tenuous place of surrender. I clung to it in a way that seems in contradiction to what is essentially a posture of “letting go.”
//
Making wreaths at the dining room table the following today,
I thought about this thing we’ve got going on, this month-long season of
Christmas in which we feel sorely offended if the world appears to be coming
apart at the seams. We’re torn between
demanding more – of the world, our children, ourselves – and a death-embracing
resignation.
Let me tell you what I know after wrangling evergreens and
wire – it may be Christmas and you may want something more, but #$^% is gonna
keep on keepin’ on.
Red trucks will scream their way to work and back.
Minivans will embarrass and fake their own deaths.
Children will run wild through your house and you will be
forced to play the “You’re father’s uncle died from falling down the stairs”
card in a vain attempt to scare them straight.
But rather than accepting the logical conclusion that one should not
play on the stairs, they will blame the victim because everyone knows if you’re
falling down the stairs you can stop yourself before you hit your head.
You will accidentally step on the dog and scare the cat who
will then claw the dog right on the nose and those two tiny drops of blood on
that dear sweet nose will make you want to weep.
But worst of all (or is it?) someone, somewhere will take a
gun and shoot one or two or twenty and the seeds of evil that dwell hidden in
the human heart will again seem to block out all rays of light.
You will be tempted between control and resignation.
You will want to decry the forces that be – the cat, the
kids, the world in which “awful and terrible things happen.”
You will want to throw your hands up in the air and walk
away because someone somewhere has again ruined this yuletide season with their
crimes and failures big and small.
But then you will remember.
We don’t celebrate Christmas because the world is
perfect.
We celebrate Christmas because the world is broken.
It’s screaming to and from work, pulling apart at the seams,
liable to break off in your very hands, broken.
Advent is waiting with open hands, open hearts for the One who
will sift through it all, cleansing, purging, until only what’s good, what’s
pure and golden remains. Until then, we
stand strong, we endure, we hang tinsel and plug in the lights because, for
now, it may be as close as we can get to that for which our hearts so long.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Midnight Benediction
Half-awake,
deep under a
layer of blankets,
I hear him
cry out
in his dark,
cold room
at the end
of the hall.
“Ya-Yuh? Ya-yuh!” he calls,
pausing to
wait for his brother’s reply.
Answering silence
is followed by thump, patter,
then the
squeak of his door.
Half-way
down the hall
the word,
“Mommy” slips from his lips.
“What?” I
call, still snuggled, waiting to hear
what will be
required of me.
A drink of
water?
A blanket
straightened and tucked?
A song or a hand
held in the dark?
“I love
you,” he calls, then turns,
hurrying back
to his warm bed.
Now I am
awake and thinking
of his voice splitting the night
like an
angel choir, the words,
“I love you”
falling like snow
across an
otherwise silent night.
To See the Naked Trees (Advent Week 1)
(Each week in December I hope to write at least one post reflecting on the lectionary texts from the Sunday before. This week’s readings include Jeremiah 33:14-16 and Luke 21:25-36.)
We flew along back roads surrounded by fields and forests on
a gray day in late fall.
“The trees are naked!” cried a little voice from the back of
the van.
“Yes,” I said, “they are.”
Naked is a big and delight-filled word for a four-year-old
boy.
To notice and accurately apply that word, I imagine, gave
him nearly as much pleasure as running around naked does.
//
This week’s advent texts, in both Jeremiah and Luke, carry
images of trees – a righteous branch, a fig tree in spring. Scholars note how the bible itself begins and
ends in a garden with trees. In this week’s readings Jeremiah and later Jesus use trees to tell their own separate but similar
stories of waiting and noticing, of promises and their fulfillment.
Advent – the four weeks leading up to Christmas – marks the
beginning of the church calendar and I can’t help but notice again that we
begin, not with action, but with waiting.
Active waiting accompanied by a good many urgent appeals for us to Pay
Attention! and Stay Awake!
So frequent are the biblical reminders for us to “pay
attention,” you would think the human condition is just one big
post-Thanksgiving-meal fog. It’s as
though the bible recognizes our tendency to hit the snooze button, to slumber
while driving along familiar roads.
It may seem simple, but it takes a certain kind of attention
to notice the state of the world around us, something like the ability of a
four-year-old to see and name the nakedness of the trees.
//
This week I hope to decorate an evergreen in our yard – a perfectly
plump fir we affectionately refer to as “the Christmas tree.” Last year we could neither afford nor did we
have the energy to hang lights outside, but this year we’ve taken the plunge
and crumpled icicle lights hang already around the front porch roof and the
roof of the well house.
Soon the kids will climb the Christmas tree with lights in
tow and we’ll call out directions from the ground. It will probably involve some yelling and end
in a big tangled mess, but the tree, dressed in its winter greens, will have
lights. I don’t know whether the other
trees in the yard – the naked ones – will look on with envy or relief.
Later this month we’ll cut an overpriced evergreen and drag
it into the house where it will become a hiding place for the kids and jungle-gym
for the cats. We’ll string it too with
lights and tempers will probably flare between my husband and I and the kids
who swarm in excited anticipation as the memory-making debacle unfolds.
It’s tempting to think of all of those trees and lights as
just another distraction. Sometimes they
are. But I look forward to plugging them
in at the end of the day, to watching the kids run off the bus in the early
evening dusk toward a house wrapped round with light.
We may not all have the attentiveness required to notice the
“naked trees,” but surely we can learn to notice light.
May the many lights of Christmas and the trees that bear them remind
us of our tendency to snooze. May they help us Stay Awake as we wait for the coming of the Light.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Quiet Lights (Advent Wonder for Your In-box 2015)
(This post is a re-post, but the invitation to Quiet Lights continues this Advent – don’t miss out. Simply subscribe via the link below!)
Dinner time at our house is often, well, make that always, insane.
But every once in awhile, when I’ve had it up-to-here with the volume and intensity, I set a few small candles in the center of the table and turn off the overhead lights. The darkness brings a momentary quiet, which is no small feat with four young children gathered around.
We all hear the striking of the match and watch as light bursts into being. Lighting candles at dinner instills, for a few moments at least, a sense of awe and wonder in the middle of what’s otherwise a hectic, frantic, free-for-all.
Walking through a store a few weeks ago, I found myself surrounded by the stuff of Christmas. As I thought of the season ahead, I realized my deepest desire is to be present to this precious season – to slow down and be re-awakened to awe and wonder.
Maybe this is your desire too?
This Advent season I’d like to offer you a series of Quiet Lights in your inbox. Think of these emails as me lighting a candle for you.
Each email will contain a simple poem or quote as well as a few links to good reads from around the web aimed at deepening your capacity for presence, stillness and wonder during advent.
This isn’t one more thing to do, no one needs that this time of year, it’s simply an opportunity to be – to be present, to be aware, to be awakened.
These free emails will begin December 1st and continue through the Christmas season. Interested? Click on the link below to enter your email address and subscribe or visit the Field of Wild Flowers facebook page and send me a private message and I’ll add you myself.
I’d be grateful if you’d share this post (via facebook or email) with both your friends at large and two or three close friends who you believe would be blessed by receiving Quiet Lights in their inbox. The more, the merrier!
Click here to subscribe to Quiet Lights.
Sometimes the most important thing in a whole day
is the rest we take between two deep breaths,
or the turning inwards in prayer
for five short minutes.
—Etty Hillesum
Books
Between Heaven and Earth (poems)
Prayer can easily become an afterthought, a hasty sentence, a laundry list of all the things we want. But what if prayer is a time to find out what God wants for us–and for our world? What does it mean to pray that the kingdom would come here and now as it is in heaven? Explore these questions in this study, and learn prayer practices that nurture intimacy with God and sensitivity to God’s dream for the world.
Follow this writer, spiritual director, and mother of four as she dives into the deep end of chicken farming and wrestles with the risks and rewards of living a life she loves. At turns hilarious, thoughtful, and always compassionate, Chicken Scratch will change the way you see the mess and chaos involved in living life to its fullest.
