Essays
The Wood Is Slow (a poem)
The wood is
slow
to burn this
morning,
reluctant
and stubborn.
Leaning into
the stove’s
metal mouth,
I draw
deep breaths
and
exhale with
force
in a steady
rhythm.
This must be
how God
hovered
over the
still body
formed from
the earth,
the slow, stubborn
dust pressed
together.
God leaning,
breathing,
and the
human
bursting
into life,
like a
flame.
God coaxing
the fire
of humanity.
This post is linked with Give Me Grace, Playdates With God, and #TellHisStory.
The Gift of Community (#SmallWonder)
Make new friends, but keep the old,
one is silver and the other’s gold.
I visited my daughter’s Brownie troop this
past December to teach the girls how to make fresh-cut evergreen swags. The craft went quickly; before long it was time to wrap up and I was
invited to join the “closing circle.”
We stood with our hands held together,
right-over left, and it came back to me in a flash – the way we closed Brownies
and then Girls Scouts when I was a child with the same circle, the same gentle
hand squeeze that passed from person to person.
With your hands crossed that way you can
turn and spin your way out of the circle, everyone slowly unwrapping like a
pretzel while still staying connected.
//
If anyone told me three years ago that
I would find significant community online, I would likely have given them the
same doubtful looks, the same disbelieving questions that I get from others
these days.
You can’t really get to know people online, can you?
And yet, here I am, with a significant
amount of my most meaningful support, encouragement and comradery coming from
online relationships.
There’s the former Pastor, now writer and Spiritual Director in
California who pops in from time to time, always with a word of encouragement.
And the new friend in Washington State who sent me a book in the mail
because she “really thought it would speak to where I’m at.”
There are the men who graciously allowed me to walk through Advent
with them, and the other author who trucked his whole family out to our house to do a
small book reading. Online, I have the privilege of finding others whose voices and way of being in the
world echo my own and that, for me, is a rare and real gift.
It’s hard sometimes for people to
understand how isolating having twins can be – how difficult it is to get to
and enjoy even the simplest social gatherings. While we
still need (and are grateful for) the real flesh-and-blood neighbors who fill-in with a warm meal or a
walk in the park at the end of a long, frustrating day, I find myself immensely
grateful for the wide world of connection that waits here at my finger-tips.
//
This week I’m grateful for the wonder of
supportive community and, in honor of that, I want to introduce you to the
circle of women who help host #SmallWonder.
We stay connected through a private facebook group and one of us aims to
visit and comment on your links each week.
It takes a community to lead a community and this is the smaller circle
that supports you all:
Beth Hess, in her own words, is a “Beauty Hunter, God Spotter, Grace Giver, Story Teller, Key Dropper.” She blogs regularly at her newly redesigned blog space Trading Good for Grace.
Amber Cadenas writes “with the hope that others might be inspired to see their own lives through different eyes.” Her blogging home is called, Beautiful Rubbish: everyday art of learning to see.
Jody Collins is a substitute teacher by day and writer by heart who describes herself as “looking for Jesus in the everyday light, singing and writing along the way.” She blogs at Three Way Light.
I would love it if you could make a habit of visiting and encouraging these wise and gifted women.
Here we are – Jody, Amber, Beth and I, linking hands, left over right in a circle together. Won’t you join us as we stand and sing, twist and turn, unfolding together in friendship?
* * *
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 might gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post of about five hundred words or less 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.
Beyond Logic (Why We’re Considering Getting a Dog)
(Can you even believe how wildly happy this dog looks?!)
Deep in the human unconscious is a pervasive
need for a logical universe that makes sense.
But the real universe is always one step beyond logic. – Frank Herbert
My best
friend from seminary had two dogs – two basset hounds to be exact. One brown and one black, they followed us on
long walks along the canal path that ran behind student housing.
Two dogs in
a small seminary housing apartment is a lot.
Later, when
she finished her doctorate and began teaching, we visited her and her husband
at their new home. By then they had
three dogs, having adopted a little blind dog (whose breed I can’t recall).
Three dogs,
even in a spacious home, is a lot.
Maybe that’s
why my friend felt the need to explain their newest addition. “We just felt like maybe something was
missing, like maybe we could have more joy in our home,” she said and I knew
exactly what she meant.
I was
working part time as our church’s Associate Pastor and our kids were two and
four. Lying in bed late at night my
husband and I let questions rise and float into the air above our bed. We were wondering about a third child,
wondering what we wanted and why. Mostly
we were convinced that we were unsure and we resolved that waiting awhile might
make the most sense.
But that
question of more joy, that sense that we were on the edge of a tipping point
toward something more, it circled us like a tempting fragrance, subtle,
suggestive, inviting. Looking back I
think what we were sensing was the possibility of a larger life than we’d
imagined for ourselves, a desire to fall head-over-heels into a good and
spacious place.
The
unexpected arrival of twins tipped us, for sure.
It was, to
put it mildly, terrifying, perhaps even apocalyptic. It was the end of many things and the
beginning of many more; it was as Merriam Webster defines ‘apocalyptic’ –
wildly unrestrained.
More joy,
I’m learning, never seems reasonable.
It seldom seems
responsible.
It quite
often may give the appearance of disrespectability.
More joy may
well be apocalyptic, i.e. wildly unrestrained.
I was
talking to a friend the other night and she mentioned plans to pick out a puppy
the next day. They already have three
dogs, several goats, cats and chickens.
She said her husband looked at her as they stood in the kitchen earlier
that day and asked reflectively, “What are we doing?”
“I don’t
know,” she replied.
She had
always wanted a Basset Hound and I told her over the phone, “Sometimes you just
have to lean into the joy.”
It sounded
like a wise thing to say.
Lately,
sigh, we’ve been talking about getting a dog.
We have two cats now that were delivered by a dear friend the day after
I was released from a week-long hospital stay this past summer. Getting two cats directly after a nervous
break-down of sorts was not a logical decision, but they’ve brought us a lot of
joy.
We have four
hens and four kids and endless lists of home repairs as well as a steady stream
of laundry and dishes. This all, for two
adults, is a lot.
And yet . .
.
Getting
ready for bed the other night we were again discussing the idea.
“Why would
we get a dog?” I asked, sincerely and my husband, sitting on the side of the
tub, began ticking off a long and rambling list of reasons.
Interrupting,
I asked, “Are you trying to give flimsy answers or are our reasons really that
flimsy?”
“No,” he
said, smiling, “those were real reasons.”
One thing I
keep hearing as we continue weighing the decision, is the possibility that we
would all really enjoy a dog – the possibility of more joy.
Joy.
Sometimes you
just have to lean into it – at least that’s what I hear.
Sometimes
there are things worth grasping that lie beyond the confines of reason and
logic, things that require a tipping of sorts, at least one
heart-in-your-throat moment of wild un-restraint.
When have
you been moved to do something that didn’t “make sense” for the sake of joy? What’s the last time you found yourself “wildly
unrestrained”?
Linking with #TellHisStory and Give Me Grace.
Steadfast Love (#SmallWonder)
The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. – Lamentations 3:22
The field, the road, the driveway were covered when I crept down the stairs in early morning dark. Dry white flakes drifted all morning long,
through devotions and breakfast battles and the big out-the-door rush. Slowly my own plans for the morning fell
apart – the roads looked bad and bundling the twins to pick up the sitter felt
like more than I could handle.
I don’t do well with that – the letting go and shifting of
agendas, the surrender of a planned escape. Fortunately it’s a move I’m privileged
to practice over and over again.
The snow finally stopped by late afternoon and the sun broke
out like a warm smile, so the twins and I headed out to investigate the
altered landscape. It was all there –
the natural beauty of white laid out, like powdered sugar coating
everything. The sky was blue, like it
hasn’t been for days this side of the New Year.
Then also, there was the joy of work, the fun of scraping the shovel
along the side-walk and driveway, the satisfaction of exertion that didn’t
involve the sink or laundry or sweeping the floors.
The twins – two three-year-olds with their hoods up and
mittens on, clomping and stomping along in their winter boots – were a joy to
behold. All morning long they ate snow
by the fire indoors, scooping it into their mouths from a cup I filled again
and again as they waited to go out and play.
Outside they shoveled railroad tracks across the driveway and turned a
little plastic mower into a snow blower.
Then they remembered snowballs and scooped up handfuls of
dried fluff to aim at my knees and shins.
Levi spun around in a full circle with every throw, not noticing the
snow had fallen before he even began.
Dry snow clung to my corduroys making bright white stripes against navy
blue.
I shoveled a path to the road for the older two coming home
later on the bus then, infiltrated by the cold, we walked back up the driveway
to head inside.
Blessing was there, the entire day, as it is every day and
the harder I clung to disappointment, the harder it was to find it. The deeper surrender set-in, the more I let
go of what might-have-been and sank into what was, the more I could sense blessing
hovering on the periphery like a small white dove.
I wanted it bad – wanted to feel the joy of God’s presence,
that falling-open and dropping into place that comes when I stand flat-footed
on the ground that’s solid, always, right where I am. Walking toward the garage, under the blue sky
and sun, I thought, “It’s almost there, but not quite” and for the briefest of
moments I was disappointed.
Then it seemed clear to me, clear like the light blue sky,
that it didn’t really matter.
The blessing of love and acceptance, of guidance and care
are there, always, whether I can feel it quite completely or not. The steadiness, consistency and presence of
God’s love is neither dependent on my awareness nor diminished by my
unawareness. And that, is no small wonder.
* * * *
Welcome, friends, 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 would gather together here each week (or as often as we’re able) to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post of about five hundred words or less 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.
Looking for Unforced Rhythms? We’re a community in transition. We invite you to consider whether this new link-up meets your needs and to participate as you’re able.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Snow Days
But Sarah’s heart was full. It was as full as when the sounds of her own children had filled her house. – in “The Mitten Tree” by Candace Christiansen
Everywhere I
look people are writing about the silence, the quiet hush of these snow-covered
days. Upstairs alone for a few brief
moments, the fluffy, white duvet on our bed fills me with longing to be covered
also, to lay down under a blanket of white.
Two full walls of windows fill the room with sunlight so inviting, but I
turn and head downstairs to the kitchen, the heart of our home.
Snow brings
silence, peace, stillness, they say, but our house hums like a hive on these
winter days. School is canceled or
delayed and four little bodies fill every corner with motion and noise, the
steady, spinning, thriving sound of energy bottled for a time.
A whole
beautiful day of giant fluffy flakes passes without a moment to pause.
No sitting
quietly by the window with a steaming mug.
No time to
marvel much as the setting sun paints the landscape pink with long steady strokes.
We twirl
through these days like so many snowflakes falling, carried along by the weight
of who we are. It would be a lie if I
were to claim an unwavering contentment about this – about the noise and motion,
the constant clutter and chaos.
But I’m
learning to love what is rather than longing for what is not and that in
itself offers a silence of sorts, a settling-in to the falling, swirling journey of
these days. I know now that this too shall pass.
Piled on the couch with my boys, reading “The Mitten Tree,” it comes to me: the silence and the sound, the stillness and the humming hive, they are but two sides of an ever-changing coin. In welcoming one, I prepare myself to welcome – embrace – the other; the key to contentment and joy is hidden in the surrender to what is, rather than in the longing for some preferred alternative.
Linking with Jennifer Dukes Lee. Photo credit: Here.
Small Wonder Link-up
Most
mornings I’m up by six with the goal of ingesting equal amounts of caffeine and
silence before the clock strikes seven and the kids tumble down the stairs. This morning
when I plopped down on the love seat with the first warm cup of coffee, it was nearly
seven.
The sky was grayed by a blanket
of fog, the world pale and shy through the windows. I sat facing the stairs and for the briefest
of moments the white balusters supporting the handrail appeared to be floating
in mid-air, foundation-less.
Light from one window lit the curved
spindles highlighting them while light from another colored their small square bases exactly the right shade of gray to blend in
with the paneled wall behind. It was an
optical illusion that lasted a minute or less as the morning light shifted
quickly and I was there to see it.
This morning
the light is slow to come, the wind is howling and the online forecast suggests the next few days will keep me busy feeding the wood stove to stave off the
cold. So far January has been gray and
damp and I’m learning to find a certain comfort in the fog, aside from its
obvious beauty.
I don’t like
not being able to see very far ahead in my own life, but the fog seems to tell
me it’s ok. The whitened landscape reminds me that there’s often a gentleness in not knowing and a
gift in having no other option but being fully present right where we are.
I was there
on the couch at just the right moment to observe that small and fleeting wonder
– wonder right in front of me, inside my very own little house.
This is what
I’m thinking about these days – these small wonders, moments that open and
close like so many flowers blooming and fading throughout the garden of my day.
* * *
Welcome, friends, 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 would gather together here each week (or as often as we’re able) to share one small moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post of about five hundred words or less 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.
Looking for Unforced Rhythms? We’re a community in transition. We invite you to consider whether this new link-up meets your needs and to participate as you’re able.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Turned and Turning
Me and my “bitty-boy,” enjoying the rope swing.
She asked what my sense of God was and it came like a flash in my
mind.
Levi is my
“uppie” boy still at three and a half.
Lately he’s taken to bargaining to achieve a place on my hip.
“If you take
me uppie, I will give you a kiss,” he says with his face lifted and searching.
Lifting him
to sit on my side or to straddle my belly, he presses his chapped lips to my
check all satisfied sweetness and light with his short skinny arms twined back
beneath my hair – he clings to my neck like heavy fruit hanging on the
vine.
I don’t know
why he’s obsessed with being “up,” except that he’s the youngest (by nine
minutes) and that it probably has to do with being, for a brief while at least,
on eye level with those who so often tower over him. He’s not so easily dismissed this way and
that boy, he wants to be taken seriously almost as much as he wants to be
babied.
His eyes
have changed lately, though I couldn’t tell you when. Once a pale blue, they’re now a deeper shade, something between
blue and green. Sometimes when he’s
telling me something, pressing his words on me with a sense of urgency and
importance, I get lost in his eyes and the long gently curved lashes that frame
them.
Fine blond
eyebrows follow the curve of his brow and I watch for the wrinkle he was born
with, the furrow that shows itself sometimes still on the inside end of his
left brow when he scrunches his face in play or in pain. Lost in his
eyes and face I stop listening to the words and marvel somehow at the fullness
of him.
Sensing the shift, he doesn’t let me get away with it for long. When he’s
riding high on my hip and my attention wanders his little hands
reach up, firmly framing my face, one on each cheek, as he turns my head, not
gently, toward himself. With his hands,
he shifts my focus and – should I persist, say, in talking to my husband or
checking on dinner by turning my head away – he reaches out again and again to
turn me back toward himself.
“This is my
sense,” I say, “of God right now.”
God who
speaks at eye level as I listen, drawing me into his eyes, the fullness that
exists beyond individual words. God who
reaches with a hand, persistent and demanding, like a child, turning me again
and again to himself.
“If you take
me, I will give you a kiss,” God whispers and I am forever turned and turning toward those
words and the eyes beyond them, turning toward the heart that seeks me, that
turns me toward itself.
How does God get your attention these days?
I’m happy to be linking up with #TellHisStory this week.
Welcome: Small Wonder
Today I’m grateful to welcome the Unforced Rhythms community to my little space on the internet – Welcome, friends.
This past year was a real doozy for me personally, full of all sorts of unexpected ups and downs. 2015 has me feeling glad to embrace something new, ready to look ahead and move on. As I do, though, there are a number of things I will carry with me from 2014 – two, in particular, that I’d like to share with you.
The first is that years like the one I had in 2014 have a way of revealing your real friends – periods of sickness and struggle have a way of highlighting who it is that really helps you carry the burden of your own life.
These friends, whether near or far, tend to stick around for both the ups and downs, and if you’re fortunate to have some very old friendships (as I am) these people bring the extra special gift of knowing your history. Armed with that knowledge they’re able to see beyond the present circumstances and remind you of your own story, to tell it back to you when it feels like you’ve lost your way or run into a dead-end.
This is one of the things I see and appreciate in the Unforced Rhythms community which originally grew out of Michelle DeRusha’s “Hear it on Sunday, Use it on Monday” link-up before being passed on to Kelli Woodford. As a participant in both link-ups, I’ve noticed that while there are people who come and go, there’s also a core of dedicated people who make up this network of grace-seeking, spirit-listening people.
You, my friends, are the “old friends,” the ones who know the history and can tell it back to newcomers like myself and who hold the life of the community steady as it waxes and wanes. You’ve stayed steady, faithful, as we’ve rounded bends, hit dead-ends and generally journeyed together.
Thank you for being here, for your faithfulness, commitment and dedication.
Thank you for visiting other links, for commenting and sharing, for praying for each other.
This community is more than just a gathering of links and names, more than the digital code that ties it all together – beyond all of that is real flesh and blood, body and spirit that knits it all together. This is a credit to Michelle DeRusha, Kelli Woodford and others who led and made space for community to grow.
As I look ahead to hosting this link-up I’d like to again ask for your grace as I humbly make some tweaks and changes. I’m grateful to welcome you here and I want to welcome you in a way that reflects who I am and the core of what I value here at Wild Flowers.
Sometime I’ll tell you more about that – how I came to be here, how I live and breathe and write here in the midst of a very ordinary life, but for now I want to keep it simple and let you know about something else I learned in 2014 and how I hope that will give us vision and energy as we connect in the year ahead.
I’m a dreamer, a planner, a girl with big expectations when it comes to life. But I’m also very limited in all the common ways that make us human – I have less time, less energy, less resources than I think I should. I’m not always able to follow through with my own big ideas – whether for my family, church or professional life.
Limits are a gift, though, a reminder of our common humanity and an invitation to embrace the small moments of joy, wonder, grace and even sorrow that fill our daily lives. There are lots of groups, lots of blogs and speakers out there encouraging us to “think big,” to “dream” and “extend our reach,” in short, to “overcome our limits” and while there are times for stepping out, there are also times for embracing the small things, for observing and savoring the moment. In fact it’s the ability to see and savor what is that most often leads to something more.
Seeing what is.
Now that’s an interesting invitation.
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?
Isn’t it possible that when we look for Wonder, we start to see it more and more? That small wonders might pile together on top of themselves into a lifetime of grace?
What if we choose to be a community of wonder-seekers who live and write with open hearts looking, listening for the breath of God in every moment, every place, every person?
That’s my proposal – that we would gather together here each week (or as often as we’re able) to share with each other one small moment of Wonder from each of our days.
In the weeks ahead I want to invite you to link-up a brief post of about five hundred words or less about a Small moment of Wonder. Will you join me in that, in cultivating a space for and celebration of wonder?
Think about it. Pray about it. Let me know what you think.
For now, this week, link up what you have done already.
But next week and in the weeks ahead, keep an eye out for the little moments of wonder when the very ground you stand on opens up to reveal the Something More your heart is longing for. Then jot it down quickly. Briefly create a little word picture as a way of pressing Wonder deeper into your heart and then stop by and share it with us here.
She Wore Red (a poem)
She never wore red, although
it was her favorite color. But
when she died, her coffin was
draped with red roses, soft
as velvet. And so in the end,
dressed in a soft pink
housecoat, she wore red
and I stood over her casket
in black with a red leather purse
tucked under one arm.
The Ruby Year (on our Fifteenth Anniversary)
He gave me
a red stone.
A ruby pendant
dangled, round
and full like
a pomegranate,
wrapped
in the Sunday
comics, the only
colored pages
in the midst
of stories told
in black and white.
“I thought
you’d like it,”
he said,
and I did.
Photo source HERE.
Wild Flowers Book Club (Spiritual Misfit: A Memoir of Uneasy Faith)
Did you know that A Field of Wild Flowers hosts a private online Book Club?
You can read more about it HERE. This past fall 18 people from all across the States (and one from New Zealand!) participated in a six week discussion of Parker Palmer’s wise little book, Let Your Life Speak.
This week I’m excited to announce our second book and offer you a chance to win a free signed copy.
That’s my oldest two posing with Michelle DeRusha’s book, Spiritual Misfit: A Memoir of Uneasy Faith. Michelle’s book arrived at my house while we were in the middle of packing up, changing schools and rewiring the house of our dreams. If anything tells you how good this book is (and how enjoyable to read) it’s the fact that I found time to read it and write a review right in the middle of that crazy time in our lives!
You can read my review of Michelle’s book here, where I list three things I liked about the book. The one thing that excited me most about this book (that I didn’t include in my review) is its potential usefulness in starting conversations. Michelle’s writing is so transparent and human that it easily sets the table for talking about our own experiences and struggles with faith.
I’m excited to explore this book with you – it’s suitable for those who lean steadily toward belief and also anyone who struggles in making sense of “Christian-ese” and wonders what this “Jesus thing” is all about. Another bonus? Michelle has agreed to join us one week for an “ask the author” session.
Interested? Here are the details:
The book has eleven chapters and our book club will run for about eight weeks (depending how things unfold) so there will be some weeks when we read more than one chapter, but never more than about 30 pages. It will be hosted in a private Facebook
group so our conversation will not be public. Those who want to participate will need to
“friend” me on Facebook so I can add you to the group.
Monday, February 2 will be our official start date, which should give plenty of time to order, win or borrow a copy of the book. We’ll plan finish up by the end of March.
Every Monday I’ll post a quote from the
chapters under discussion as a starting point for conversation. On
Wednesdays it’ll be your turn to lead by posting a quote you especially
liked or any questions you want to raise. The best part about online book discussion is that you can
check in and comment or reply at a time that works for YOU.
You’re free to comment as much as you
like or be a “stalker” if you’re more shy. Some weeks you may not get
to the reading, but you’re still welcome to participate as much as you
can. The main rules will be that we will all show grace and compassion
in regard to each other’s experiences and opinions.
You can find the book for sale on Amazon here for around $12.
Now, (drum roll, please!) I’m grateful that Michelle has agreed to mail a FREE signed copy to one lucky winner. To be entered into the drawing for the free book, just comment
below by 12 midnight on Thursday January 15th indicating your
interest in participating. To have your name entered a second time in the drawing, you
can also comment on or like this post on the Wildflowers Facebook page (this will ensure that more followers see the post). All names will be put into a bowl and the winner will be picked and announced by Friday the 16th.
I would love your help in spreading the word! Please share 🙂and let me know if you have any questions!
This post is linked with Playdates With God and Unforced Rhythms.
Welcome (Five Minute Friday)
Perfect, our
lanky kitten with white paws and chin, welcomes me to the day. I carry her tucked under my arm and close to
my chest and she rattles and shakes with a crackling purr as we descend the stairs
together.
I welcome
the day with a large volume of caffeine, darkness and silence, drinking them each in steady gulps, but it isn’t long before little feet patter and pound through the upstairs
hallway. Three little boys pop out of
their beds in turn like popcorn kernels heated to bursting. They take turns running to the potty and
standing in the darkness calling down the same question again and again, “When
can we wake up?”
“It’s early,”
I say, “look how dark it is. Go back to
sleep.”
Blankets are
tucked and kisses exchanged with promises of more kisses later.
Darkness lingers
as the day creeps across the snow white field.
They continue to call and slowly my
responses shift, “A few more minutes,” then, “just five more minutes, you can turn the light on now and talk
quietly.”
I suck the
marrow out of each morning, savoring the cool, quiet darkness that welcomes me
and once I’ve had my fill I turn at last to welcome these warm, loud, little
lights as they break into the day.
Photo Source: Here.
This post is linked with Five Minute Friday.
Outlaws and Rebels (for “Black Hats” Everywhere)
Don’t you just love this old picture I stumbled across online?
[The holiday break’s officially over and as I headed out to wait for the bus with the older two, the twins were ecstatic to have a few moments to themselves to “steal” something from the kitchen. I knew this because they announced their plan over and over again all morning long, eagerly anticipating the moment when they would scavenge for gum and candy in the kitchen cupboards. The thought of getting away with something gives them such a thrill and, since half the time it’s a bag of bread from the drawer or a giant stalk of broccoli when my back is turned, I often let them get away with it. Ah, such is the luck of youngest children.
This weekend we shared dinner with friends who also have four children spread in age just as ours are, but their twins (girls) are about a year younger. It’s always good to be with them, good to remember how it was (just a year ago), to feel that things have gotten a little easier and commiserate on how hard it all continues to be. All of this brought to mind this old post from 2013. Enjoy!]
“They crucified two rebels with him, one on his left and one on his right.” Matthew 27:38
My 18 month-old twins saunter through the house with
swaggering bravado like two black-hats straight out of the lawless west. Together, they form a mafia-esque
crime-ring, a rebellious conspiracy against law and order and decency. Trafficking in black market goods pilfered
from the pile of floor-sweepings in the kitchen corner, they gather on the back
of the love seat, perched in the window to inspect and trade their haul.
They rip the heads off of their sister’s dolls and leave
graffiti on the living room walls and every time I kneel to zip Isaiah’s
coat, Levi circles around behind me and roots through my purse. A gifted pick-pocket, he snatches my wallet
and phone with such speed, stealth and precision that my frustration is mixed with marvel.
When one’s finally caught, red-handed, and placed in
solitary (ie. the corner) the other comes quickly to the rescue, crouching down
beside him, chattering about what I imagine are plans of daring-escape and revenge. Like true accomplices, though, they quickly
turn on each other when caught together at the scene of a crime – a mutually
enjoyed destruction turns all finger-pointing and tears when the “fuzz” shows up.
The other day I watched Levi running through the house with
what appeared to be a little shiv. It
sported a jagged, plastic tip and seemed capable of inflicting real harm, so
I quickly confiscated it, tossing it into the trash.
Lying in bed at night my husband and I hear a “scritch,
scratch, scritch” on the bedroom wall near our heads. Levi’s crib sits just on the other side of
the wall so we sleep head-to-head, divided only by a few thin inches of plaster.
We tell ourselves he’s rubbing the nubby
bottoms of his footed pajamas against the wall, but listening late into
the night, I think of that little shiv and wonder if he isn’t tunneling
his way to freedom in a scene straight out of The Fugitive. Chipping away, one tiny scratch at a time,I
picture him tumbling through into our bed some night, his face full of surprise
and disappointment to find us there or, more likely, delighted.
These boys are outlaws, I tell you – how can ones so little, so cute, already have a rap sheet a mile-long? Looking at their round little faces, their hair
all downy-fluff, I’m reminded that we’re all thieves, all outlaws of one sort
or another, every last one of us. We’re
all Davids and Delilahs, Judases and Peters bent on greed and self-preservation. We’re all convicted, but
not condemned, chiseling our way toward freedom, one tiny crack at a time, until
at last we fall through the wall to Love.
//
What‘s the worst trick you played as a child? Did you get away with it??
Linking with the community at Unforced Rhythms.
Scrappy
My husband
made a shovel for gathering the ashes out of our wood stove in the
mornings. Before that we were using my son’s plastic beach shovel, but
hot coals and plastic, well . . .
He made the
scoop out of a tin can which, up until dinner time held creamed corn.
The handle was cut from an old wooden dowel, something I salvaged from a broken
roller blind left here by the previous owner.
We spent a
few minutes laughing about the shovel the other night after the kids were in bed. I asked if we could hide it when company
comes, he said he might write Heloise with the idea.
The other
day one of the older kids asked what the word “scrappy” meant and I
was at a loss. That night, had they asked, I could’ve held up that
shovel. John and I have always been scrappy, trying time and again to
turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse.
There was a time in our country where the ability to scrape things together
from scratch was seen as something like a virtue or at least a great
asset. I think of my Grandmother’s drawer of lightly-used tin foil, the
balls of saved rubber bands and I remember learning to darn socks with her, using
careful stitches and an old wooden heel form.
These days,
though, there seems to be a bit of shame that lingers around both the need and
ability to scrape things together – or is it just me who feels the shame of not
enough?
We can’t
afford to buy a shovel and we’re keeping the ashes in old tin coffee cans donated
from my husband’s co-worker. Firewood sits in a plastic five gallon
bucket near the stove.
I guess, if
we had the money, we’d pull up amazon and order one of those fancy fireplace
sets, all of the manufactured tools to do the job right and look good
too. Or maybe we wouldn’t.
The Merriam
Webster online dictionary tells me scrappy, as an adjective, can mean
1.
consisting of scraps (as in that shovel my husband made) or
2. having an
aggressive and determined spirit
I don’t typically think of myself as aggressive and it would be the last word anyone would use to describe my husband, but somehow, that second definition seems to fit and I like it.
What do you think? Are you scrappy? If so, are you proud of it or embarrassed?
Mind the Gap (on crossing into a new year)
The illustrationshowed a picture of a duck standing over a crack
in the ice,one webbed foot on either side.
My son, who picked the book, exclaimed over the image on the way home
from the library and later, as we read on the couch, his hand reached out to
touch the page.
I woke yesterday
morning with that image in my mind – the crack in the ice and the duck spanning
the gap. To me it represents the time we’re in right
now, one foot planted
forward in the year to come and one still hesitating on the edge of the one just passed.
//
It was the
best of years, it was the worst of years.
At the beginning of 2014 we were waiting, caught between homes and anxious to be under
contract in what appeared to be the home of our dreams. Then the news came and we lost the house and
stayed stuck where we were for a month before “way opened” and we finally
moved forward.
The year we
left behind (2013) was filled with shadows and light and the year ahead held more of
the same. Had I known last January how
2014 would unfold, I don’t know what I would’ve thought. I suppose, maybe I would have been like Mary
and the shepherds, caught between a mix of awe and fear or perhaps, like the
wise men, knowing more, I would’ve taken another road home.
//
A prayer from the New Zealand Prayer Book closes the day with the following words,
“What has
been done has been done; what has not
been done has not been done. Let it be.”
These are wise words to carry with us as we lay 2014 to rest, as we mind the gap
between what has been and what is to come.
And yet, the
past is always with us.
It‘s the ground
upon which we stand, the compost heap that feeds the future. To “let it be” is not to simply forget, but to
let it be what it will be, let it unfold, decompose – the good, the bad and the
ugly – into something more fertile, more useful, adding wisdom and depth,
riches to the year to come.
//
Two nights ago we impulsively started tearing out a wall in the bathroom. This is the first of many steps
involved in adding a fourth bedroom to our house. There are holes in the plaster now, gaps
revealing the things between – between walls, between ceiling and floor. The whole project is a little crazy, a little
overwhelmingly bold and, with a hazy sense of direction, we plan to move
forward one step at a time.
This, I
think, is the best we can hope to do – to move forward, minding the gap between
what was and what will be as the New Year unfolds in ways and directions we cannot foresee.
Moving ahead, I think of these words from the late priest, Henri Nouwen, most importantly, the ones in bold,
To wait open-endedly is an enormously radical attitude toward life. So
is to trust that something will happen to us that is far beyond our
imaginings. So, too, is giving up control over our future and letting
God define our life, trusting that God molds us according to God’s love
and not according to our fear.
The spiritual life is a life in which we
wait, actively present to the moment, trusting that new things will
happen to us, new things that are far beyond our own imagination,
fantasy, or prediction. That, indeed, is a very radical stance toward
life in a world preoccupied with control. – Henri Nouwen
May you find yourself radically positioned, friends, actively present and trusting God’s great love for you as you enter 2015.
Photo source: HERE.
I want to thank each of you who’ve read, commented, shared and encouraged me in my writing over the past year. Soon, I‘ll have a few announcements about some new and exciting things coming in 2015. I’m grateful to have the honor of journeying with you!
Centerpieces (a poem)
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This December presented the opportunity to fulfill a life-long secret dream of being a florist as I worked at a dear friend’s flower farm for a few days. The first day was spent cutting Eucalyptus branches and “greening” a series of lovely centerpieces. I was surprised by the boldness the work required, both physically (flowers are tougher than you think and need to be firmly pushed into the waiting foam if you want an arrangement that holds up) and creatively. Thinking about it a few days later, I wrote this poem. I’d like to think it applies to more in life than just flower arranging, but I’ll let you be the judge of that.
Placing
flowers
in soft,
moist foam
is not for
the faint of heart.
It takes a
certain pressure,
confidence
and bravery.
Tight and
small, fearful
arrangements
will not do,
not for a
wedding, a feast,
or even a
funeral.
Step back,
observe
the bigger
picture;
dare to make
bold
choices,
be proud of
their
effect.
Photo Source: Here.
Linking with the lovely Laura and the Unforced Rhythms community.
Emptied and Humbled
You hollow us out, God,
so that we may carry you,
and you endlessly fill us
only to be emptied again.
Make smooth our inward spaces
and sturdy, that we may hold you
with less resistance
and bear you
with deeper grace.
– Jan Richardson
It’s Christmas Eve morning.
The cats are tearing back and forth through the living room, jumping over the couches via the computer. Broken ornaments cover the carpet, the corners and a bright silver angel’s wing lays on the hardwood floor.
I guess this is how it is.
Things fall down, get broken and we’re riding into Christmas on the white water rapids of chaos.
We’re down to one red bottle of antibiotics in the fridge, but every night is split still, not with angel choirs and shining stars, but coughing and cries of “Me need go potty!”
Every morning I brace both hands against my side, stifling sneezes and coughs, gasping in pain as even the weakest of jolts causes what feels like a broken rib to spasm. The doctor says it’s a virus that’s settled in the connective tissue of my ribs causing inflammation.
Really?
She sent me for an x-ray anyway and on Christmas Eve’s eve I stood in a thin white gown, shivering and leaning against the cool white screen while the machine looked through to the very bone and gristle of me.
Will those x-rays show that I threw my son’s breakfast out that morning after a bit of sass and told him he needed to make his own? Is there some spot, small and gray, that reveals the grief of my Grandmother’s passing, the memories of individually wrapped cut-out cookies she mailed at Christmas time?
It hit me yesterday – I had somehow come to expect this Christmas would be different. Last year, living in a grim apartment, we didn’t expect much and the day was great, we made-do and were surprised by grace.
But somehow, in a new house, with the kids a little older this year, I guess I gave in to that old illusion that maybe we could somehow rise above the chaos that is our every day, by which I mean to say, the house might be a little more tidy, the children a little less demanding, my body a little less failing.
The kids are clamoring now to wake up and the cat is breaking one last silver ball. The angel’s wing shimmers still in the lamp light. Soon they’ll descend the stairs and it will be what it will be – a messy, sometimes happy, sometimes sad kind of human holiday.
If angels appear, if light shatters the darkness, it will not be of our own making. It will be because we’ve dropped the pretense, kneeling to clean, to hug, to read and wait together – emptied, like Christ, humbled.
Impossible (Advent Week 4)
The Annunciation by Henry Ossawa Tanner, 1897
In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent by God to a town in Galilee called Nazareth, to a virgin engaged to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. The virgin’s name was Mary. And he came to her and said, “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.” But she was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be. The angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. He
will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the
Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.” Mary said to the angel, “How can this be, since I am a virgin?” The
angel said to her, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power
of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God. And
now, your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son;
and this is the sixth month for her who was said to be barren. For nothing will be impossible with God.” Then
Mary said, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me
according to your word.” Then the angel departed from her. – Luke 1:26-38
I don’t have any new words, friends, for this old, old passage seems too full of light for me to grasp. Although Mary has been my Advent companion for the past several years, this week I find myself out in the dark, cold fields with the shepherds, out somewhere in the wild darkness still, waiting for the light, yearning for a star and a song to rend the night. But I can share a few old words of my own, a story written back in the early days of being a family of six, when the shock of a surprise pregnancy of twins was still wearing off in the summer of 2012. May you be blessed wherever you find yourself this week.
* * * * *
Impossible . . .
Snacks at our house are served in small glass Pyrex bowls – that and baby food and cereal and anything else that needs to be consumed. They’ve
also been used to serve cheerios to pet ants in the back yard and make a
perfect bed for my daughter’s small, white beanie-baby kitten.
We have almost ten of these bowls and go through nearly all of them on a daily basis. When
the twins are old enough to take part in the great American tradition
of sitting in front of the TV with a snack in hand we will go through
even more of these bowls.
The other day I ordered four more from Amazon, thinking we’d stock up, but I accidentally ordered the wrong size – 6oz, not 10. One morning I served my four year old his cereal in one of these new bowls and he noticed the difference right away.
“Mom, this bowl shrank! How did it shrink?!”
I couldn’t resist telling him that I did it. I wove an elaborate tale about how I was very tired because shrinking bowls was hard work and I’d stayed up all night to do it.
His questions abounded, “How did you do it? Can you shrink more?”
“No, only four – it’s very hard work,” I replied.
“Did you put them in hot water?” “Can you shrink me?”
Later, on the way to preschool, he commented from the back of the van,
“Boy, you must be really tired if you stayed up all night shrinking
bowls.”
//
He questions everything, but not the idea that it can be done because for him there’s no reason it can’t be done. There’s
also no reason for him to think he won’t be a jungle explorer when he
grows up (along with the whole family, and my job will be to stay back
at the hut with the babies!) or dig a hole big enough for us all to live
in on our next trip to Grandpa’s house (my job, he says, will be to
stay at the top and make sure it doesn’t fall in on everyone else).
He’s too young to absorb the laws of physics which declare that glass bowls can’t shrink (though they do break!). Too young to separate with clear lines the possible from the impossible.
A few weeks ago I met a new couple at church who asked, in getting to know me, “Do you have kids?” My reply to such questions until now has been something like, “We have two kids, six and four, and then we also have twins.” Splitting them up this way seems to make it sound more sane, less the impossible reality that it is. But that day, for the first time, I replied without qualifying, “I have four kids.”
//
I wander around the house these days, treading water, trying to stay
afloat while crunching layers of cheerios under my feet and endlessly
ferrying dirty glass bowls from one room to another.
I tell myself I’m the least likely candidate to be in charge of what feels like a small daycare. I think to myself, “This is not me. This is not possible. How can I be a mother of four kids?”
//
Children don’t know the difference between what is and isn’t possible. Maybe
this is part of what Jesus meant when he said we should become as
little children if we’re going to be able to enter into the kingdom of
God – the kingdom where the
lines between possible and impossible and all the other polar opposites
we think the world depends on are so deeply blurred.
God’s doing something strange here at my house, something no less amazing than shrinking glass bowls. God works late into the night – taking my tiny heart, my too small life and cracking it open.
It’s very hard work you see – with human hearts it’s two steps forward, one step back, as the muscle contracts God reaches out, yet again, to pry it open.
I’m learning to lean into the expansion, to believe in the impossible and say with Mary, “Let it be unto me . . .”
God, make me, make all of us, like a little child, like Mary. Teach us to believe beyond what we can see, grant us the courage needed to live into the impossible things that you have made possible.
I’ve been blessed this Advent to journey alongside of John D. Blase and Winn Collier – as we reflect on the same scripture passage each week. Stop by their spaces to see the story through a different light. I’m honored that they accepted my request to cast my lot with them this year and my heart has been blessed by an opportunity to walk with others through this darkness toward the coming light.
Rudolph’s Bargain Patch (A Christmas Story)
It sat
alone, across the muddy tractor tracks, next to the stinking porta-potties in a
wide and muddy pit.
Enjoying the
wagon ride out to the fields, the hacksaw in hand and children all around, my
husband and I hardly noticed the wide plastic sign, our sights set firmly on
cutting our own Douglas or Frasier fir.
We’re
skinny-tree people, the taller and spindlier the better and we were excited to
head out across the muddy fields to cut and claim our own piece of
Christmas. Two three-year-olds in tow,
we climbed down from the wagon and followed vague directions toward a distant
hill.
The boys lagged behind by the time we reached the first stand of trees – small, pre-cut
firs – and my husband I exchanged worried glances as we subtly scanned the
increasingly alarming price tags. We held a quick and quiet conference in the midst of the evergreens then turned as a family and headed back toward another field where the hopefully cheaper Douglas Firs waited.
Things
started to fall apart a little then.
Little people stumbled over stumps and ditches, hands were cold and
ears. There was an argument with an
older child about the need to zipper a coat.
We crossed the muddy wagon tracks to a field of still shorter trees and slowed, again exchanging looks over the price tags we passed.
Subtlety
aside, our older children picked up our tone and started exclaiming over the
prices too and then we were that family with too many kids
exclaiming in overly loud tones about the cost of the trees.
Picking a
tree in winter with young children in tow is a time-sensitive endeavor. We were running out of patience, hesitant to
pay for an overpriced tree that would be dwarfed by our nine-foot ceilings, but
more hesitant still to spend the gas and time needed to drive to a cheaper tree
farm.
That’s when
we remembered Rudolph’s Bargain Patch, a humble cluster of homely castaways – a
veritable island of misfit trees. I ran ahead to scout things out, saving precious little feet
unnecessary footsteps, and planned to signal back if the small patch held any promise. I slipped and scurried past a storage shed and several industrial outhouses before stopping by an overly cheerful sign emblazoned with a chipper little red-nosed reindeer.
Wagon-loads
of people road by as I dove into the muddy patch, running quickly between
the trees and, lo! to my great surprise our salvation lay in that lowly patch. I ran again into the roadway and waved the
family over, uncontainable excitement at the prospect of getting a “steal”
written across my face.
The trees
were enormous and cheap, so cheap, especially in comparison to what we’d just
seen. The six of us bobbed and wove
among them, stumbling and slipping in the mud, exclaiming over and over, “Look
at this one!” and “Oh my gosh, this one is huge.”
In the far
back corner sat the mother-load, a great monster of a tree, exceptional both
in girth and height – a tree so big and cheap that we couldn’t not get it.
Still, we
hesitated, grinning, circling, exclaiming and wondering.
Would it fit in our house? Our tree stand? Could my husband even carry it?
Finally we brought it to a vote and with smiles all around, from the littlest face to the
largest, we voted to embrace the glory of that giant, forlorn tree.
Stumbling a
little on his feet, my husband hoisted the heavy trunk halfway to his shoulder while
I “spotted” from behind. Then the six of us marched, triumphant, from the bargain patch, our faces filled with the glory of
largess, the audacity of abundance discovered in unexpected places.
People in
the passing wagons smiled at us and I imagined the picture we made – a family
short on cash with a gaggle of kids carrying this great misfit of a tree out of
the mud and muck like we’d just won the lottery.
I was
tempted to be embarrassed, but mostly I was joyful, exuberant.
Reading the
Magnificat this week it occurred to me that maybe this is something akin to
what Mary felt when she sang her famous song about the upheaval that was taking place within her. Maybe the joy we felt lugging
home that pearl of great price wasn’t so far removed from what the shepherds
felt, slipping and sliding their way to the manger; not so different from the
awe and welcome the wise men experienced entering the child’s simple home after
their costly exposure to Herod’s court.
When the tree was home and in the stand, my husband cut the wrapping off and there was a pregnant pause before whomp! it sprang out of its confines filling the room and our hearts with joy.
Every time I descend the stairs and spy it’s swollen circumference in the corner of the living room, Mary’s question chimes within me, “How can this be?” This is the story of Christmas, this story of searching and finding what you didn’t know you needed in a place you never
would’ve thought to look.
Credit for this sweet photo HERE.
(This post is dedicated to all of the families we’ve secretly and openly ridiculed for their ridiculously fat Christmas trees, specifically the Hicklins and the Ladases and in memory of my Grandfather Hausknecht whose Christmas trees got a little shorter and wider every year.)
The Visitation: Mary Laughed
“The Windsock Visitation” by Brother Michael O’Neil McGrath
“The
Windsock Visitation” by Brother Michael O’Neill McGrath – See more at:
http://www.catholic-sf.org/news_select.php&newsid=27&id=58007/printer_friendly.php?id=59819#sthash.PmjJu5C7.dpuf
And Mary said,
‘My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour,
for he has looked with favour on the lowliness of his servant.
Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for the Mighty One has done great things for me,
and holy is his name.
His mercy is for those who fear him
from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with his arm;
he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
and lifted up the lowly;
he has filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty.
He has helped his servant Israel,
in remembrance of his mercy,
according to the promise he made to our ancestors,
to Abraham and to his descendants for ever.’
– Luke 1:46-55
From the
moment the angel arrived,
despite assurances,
a small seed of fear
planted
itself at the base of her throat.
Longing and
love enabled her to speak
a few short words around it and in their wake
“the thing
with feathers/ that perches in the soul”
alighted in
her breast and there the two
abode
together – fear and hope –
at times,
the one winning out, at times, the other.
Who’s to say
which aided her more
as her feet hurried
along the path
to Elizabeth’s
house – the fear that pressed
her from
behind, or hope that drew
her like a
flame?
It was the
sight of Elizabeth,
that wizened woman leaping
with effort to her feet, the great,
round belly swaying its way
toward Mary, that broke
the tie.
Mary laughed, a short,
sharp
bark that burst past the fear
dislodging it forever from her
throat,
like a watermelon seed
spit on a summer’s afternoon.
She laughed,
like Sarah, the sound growing
as her lips
spread wide, white teeth and red tongue
baring and
Elizabeth, catching the glimmer
in Mary’s
eye, began to sing and sway
in a strange dance, made absurd
by her
enormous girth and ripening old age.
Mary
giggled, like the young girl she was,
like someone
who had nothing left to lose
and everything
to gain.
The old woman grasped Mary
by the hand, her own face,
her eyes,
spread wide by joy and wonder.
This is
when, the story goes, young
John leaped his
famous leap, but it’s also
the moment
in which the thing with feathers
sprouted
wings and sprung from Mary’s soul –
hope flew up
her throat, past the red parted lips,
bursting
into a song that could not be suppressed.
Mary’s words
danced their way over and between them
as they swayed
and spun together, two bodies
met in
expectancy, one young, one old.
Once the
song found wings it was irrepressible;
the
words and tune, the strange swaying steps
carried her, always, along the long, dark path ahead.
I’m journeying with John D. Blase and Winn Collier to write on a lectionary text each Monday of Advent. The truth of the ‘word made flesh’ is that words touch us each in different ways, in different places. Visit their blogs, The Beautiful Due and WinnCollier.com to read another perspective on this passage.
Joining with the communities at Playdates with God and Unforced Rhythms.
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.
