Essays
Goodbye, Hello (An Announcement)
Cliff notes Version: Friends, this is a rather long post – the short version is this: Hey, look, I have a new web address! To celebrate the new address and Valentine’s Day, I’ll be posting a short poem or story each day this week around the theme of love. Check back frequently – next week I’ll return to my usual posting schedule.
A Field of Wild Flowers grew out of a vision that arrived
in early 2011 as I sat praying in the calm, white, spacious place of my Spiritual Director’s office. It came at a time when life as I knew it (i.e. planned it) seemed to have ended. It
came when, for reasons deep and wide, I could no longer see a clear path laid
out ahead of me; my sense of destination as well as my means of travel
appeared to be irreparably lost.
Which is all a fancy way to say that my life was upended by
the arrival of twins, by a departure from my job as an Associate Pastor, and by
the slow surrender of my long-held dream of attaining a PhD in Biblical Studies. Before the twins’ arrival, I lived
cloistered in our culture’s fantastical illusion that life is a highway – a
long, sometimes winding, but steady road toward a distant destination which,
most often, goes by the name ‘success.’
And, although we may each define it differently, the successful among us
all agree that steady and determined movement toward it is key.
But, like Dante, “Midway on our life’s journey, I found
myself in dark woods, the right road lost.
To tell about those woods is hard – so tangled and rough.” I worked through those tangled, rough woods
for months before I was free enough to embrace a new vision – to accept my
placement somewhat “off of the main road” and commit to really exploring
it. What came to me, in the wake of
acceptance, was the image of a field of wild flowers – a place with many paths,
a space for wandering and discovery, a place of being rather than going.
Thus was born, A Field of Wild Flowers. Words became the lens through which I
explored the daily looking for signs of life in the middle of this wide open
space on the side of the road. For five
years, now, I’ve lived and written from that field, finding God in everything
from housework to hens. The more I explored
the field of my life, the more I realized what I feared most wasn’t my failure
to reach life’s highway’s destination, but the idea that God was somehow waiting
for me in that imagined destination – the idea that the love and acceptance, the presence I longed for, was tied up in success’ illusory arrival.
Imagine, then, my continual surprise and delight, at discovering again and again that God is
right here with me on the side of the road, picking flowers, tending house and
home, incarnate in each moment as it comes.
Now, five years in, I find myself again in a place of
transition, though less lost and less afraid.
I’ve learned to make my home here in the field of God’s
goodness and grace and discovered that this is, in fact, my destination. Writing has been the means of both
discovering and exploring this destination. Over the past several months I’ve found a new sense of clarity around my intentions as I continue to nurture and expand this site.
I want to create and hold spaces where others can consider the possibilities of God’s presence in all
aspects of their one precious life. I want
to help others learn to live in and listen beyond the surface of their days, to
begin to discover the heartbeat of God that rolls like a steady drum beneath
the peaks and valleys of daily life. I
want to tell stories that explore the possibilities of God’s presence, that
illuminate the incarnational realities of God’s dwelling in our midst. As such, I want to open and share with you
the joys, sorrows, hopes and heartaches of This Contemplative Life.
My hope is that this new site will allow me to both broaden
and deepen my reach online and through in-person events. I plan to continue to post here once or twice
a week and will also add a newsletter that will go out twice a month. This site will continue to boast a wide array
of stories, thoughts and reflections; my hope isn’t to narrow my content but
rather broaden my audience.
My
newsletter, Quiet Lights, will, offer short, simple reflections, images or
poems to serve as an invitation to contemplation. The newsletter will also feature updates on
upcoming events.
While I’m a little sad to move away from the image of wild
flowers, which continues to ground me in the present, I’m excited to
move into This Contemplative Life. This Contemplative Life will continue to be a space that
focuses on the small, day-to-day stories of my own life, but my hope
is that my practice of attending to the intricacies of my own life will inspire
you to attend to the details of your own life – for, contrary to popular
opinion it’s God, not the devil, who’s found in the details.
As always, I’m grateful for the quiet, faithful readership that has grown up around A Field of Wild Flowers. A change to a new web address is a bit scary and I’d love your continued support and help as I move forward. Here are three simple ways you can help me grow this space:
* Please share this webpage, help me build a growing audience.
* Like my Facebook page (still working to
update the name there!).
* Sign up for the
bi-monthly newsletter, Quiet Lights, and feel free to share that and the
resources therein with others too.
Note: If you currently receive my blog via email, you may need to resubscribe to continue seeing posts in your inbox.
Tender: Showing Gentleness and Kindness
Tender adjective
1. Showing gentleness and concern or sympathy
2. (of food) easy to cut or chew, not tough
(of the body)
sensitive to pain
Tenderness noun
1. gentleness and kindness
2. sensitivity to pain
A quick Google search tells me that the word tender, in all
of its various forms, has fallen out of use steadily and dramatically since the
1800’s. Maybe that’s why, early in my tenure at Physical Therapy, I noticed it as it drifted gently across the far side of the large, open room. I lay on my own table alone, staring at the ceiling and
exercising my abs, when my ears caught wind of the word floating softly like a butterfly on a summer breeze.
I listened as a young therapist asked, in a gentle,
rolling central Pennsylvanian accent, “Is that tender?” Although I couldn’t see the other patient, I imagined the therapist gently moving his or her arm through a slow
stretch, palpitating the muscle with deep attention and focus.
The beauty of the word moved me as did the concern and care evident in the therapist’s voice. The fluttering word landed inside my chest, opening and closing its gentle wings and I gazed upon its intricate beauty as I continued my own careful stretching, flexing and bending.
Later that night I told my
husband, “I heard the word ‘tender’ today.
It’s not something you hear very often, is it? I was so struck by its beauty.”
Noodling around online, observing the forms and uses of the
word, I notice the breadth of its application.
Tenderness might describe a concrete physical reality, like a perfectly cooked
pork loin or bruised muscle, but it also refers to an inward stance, a posture
of the heart, if you will.
For me, moments of tenderness, feel like a softening, a
movement of openness toward the other that, inherently, leaves me vulnerable to
pain – either the awareness of another’s pain or the personal pain I might face if someone responds to my openness with attack. It is often our most tender places that root us most deeply in the reality of our human vulnerabilities and, in that way, my own tenderness points beyond itself to yours, to the truth of our shared humanity.
I don’t know if the decline of the use of the word signifies
a hardening of the heart among English language speakers, but I do find it interesting
that the phrase’s demise parallels the advent of industrialization and the
movement from tactile and interdependent agrarian life to more isolated and
automated ways of life. The less I
depend on the natural world and my neighbor for my own well-being, the less I
need to worry about your places of tenderness, the less I need to risk telling you about mine, in order to
ensure survival.
Of course, we lose something when we lose awareness of our tender places – in the physical realm we might compensate with a limping gait or inactivity. In ignoring the tender places, we shut ourselves off from the possibility of their healing and become less tolerant of the tenderness of others. Our current culture, here in the United States, is one in which it is often unsafe to either reveal or respond in tenderness. In such an environment we lose not only connection
and companionship, but also a fundamental truth about who we are and
how we were created to live in relationship others and with the natural world
in which we live.
I’d wager too, that when we lose the ability to be treat one another with tenderness, we also lose the ability to recognize tenderness as a key attribute of God. Even without checking a concordance or delving into Greek and Hebrew word studies, I’m prone to accept Brennen
Manning’s affirmation that “Scripture suggests that the essence of divine
nature is compassion and that the heart of God is defined by tenderness.”
Signs of this – the tenderheartedness of God – are all over
scripture. The willingness of God to be
moved on our behalf, even at the risk of pain, is evident in the thread of love
that weaves its way throughout the entirety of the Old Testament all the way
through to that fundamental verse of the New Testament that declares, “God so
loved the world that he sent . . .”
Maybe this is a bit much to be making of a word that drifted into the focus of my attention one afternoon. But maybe it’s also possible that simple words and postures like tenderness and kindness hold the key to our future as a human race. And if that’s the case, then I’d like to suggest that we might start a return to tenderness by simply paying attention to the tender places that reveal themselves right in the middle of our daily lives.
The next time you feel the impulse to lash out at your spouse or that faceless troll online, it might be worth it to pause a moment or two to palpitate around in the depths of your being. Gently ask yourself, “Is that tender?” Or maybe, simply begin by paying attention to the way the people around you limp – emotionally, spiritually, physically – and spend some time daydreaming about what it would take to create a space where tenderness births an environment where real healing and recovery can begin.
Writers’ Retreat: March 18, 2017
Savor a day focusing on your work and identity as a writer.
Reconnect with the reasons for your art, the source of your words.
Network with other writers and gain insight on integrating writing into your everyday life.
Author, Editor and Writing Teacher, Andi Cumbo-Floyd will lead a retreat for writers of all skill sets.
When: Saturday, March 18th
Time: 9:00 – 4:00
Location: A spacious 100 year old farm house in Boiling Springs, PA
Cost: $45
10 Spaces Available
Registration deadline: Monday, March 13th
Includes:
* Two free-writing sessions
* Craft-talk on goal-setting and motivation
* A brief workshop experience giving and receiving feedback
* Homemade lunch
* Opportunities to network
Get away for a day and enjoy the mountains in scenic Boiling Springs, PA. Visit the chickens, snuggle with a cat by the wood stove or sneak away to enjoy the silence of the Little House. Our goal is for you to leave the day refreshed and encouraged in your writing life.
Questions? Contact Kelly at Chripczuk.Kelly@gmail.com or leave a comment below.
Reserve your spot via Paypal:
Relish (To Enjoy Greatly)
Relish verb
1. to enjoy greatly
synonyms: enjoy, delight in, love, adore, take pleasure in, rejoice in, appreciate, savor, revel in, luxuriate in, glory in
The world outside was an old gray dishrag, wet and dripping, on the
day I met a writer friend for coffee. Settling in, we
shared our mutual hatred of January, the way it feels like it always
has five weeks at least or seven.
“February is ok,” she said. “By February I at least have
hope that March will be nicer.”
This writer is a friend of a friend and has attended several
of the local writing events I’ve offered.
Each time we meet, we talk like people who don’t know each other well,
but would like to know each other better.
Near the end of one event, as we stood talking, she said something I’ve mulled over for months. She had been asking what
I was up to now that all of my kids are in school and when I fumbled for a
response she said something like, “I think it takes a good year for a woman to
recover after her kids start school.” That
one sentence stuck with me and offered much needed permission as I begin the
process of reemergence after years of being fully
consumed by a hectic home life.
Over coffee last week we each talked about our works in
progress and writing plans for the future.
She’s just finished revisions on her first novel, is wading into a
second, and looking for an agent. I told
her how I’d written a rough draft of a memoir last spring and, in the midst of
it, realized I didn’t have any idea what I was doing. So I stopped working on the memoir and
started writing Chicken Scratch: Stories of Love, Risk & Poultry.
“You know how, if you were going to sew a wedding dress, you
would first sew a mock-up of the pattern out of cheaper material, to make sure
you understood how to do it?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, nodding.
“That’s what Chicken
Scratch was supposed to be, a chance to try the process,” I explained.
“Well, it worked out well,” she said.
The thing is, writing and publishing Chicken Scratch taught
me a lot about publishing, but it didn’t teach my how to write a memoir and
that’s where I find myself stuck now. “I’m
not really sure what I’m doing next,” I said.
“Well, you did a lot –
writing and publishing that book in a very short period of time. Maybe you just need to relish that,” she suggested.
Registering my blank stare, she asked, “Have
you done that?”
In my imagination, the word relish hung between us like some
gorgeous, ripe fruit swaying on a low-hanging branch.
Relish is a rich word, luxurious like dark chocolate and red wine. The act of relishing, though, is utterly foreign to me. The act of relishing sits like caviar on a cracker – I don’t
know what to do with it, don’t know if I even want to try.
“No,” I said, “I haven’t.”
Then, I added, “I don’t know how to.
I’m a worker bee, always on to the next thing.”
With that, our conversation shifts again to future plans, but the word ‘relish’ stays with me for days; sticky, like a trace of honey in my mind. Looking it up to write about it today, I see that to relish is to love, to delight in, enjoy and rejoice and it occurs to me that, although the word relish may not appear in the Bible, it’s synonyms sure do.
A quick glance at the Psalms, or at Jesus for that matter, reveals that people of God are to be skilled in the art of relishing – biblical writers delight in the Lord, in God’s word, in creation. We are to be people who know how to enjoy the goodness of this earthly life. Without the ability to relish the good, how will we ever adequately recognize and confront the bad?
When it comes to “relishing” I have, some work cut out for me, which suits this worker bee just fine. The invitation now is to look and listen for the doorways of delight, the moments when I can open my hands, my heart, to the goodness of what is and has been done. And by doing so, I will be buoyed to begin whatever new work the future holds.
If you liked this post, you may also like Enjoy! Tales of Waitressing, Chaplaincy & Motherhood.
Bedtime Prayers: A Resource for Tired People
Bedtime prayers are an important but often lacking part of our evening routine. I want to leave my kids, each night, with a bigger view of God and a deeper sense of their at-home-ness in God, but that’s a tall order at 8 pm on even the best of days. Throw in a headache, a sibling-on-sibling
fight, or even the pressing need to get back downstairs ASAP to catch up on the latest Netflix binge, and the task becomes nearly impossible.
Here are three prayers I found from various prayer books around the world that I plan to print and post in our kids’ rooms to use when bedtime stumps me (as well as one cut and pasted right out of the New Testament itself).
* * *
Lord it is night. The night is for stillness. Let us be still in the presence of God. It is night after a long day. What has been done has been done; what has not been done has not been done. Let it be. The night is dark. Let our fears of the darkness of the world and of our own lives rest in you. The night is quiet. Let the quietness of your peace enfold us, all dear to us, and all who have no peace. The night heralds the dawn. Let us look expectantly to a new day, new joys, new possibilities. In your name we pray. Amen. (New Zealand Prayer Book)
Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep. Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous; and all for your love’s sake. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer)
To you before the close of day, Creator of all things, we pray that, in your saving constancy, our guard and keeper you would be. Save us from troubled, restless sleep; from all ill dreams your children keep. So calm our minds that fears may cease and rested bodies wake in peace. A healthy life we ask of you: the fire of love in us renew, and when the dawn new light will bring, your praise and glory we shall sing. Almighty Father, hear our cry through Jesus Christ, our Lord, most high, Whom with the Spirit we adore forever and for evermore. Amen. (Canadian Prayer Book)
For this reason I bow my knees before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth takes its name. I pray that, according to the riches of his glory, he may grant that you may be strengthened in your inner being with power through his Spirit, and that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith, as you are being rooted and grounded in love. I pray that you may have the power to comprehend, with all the saints, what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, so that you may be filled with all the fullness of God. (Ephesians 3:14-19)
* * *
How do you handle bedtime prayers? Let me know in the comments below!
Do What You Know (#SmallWonder Link-up)
I came into January with a head full of ideas – changes I wanted to make – and a vision of how I would move forward to maintain momentum on my recently published book and build audience for possible future books. It all seemed clear and very exciting in a big-picture sort of way.
Then, I started breaking it down into nuts and bolts and got stuck on how to move forward. I knew a writing project I wanted to produce, but despite my showing up at the page, day after day, it wasn’t coming. I had visions of a new website and new business cards, but didn’t know how to make the decisions necessary to move ahead while still keeping all of my other plates spinning.
Added to my lack of momentum was the typical January need for a post-Christmas re-boot and a few new added time commitments. Then the kids got sick one-by-one and now the cat too needs to go to the vet for a nasty head cold.
In the middle of it all I’ve been feeling the stress of big plans and little progress building in me like a pressure cooker. No progress I do make feels quite like enough compared to what I have yet to complete.
This morning things came to a head, thanks to an accidental pot of decaf coffee and an extra nap after the kids hit the buses. Suddenly I found the space to accept what I’ve known for some time now – I was putting off what I did know while waiting to figure out what I didn’t and, in the process, I was losing steam and direction. It was all so counter-productive.
Do what you know, I thought, and let the rest go.
What I do know is that I’m ready to be done hosting the #SmallWonder link-up. I’m so grateful for those of you who’ve faithfully gathered and participated in this little community – thank you for journeying with me. I’ve known #SmallWonder was coming to a close for some time and was hoping to make a smoother transition into some new things I have in the works, but, like I said, sometimes you have to do what you know first in order to build momentum to do the next thing and the next.
I hope you’ll all keeping coming around to say hi and I look forward to continuing to visit your blogs. I still believe, more than ever, in the power of small things to communicate the grace and love of God and that our capacity to be moved to wonder is a key to living in full humanity.
So, here’s to one last link-up – our 100th! And if you have a word or two to share about what this community has meant in the comments, I’d really appreciate it! Also, my plan is to continue to post here twice a week – likely on Monday and Thursday – so stop by for news, updates and to connect. Or, sign up for my newsletter to keep on top of upcoming events and changes.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for 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. Thanks for being part of our community!
Fear is a Fox (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
(This isn’t the fox I drew, but rather one I found online to work from – isn’t it charming delightful?)
Last week I started work on a painting I planned
to give to a friend. Standing at the old
sink in the Little House (where my office is) I covered a small, square, wooden
canvas with a mixture of turquoise and dark purple paint and left it to
dry. The next day I added one or two more
layers of the same colors. I liked the
combination and was happy, so far, with my little project.
(This, often, is the beginning of the problem.)
Next I played with some tulle netting, painting over it
like a stencil to add layers of texture and depth. Now I liked the painting even more and the
more I liked it, the more my progress slowed.
Love for what was made me hesitant to move toward what might be.
But the painting was nowhere near complete. With the background finished, it was time to
add an image and words. I already had
words in mind and thought a fox would be a fitting image, so I looked online for
a few samples to work from. With luck, I
easily found a sketch I loved. I printed
it and prepped my canvas board with a glossy gel layer that would preserve and
protect the background while also allowing me to ‘erase’ my drawing at any
point if I made a mistake.
Then my progress stalled for several days. I loved the background, loved the fox, but I
was afraid to mess up either one. I was
afraid to start, afraid to try, even though the gel coating meant I could begin again at any time.
I hemmed and hawed, I set my work aside and did not look the
sly fox in the eye.
//
Maybe it wouldn’t be worth writing about if it wasn’t such a
common occurrence – the way fear creeps in, cloaked in perfectionism and I, a
creature of habit and instinct, caught between fight and flight, freeze like a
deer in headlights.
Again, maybe it wouldn’t be much if it hadn’t happened also
last week when it came to updating my book files, and if success updating the
print files had (as it should have) given way to confidence to deal with the
e-book files. Instead, each step ran up
against (and temporarily stalled out in the face of) its own wall of fear.
I see this pattern again and again in my creativity and, if
I’m honest, in my life. I prefer the
known to the unknown, even when the known is not particularly good, but
especially if the known is good and filled with delight.
How much time, how much energy, do I waste in this fearful
pause?
Why do I fail to believe that the grace of one step might
carry over into the next?
Maybe I need to become like the desert monk, Abba Paul,
who worked all year long weaving baskets only to burn them and begin again each year – maybe I need to learn again and again the art of detachment, the gift of
faith beyond sight.
//
I talked with a college student about this the other night,
one who’s currently taking a drawing class.
We trotted together across the cold, dark campus on our way to a Bible
study and I confessed how fear had me frozen.
“It’s ridiculous,” I said. “What am I so afraid of? Especially when I could just erase it, just
paint over it and start the whole thing over?”
She offered no answer, but confessed to witnessing the same
tendency in herself and we continued through the crisp winter night together
until we reached our destination – a small house aglow with warmth and light.
//
The next day, having voiced my fears aloud into the frigid
night air, I pulled the fox from its lair beneath a stack of papers on the
kitchen counter and looked it in the eye.
With a white gel pen, I sketched the outline on my canvas first, then
filled in the fur. I kept a bowl of
water and q-tips nearby for erasing mistakes, but truth be told, I got it on
the first try and barely erased a line.
Then, emboldened by success, I added low-lights in midnight blue to
bring the fox alive.
I was happy with the drawing, happy with my success.
Yet, I stopped, again, frozen in the face of the next step
– hand lettering the words. How would I space them?
What fonts should I employ?
I set the work aside, because now I was even more invested, had
even more to risk, even more to lose. Against the purple and blue background, the white fox
sparkled silver and fixed me with its shining eye.
//
Every wall of fear has a door. The door cracks open, for me, when I recognize fear as an invitation to examine my own intrinsic attachment and
perfectionism.
Now, when the wall rises up in front of me, I imagine stretching out
my empty hand and opening the door. On the other side stands the fox, staring. Then, in a flash of beauty, she turns and runs off into the night.
Every day that I create something, I bump up against
fear’s wall. And, faster now, I hear the fox’s sly whisper, “Look for the door.”
How do you experience and deal with fear in your creative life? In your faith life?
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for 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. Thanks for being part of our community!
We Are Held (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
(I’m still seeking and finding my writing rhythm for this new year, so today I’m again sharing one from the archives. This post was written back in 2013 when my twins were just about 18 months old. The image above is of a plate my husband and the twins picked up for me at a (indoor!) yard sale over the weekend. I love the swirl of it and the image in the middle reminds me of a child in the womb.)
* * *
I sat in the living room last week rocking my poor, sick, sleeping boy and watched while his twin brother explored a small wooden chair. He walked diligently to the book basket, chose a board book, then toddled quickly over to the chair. Placing the book on the chair, he lifted one little knee and, after maneuvering the book to make room, pulled himself up and turned, settling into a seated position with a look of great satisfaction.
There he sat, fuzzy-headed and plump, like a ripe peach, his short legs sticking out straight in front of him. Glancing at me with a look of triumph, he opened his book and “read” briefly and with great volume. Then, with a swift movement, he slipped himself off of the chair, and ran back to the books shelf where he made another reading selection.
Back to the chair he went, repeating the whole process again and again with a different book in hand each time, as though neither “Trucks” nor “Things That Go” could scratch his literary itch.
Stand, climb, turn and sit, his movements went. Then, repeat.
Sitting and standing are new pleasures for him. And the act of doing so with a book in hand in a little wooden chair just his size makes the act all the more pleasurable.
He repeats the movements – standing and sitting – over and over again and I imaging he’s swirling the feeling of it all around inside of his little body, memorizing each sensation until at last the feeling fades to ordinary, like so many other firsts tasted and mastered in his short eighteen months.
* * *
Speaking of standing and sitting, a strange thing has happened several times now during my monthly retreat. At some point during a moment of silent stillness or quiet conversation, I find myself acutely aware of the reality that the chair I am sitting in is holding me.
Every time we sit, we are being held.
But most of us, most of the time, have stopped feeling it.
* * *
Earlier this week, I sat in the pediatrician’s office with the same sick child whose limbs hung limp as he fought a raging fever. Between the bustle of nurse and doctor, in the midst of the bright light and noise, he slumped against me – his belly to mine, his heavy head pressed, un-moving against my chest.
My boy’s fine, blond hair was damp with sweat and his cheeks blazed red with heat. His eyes watered and breath came in short pants. Against my chest, his small mouth hung open and saliva pooled and overflowed.
He smelled like sweaty, sick, baby. Or maybe I smelled. Holding him there as the minutes passed, I lost sight of where he stopped and I began.
At one point he raised his flushed head, squinting his eyes in discomfort and I noticed that the whole front of me, two t-shirts thick, was soaked through with spit. Still, I pulled him back into me, curving my body like a hammock to hold him. I rocked and sang and he he hung on for dear life between the Dr.’s probing exam and tests for the flu and strep throat.
* * *
I turned my body into a living, breathing home for my child in the Dr’s office that day. Later, I wondered if God doesn’t also do this for us.
Maybe God also curves, bending into a mighty ocean of a lap, a wide, swinging hammock of rest that holds us, not just when we’re aware of it, but all the time. Maybe we’re just so used to being held, we no longer feel it any more. Or maybe we believe we’re too big, too smelly with our own sickness, too Other, to rest in God.
But, this much I know is true: God holds us, my friends, even when we’ve lost the ability to feel it, even when we’ve outgrown the desire to be held. God waits like a hammock swinging in the breeze, like a mother’s lap that sways full of life and breath and song. May you find some small moment to climb up again today, to settle in and feel again the Love that holds you, always.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for 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. Thanks for being part of our community!
Look for a Child . . .
I ordered Gayle Boss’ lovely advent book in mid-December and am still making my slow way through the daily reflections on how different animals endure the long, cold dark of winter. It seems, to me, to be appropriate reading for the often long, sometimes difficult, month of January. So, although advent is behind us, I’ll keep reading and pondering how all of creation adjusts to survive in adverse conditions. I did, however, skip ahead to the final reading for Christmas day and found this paragraph so rich that I wanted to share it with you all.
In the fullness of time, the Christmas story says, a girl gave birth ringed by animals. She lay the baby in one of their feeding troughs, where animal bodies would warm the air around his fresh-born human body. Mother and child fell asleep and woke to their chuffs and shuffling hooves, their calls and the shuddering of their hides. Later sheep herders smelling of dirt, damp wool, and milk crowded into the stable. Out in the wild night fields these animal men sitting in the dark were the first to get the word. A baby had been born, they were told, who would show people a way out of their small pinched lives, a way to abandon themselves to the ever-present, unstoppable current of Love that carries all things to radiant wholeness. To recognize him they should look for a child at home among animals.
– Gayle Boss in All Creation Waits: The Advent Mystery of New Beginnings
May you find yourself adrift in the unstoppable current of Love this year; may you move ever closer to your own radiant wholeness.
Faith For A New Year
What We Need Is Here
Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye,
clear. What we need is here.
– Wendell Berry
After a few weeks of quiet here on the blog, I find myself carrying these words into the new year. What words do you carry to remind you of that which is essential?
#SmallWonder will be back next Sunday/Monday and I hope to have some exciting news to share. Want to keep up to date on changes and receive great exclusive content? Subscribe to my newsletter via the sign-up box on the top right hand column of my blog.
A Sign (#SmallWonder Link-up)
(I am behind this week, friends. So here is a poem I shared in my newsletter last week. Check back last in the week for a new post and while you’re here, sign up for my newsletter to receive more exclusive content during Advent and beyond.)
. . . the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose . . .
Isaiah 35:1
(also based on Matthew 11:2-6)
My office is not a desert –
though electric heat does dry the air –
and my great-grandmother’s Christmas cactus
is not a rose. But
when I pause in writing
and turn to see – lo! – pink buds prepared
to blossom, I take it as a sign. I take, also,
the first drifting flakes of snow and the praying
mantis’ egg sack tucked inside our fresh cut fir.
John the Baptist, smoldering in prison, sought
Jesus for a sign.
“Are you the one,” he asked.
“Or am I to await another?” Jesus gave no sign,
save for what was.
“Look, and see, and believe,”
he said, pointing to the prophet’s words.
John looked and saw and doubt
was satisfied. So it is with those who wait
in darkness, who long to see and believe.
My office is not a desert and my great-grandmother’s
Christmas cactus is not a rose, but I will take it
as a sign.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for 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. Thanks for being part of our community!
The Core: Physical Therapy & Prayer (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
It’s my second day of Physical Therapy for lower back pain. I lay flat on my back on a green, cushioned
table. My knees are bent and I lift my
pelvis in and out of bridge pose ten, twenty times. “How does that feel?” the therapist asks.
“I feel it pull a little in my lower back,” I say.
“Are you using your core?” he asks.
I pause and listen to my body. I hear no answer. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“You want to be using your transverse abdominal muscles to
lift,” he says, “not pushing up with your legs and back. That’s why your back’s tweaking. It’s not about how high you can go, it’s
about using those muscles.”
I turn back to my body and try tightening my lower stomach,
the soft section where my children grew.
“Hello,” my transverse abdominal muscles whisper as if waking from a long nap.
The therapist goes on to tell me that the lower abdominal muscles, commonly referred to as the “core,” act as a natural girdle keeping the pelvis and spine in alignment. I wonder, as I redo my bridges, how I can go
through years of my life completely disengaged from my core?
//
A week later, I lay belly-down on the long, green cushioned
table, my face pressed into an oval opening.
My shirt is lifted, my back exposed, and a therapist works slow circles
in the muscles of my lower back. Later, cool
gel holds pads in strategic position and wires send electricity buzzing into
tightened muscles coaxing them into surrender.
A layer of warm towels is laid on top, a timer set, and the therapist
busies herself in another part of the room.
With my face in the hole, I close my eyes, I open them. My contacts drift across my eyes and the
world around me is slightly out of focus.
Conversations float through the air and I tune them in and out like
radio stations.
The electrical stimulation on my lumbar spine feels like
hundreds of tiny ants dancing, their feet on fire and it’s not an altogether
unpleasant sensation. I open my eyes, I
close them. I rest and think of the
woman waiting on a long-desired pregnancy.
I pray. I think of the man who is
dying and his wife. I pray. I wonder who I am here in this place. At Physical Therapy, I am muscle and bone, slouching posture, weakened core. But, beyond that, am I young?
Am I old? Am I mother, daughter,
wife? I listen to hear what my life will
say.
//
After the timer
goes off, the pads are removed and I flip from stomach to back. Knees bent, I practice “fall outs” and “ninety
degree presses” counting slowly from one to thirty on each side. My mind drifts, and thoughts go in and out of
focus but I return again and again to tightening the core, attending in each
moment to that inner space.
This, I know, is what prayer is, a centering practice, a
movement in which, putting aside all else, we tend to the core.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for 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. Thanks for being part of our community!
Pray as You Can (#SmallWonder Link-up)
Julian of Norwich, a 14th century anchoress best known for her deep belief in the love of God, is often depicted with her only companion, a cat. Can you imagine how happy this makes me?
“Pray as you can, not as you can’t.” – Dom John Chapman
In the early morning darkness, I rise from bed and descend
the stairs. The waiting cat picks up my trail and follows me into the kitchen. Awake for some time already, he’s eager to
get outside. Every morning he saunters out into the frosty cold to prowl the wilted flowerbeds, the decaying garden and I catch glimpses of his progress from the window as he seeks out scent paths left the night before.
In the kitchen, I pour coffee and cream
into a clean-enough mug and the cat leaps onto a stool, hoping I’ll open the un-screened kitchen
window that frequently serves as his own private door. When I fail to comply with his implicit demands, he follows me
to the wood stove room, hurrying urgently to the front door while I kneel to stoke
the fire. He expects me to open the
door to gather more wood from the porch and is visibly disappointed when I settle on the
couch. His green eyes flash in my direction,
impatient, then he settles on the carpet to wait for the next opportunity.
I woke early, intending to sit in the darkness, to absorb the
silence, to gently stoke the flame of
desire that draws me to God. This is why
I woke, but there on the love seat I sit with my phone in hand. I open Facebook, I scroll.
My mind spins and whirls with thoughts,
emotions. My mind is like the cat, wide awake and eager, wanting to get out, to
explore, to hunt and find satisfaction.
This is not what I wanted.
But it’s what I’m doing.
I lift my eyes from the phone and look over at the cat.
He’s waiting, as cats do, half-asleep.
I rise again, this time from the love seat, and gather the
cat in my arms. I sit with him cradled across my lap like a baby. He accepts my attention complacently, then with a steadily growing purr. I stroke his
back, his head; I scratch along his jawbone.
With the cat in my arms, I feel love rise and gratitude; prayer begins.
I realize then, gazing at his relaxed frame, that he is showing me how I’m meant to be with God – at rest, comforted, loved. In that moment, my cat is an icon, leading me to the holy, to my own desire. Content in my embrace, he stretches his paws
out long and they come to rest on my chest where my heart resides.
What images or actions in your daily life lead you to prayer?
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for 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. Thanks for being part of our community!
The Hardest Part (Advent Week 1)
The Sleeping Disciples by Henry Ossawa Tanner
I slept but my heart was awake. Listen! My beloved is knocking.
Song of Solomon 5:2
Besides this, you know what time it is, how it is now the moment for you to wake from sleep. For salvation is nearer to us now when we became believers; the night is far gone, the day is near.
Romans 13:11-12a
In the night, they come to our room,
nose dripping blood or underwear damp.
“Can you help me with this?” they ask,
and we are stirred from the heavy
darkness of slumber.
I never want to wake in the night,
never want to throw back the warm covers,
to search for glasses blindly.
I dread the wet sheets
and sitting in the cold dark of the bathroom
pinching his nose until the red river stops.
But when he shivers, stripping the wet
in exchange for dry, and when he waits
oddly stoic for the clotting to begin,
I feel compassion rise.
By the time I tuck them
back in, I can say I love you and
mean it as I rub their short-cropped hair.
The hardest part is waking.
Advent Week 1: Awake! (#SmallWonder Link-up)
I slept but my heart was awake. Listen! My beloved is knocking.
Song of Solomon 5:2
Besides this, you know what time it is, how it is now the moment for you to wake from sleep. For salvation is nearer to us now when we became believers; the night is far gone, the day is near.
Romans 13:11-12a
During Advent this year I plan to focus my weekly posts on the lectionary readings (Bible passages) assigned by the church calendar. Vanderbilt Divinity Library offers a convenient lectionary overview online, just hover over the reading and the text appears on your screen, or click on the reading to see all of the readings for the week. I find that following the lectionary from time to time exposes me to a wider variety of passages than I might otherwise choose to read.
Like many of my friends – online and in person – I found myself turning to the comforts of the Christmas season early this year. JJ Heller’s new album, “Unto Us” has been on repeat as I make dinner and the lights we hung outside last year (and didn’t take down . . .) were ready to go and plugged in the day after Thanksgiving. Many are struggling in the wake of a tumultuos election, others are worn and weary from carrying burdens of every shape and size and we long for the comforts of Christmas as the days grow short and cold.
But this week’s passages reminded me that Advent brings more than comfort – it first brings disruption. The prophets of advent speak of an overthrow of what is in favor for God’s kingdom which is to come. Advent seeks to unsettle us, to wake us up that we might be ready for the unexpected ways of the One who comes to turn the world as we know it – broken, beaten and rife with violence – into a place where the lion lays down with the lamb and swords are beaten into plowshares.
This week’s readings remind me that Advent brings revolution and bids us stay awake. The temptation is fierce this year to use the distractions and delights of the holiday season to placate our longing and need for light in the midst of darkness. Like the apostles waiting in the garden with Jesus, we are too easily lulled to sleep in the long, dark night of waiting.
Let us stay awake this year, let us wait in darkness and with wonder. Let us read old verses with new eyes, let us be willing to suffer the disruption that precedes redemption, the death that precedes resurrection’s glory.
What practices will help you Stay Awake in this season of waiting?
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for 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. Thanks for being part of our community!
Gifts for Book Lovers on Your List
My oldest boy heads off to school each day with his backpack weighted down with books – it must weigh over fifty pounds. These aren’t school books, they’re leisure books and I don’t know why he needs SO MANY of them onhand all at once but it seems to mean something to him to have them, so I try not to make a fuss about it, aside from urging him to take a few out every time he crams another two or three in. For some of us, my son included, the worst thing that can happen is to be left without anything to read.
In that case, a book makes a perfect gift. Here’s some of my family’s favorites from the past year.
For the Early Readers:
I’m so happy about the new “Tales From Maple Ridge” series. These short chapter books with illustrations on nearly every page are perfect for the twins (age 5) at bedtime and I’ve caught the older kids listening in too. Eight-year-old Logan Pryce lives on a farm with his parents, two sisters and a brother. Set in 1892, Logan and two of his siblings attend a one-room school house and deal with everyday challenges. Each book in the series retells a captivating adventure in which the children prove their compassion, creativity and ingenuity. Written by Grace Gilmore, illustrated by Petra Brown.
For Middle Ages (3-6th grade):
My daughter, Sophia (age 10) and I (age 10++) both fell in love with “Sophie Quire and the Last Storyguard.” This is the second in the Peter Nimble Adventures and tells the captivating story of a young girl charges with saving all sorts of “nonsense” from those who want to destroy everything “irrational.” Sophie is a book mender and her love and care captured my heart. The author, Jonathan Auxier, writes about the mysterious books Sophie is sent to save in such compelling language that the books themselves become like characters.
We read this, the second book first, and while my daughter went on to prefer the first book, “Peter Nimble and His Fantastic Eyes,” Sophie Quire still held my heart. Both offer a great blend of fantasy and adventure.
Another family favorite? Comic books. The other night John and I went to bed at 8:30 and laid there reading Foxtrot by lamplight. I turned to him and said, “What are we, eight years old?” John and I started buying comic book anthologies when I was in seminary and reading heavily, but still needed a way to wind down at the end of the day. Foxtrot, Dilbert and Calvin and Hobbes were just the thing to do the trick. Years later our kids also love the books and John and I keep coming back to them too. I enjoy watching the kids read Foxtrot because of the family dynamics it hits on. My daughter also really likes “Baby Blues” by Rick Kirkman, which is also oriented around the humor of family life. I foresee some comic books under our Christmas tree this year . . .
For the Upper-Middle Grades (6-9th):
I recently discovered Laurie Halse Anderson’s compelling Young Adult novels. I started with “Fever 1793” which tells the story of a young girl living in Philadelphia at the time of the Yellow Fever epidemic. Anderson tells a compelling story combined with fascinating history. Her trilogy that begins with “Chains” is just as compelling and tells the history of the Revolutionary war from the perspective of a slave girl and, in “Forge,” a slave boy. All three books weave drama and history and raise the compelling question of whether it’s possible to fight for freedom for one group while suppressing the rights of another.
For the Upper Grades (9-12):
The Steele Secrets series offers a lovely blend of historical fiction and modern conflict. The protagonist, Mary Steele, is a normal teen who discovers she can see ghosts – not scary ghosts – but people in need of help. Kind-hearted and idealistic, Mary is more than willing to help although she often misjudges how much her involvement will cost her and the ones she loves most. I love these books for the gentleness with which they weave together historical and contemporary issues around racism.
For Fun:
Sometimes you just need something light and fun. Based on the true story of one of America’s first female deputy sheriffs, this novel follows the adventures of Constance Kopp and her two sisters. Set in 1914, the book follows Constance’s quest to defend her family and confront her past, capturing criminals in the process. I have yet to read this one, but started instead with the second book in the series, “Lady Cop Makes Trouble.”
And Even More Fun:
My first book, “Chicken Scratch” is on sale through Monday. Hop over to Amazon and check out the reviews, then order one to keep and one to give away. One reviewer wrote, “Chicken Scratch really touched me. . . . one easy-to-read, touching and fun book.”
So that’s my list, what books are on your list this year?
Advent Has An Edge (#SmallWonder link-up)
In early November a dear friend mentioned her desire to offer a pre-advent Advent retreat, she even had a title picked out, “The Edge of Advent.” She wanted to offer a space for people to prepare for the season, to stand on its edge and determine ahead of time what practices, what questions, might steer their journey toward the arrival of the Holy One. I loved the idea and when my friend’s husband fell sick, I chose to offer the retreat myself, because I knew I dearly needed it.
Yesterday, a small handful of people gathered at Still Waters Retreat House in Carlisle, PA to listen and reflect. The following is a compilation of a few thoughts I shared about Advent’s edge.
Advent Has an Edge.
An Edge can be
sharp,
like a knife, or
dull.
Cutting Edge is
new and exciting,
Edgy is raw and unsettled, like the wilderness
where John the
Baptist appeared,
and all the people
went out
to meet him there.
An Edge is a place
of transition,
liminality, and
potential. God
seems to prefer
the Edge and
those who dwell in it; appearing
most often among and to those
who find their way there
by faith or fate.
Advent boasts a
warning sign:
Traveler Beware, the
journey
from here will
leave you
On Edge. You
will know
you’re on the
right path
when you find
yourself dislocated,
caught between
comforts like
Mary and Joseph of
long ago.
Advent reveals the
Sharp Edges
of things – the
sorrow on joy’s fringes,
the place where
light and darkness meet,
and the way every
possession positions us
for loss. Advent’s
prophets declare
upheaval, a great rending of the
tapestry of this world. Those
in power
tremble, but the humble rejoice.
Advent has an Edge.
It is a beginning,
it is an end.
I’d love to hear what you’re reading or practicing during Advent this year. In particular, I’m looking for new Advent materials for us to use as a family. Let me know in the comments below!
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for 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. Thanks for being part of our community!
“Healing” (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
Early this week my lower back popped, some inward tension
caused it to explode in pain, twisting and curling my hips, shoulders, even the
arches of my feet. Monday it was
bad, Tuesday worse and I started wearing a back brace. By Wednesday I knew I was in serious trouble
and texted a friend, “Do you have any muscle relaxers? Ibuprofen isn’t cutting it.”
She replied, “No.
Maybe you should go to the doctor.”
“I know,” I said, “but they’ll make me get a scan and
probably go for physical therapy.”
My husband had my vehicle that day and a trip to the Dr. would
involve a ride in his rattly old pickup truck, waiting, and then a second trip
for a scan of my back. Walking and
standing brought real pain and the thought of such a trip was
overwhelming. Instead of heading to the Dr., I pulled out all of my back
care tricks. I rubbed pungent Tiger Balm
on my clenched muscles, wrapped my brace tight and threw back 1000 mg. of
Ibuprophen. Then, I laid down on the
floor, flat on my back, which seems to be one of the simplest ways to relax and
realign my muscles.
This is what I know I need to do when my back gets bad. But there’s so little I can do in that prone
position. I can’t write, can’t be
online, can’t clean, cook or do laundry.
I can read for brief periods of time until my arms grow weary, I can
scroll through Facebook on my phone.
It’s humbling, it’s frustrating.
But I laid on my back as much as I could on Wednesday, I
took a two hour nap and did slow, gentle stretches. By Thursday things were a little better, by
Friday another bit improved.
Every time this happens (once, twice, three times a year?) I
think, “I have to work on my abs, my back needs more support. It wouldn’t hurt to lose a little weight
either.” But these thoughts arrive at a
time when I’m in too much pain to embrace them, by the time I’m up and able I’m
too busy with life to make good on my own commitments.
And so the cycle repeats.
//
I’ve heard a lot of talk about healing this past week in the
wake of the election. “The
time for arguments is past, the time for healing is begun,” the rhetoric
goes. I believe that’s what we heard
four years ago too and four years before that also. Yet we continue to run ourselves, every
four years, through a gauntlet of vitriol, hate and ideological (as well as
actual) violence. I’m not surprised that the nation of America is trapped in this cycle, but I’m dismayed that the church in America is also.
Something about this repeated cycle tells me we’re not
really that interested in healing after all, but more interested in rearming
and preparing for the next round like boxers gasping for breath, dripping sweat
in the corner of the ring between rounds.
How often can we keep repeating this injury before the whole
body is beyond repair? How long can we
limp along?
Despite chronic and sometimes debilitating back pain for ten
years I don’t take muscle relaxers because I need the pain to tell
me to make a change. Maybe it’s time we
as a country starting listening to our pain and the pain of those around
us. Maybe it’s time we stop rushing to
heal when we’ve yet to identify the wound, to cleanse it and seek amends. Maybe its time the church took the lead in this activity.
//
I’ve been thinking about this passage in Isaiah 1 this week,
“Hear, O
heavens, and listen, O earth; for the Lord has spoken: I reared children and
brought them up, but they have rebelled against me. 3The ox knows its owner, and the donkey its
master’s crib; but Israel does not know, my people do not understand. 4Ah, sinful nation, people laden with iniquity,
offspring who do evil, children who deal corruptly, who have forsaken the Lord, who have despised the Holy One of Israel, who are utterly
estranged! 5Why do you seek further beatings? Why do you
continue to rebel? The whole head is sick, and the whole heart faint.6From the sole of the foot even to the head, there
is no soundness in it, but bruises and sores and bleeding wounds; they have not
been drained, or bound up, or softened with oil.”
The prophet
calls creation to bear witness against the people of God who, though reared by
God have become “utterly estranged.” I love the prophet’s use of
image after image to convey the absolute discord between what is and what
should be. According to the prophet, the
people of Israel lack the basic common sense of an ox or donkey, they’re
utterly tone-deaf, wracked with delusion.
Isaiah is addressing the nation of Israel – God’s people – and so the accurate parallel
to us is to hear this as a word for the church, those who identify themselves
as the people of God today. What I hear
in this passage is a pleading, lovesick God seeking to speak sense into a
people who no longer see, no longer comprehend the peril of their
situation.
//
I’m convicted
this week by my own failure to comprehend the reality of my situation
physically in regard to my aching back.
And I’m prayerfully wondering the degree to which I should feel
convicted of a failure to understand the reality of my situation spiritually,
by which I mean, as the prophets always meant – in regards to righteousness and
justice.
Isaiah isn’t
asking people to come back to church, in fact a few verses down he slams their
religious practices altogether. He isn’t
asking them to pray more or attend Bible study more faithfully. God, through the prophet, is calling people
to a faith that bears fruit in the arenas of justice and righteousness,
particularly on behalf of the poor and marginalized as Isaiah 1:17 makes clear.
//
This week has
revealed the depth of my back issues, I would be foolish to continue to ignore
them just because they lessen for a day, a week, a month.
This election
has revealed the depth of our issues as a nation, but more importantly as a
people who claim to seek God’s face. We
would be foolish to ignore them even if they lessen for a day, a week, a month.
Let us not
hurry toward healing that is merely hiding.
Let us listen
to voices around us, but particularly those of the poor, the weak, the
marginalized.
Let us pray and
examine our hearts, where is our own justice, our own righteousness lacking?
Let us seek to
love not merely in words, but in deeds.
* * *
Thank you to everyone who participated in the Rafflecopter last week. The winners of a free copy of “Chicken Scratch: Stories of Love, Risk & Poultry” are (drum roll . . . ) AMY HERTZLER and JACOB LONG. Congratulations! I’ll be emailing you soon for a mailing address.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for 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. Thanks for being part of our community!
Open Heart : A Sneak Peak and a Giveaway (#SmallWonder link-up)
This is it, friends, Monday, Nov. 7 “Chicken Scratch: Stories of Love, Risk & Poultry” officially launches into the world. It’s exciting and a little bit scary and so, in honor of that, I want to share an excerpt from the book – a story about love and risk, pain and joy. Enjoy and when you’re done reading scroll down to see my free launch-day giveaways.
* * *
Cold winds and thunderstorms
settled into the area over the weekend. Saturday came and went in a fog
of post-birthday-party exhaustion, and the sunny morning turned dark and windy
by late afternoon. In the morning, our sleepy kids stayed inside playing
on the Wii, and I walked down to the fence, hoping to talk awhile with our
neighbor Ann.
I spotted her husband, Don, in the yard first, closer to
the fence. Based on two years of over-the-fence observation, I’ve reached
the conclusion that Ann and Don’s yard is governed by a neat division of labor
– Ann tends her teaming flowerbeds and Don putters in his vegetable
garden. Both the beds and the garden put ours to shame, but John and I
comfort ourselves by remembering that the Ann and Don are retired and not
raising four young children.
I’ve noticed a similar division of labor in their approach to
the neighborly business of fence-side small-talk – Ann engages freely in
extended conversation over a wide range of topics, and Don does not.
Drawing Don to the fence to even ask a question is like pulling teeth.
Attempt more and he’s clearly uncomfortable.
One day last summer, when we were integrating our second
round of chicks into our well established flock, the twins discovered one of
the chicks named America, trapped tight in the far corner of the run.
“She’s dead! America’s dead!” they cried, running into the house and
pulling me out into the yard. Bending down to examine the chick I
discovered a large bloody gash in her neck. It looked, in fact, like
she’d been decapitated. I wasn’t sure what to do, and, more importantly,
I didn’t want to deal with the dead bird alone while Isaiah and Levi ran
enthusiastic circles around me.
Standing up, I looked down toward Ann and Don’s yard hoping
for help. I caught a glimpse of Don and approached casually under the
guise of commiserating but seriously hoping to convince him to take care of the
dead bird. Don, however, proved resilient in the face of my
woman-in-distress ploy.
“Oh,” he said, “that’s too bad.” He didn’t offer to
help, and, knowing it wasn’t his responsibility, I couldn’t bring myself to
ask. I would deal with the bird myself.
When I got back to the chicken tractor I bent down again
for a closer examination. The twins, bored already with death, had
wandered off and in their absence, I noticed the rise and fall the chick’s
fluffy feathers. She was still breathing, a clear sign she had not, in
fact, been decapitated. I walked into the run and reached into the far
back corner where she was huddled. Pulling her out and tucking her to my
chest, I realized she was pecked up pretty badly but likely to survive.
After a few days of isolation and over-the-counter antibiotic ointment, she was
on the mend, and I had learned not to expect Don to play the Knight in Shining
Armor.
So I wasn’t looking to talk to Don Saturday morning, I was
looking for Ann. I spotted her on the far side of their yard wearing
shorts and tall black polka-dotted rain boots. Easily forgetting she’s
close to 70 years old, I watched as she pushed a wheelbarrow full of mulch
around to her flower beds. Seeing my approach, she made a bee-line to the
fence, and we chatted about summer and the gigantic addition being added to a
house on the hill behind our house. While we talked, Isaiah and Levi ran
over yelling, “Miss. Ann! Miss. Ann!” They climbed briefly up and
down the fence, lapping up her attention, then trotted off to play again.
The reason I walked down to the fence was that I needed
someone to talk to. The night before John and I had found out that dear
friends of ours were separating, and our hearts were broken. When our
chit-chat wound down, I told Ann about it. She affirmed the real pain of
a marriage ending and how sad it is for everyone involved, sharing stories from
her experience with the divorces of people she knows.
So many of the married friends John and I share got married
at the same time we did. We knew, even then, that the odds were high that
many of us would not stay married. And yet now, some 15 years later, it
still seemed impossible that some of our friends were entering into a post-marriage
stage of life.
“Maybe we’re naïve,” I said, “I’m almost 40. I don’t
understand how these things still catch me by surprise.” What I really
couldn’t understand was why it hurt so badly – hurt to see our friends in such
complete and utter pain, hurt to be unable to fix it for them, to only be able
to stand by watching, listening, and praying.
Turning back to face our yard, I noticed the Polish hens
and asked Ann if she’d seen them. She said she had but couldn’t really
tell much about them since they were penned up in the run on the far side of
our yard. “Do you see the fluff-headed ones?” I asked, my
eyes following the Polish hens as they pecked along the perimeter of the
netting.
“Yeah, kinda,” she said, “but not very well.”
I described them for her in detail, painting a picture of
their fluffy white pom-pom heads and lacy gray-black feathers. As I
talked, I felt love for them rise in my chest despite the distance between
us.
Later in the day, I told John about my conversation with Ann,
about how I thought maybe we were just naive. But I also told him
something I had realized while standing at the fence watching those baby hens
from a distance. “I loved them,” I said, “even from all the way across
the yard, and I guess if you’re the kind of person who can fall in love with a
Polish hen, then life’s gonna hurt.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“There’s no separating the two,” I said. “It’s like
the words on that painting hanging in the upstairs hallway, “Love wide; make
your way with an open heart.” Loving a Polish hen is loving with an open
heart, and an open heart’s gonna get hurt. But an open heart also has
access to the kind of joy that helps in the middle of the hurt.”
Some days, I think that’s the most we can hope for – enough
joy to carry us through the hurt. Maybe also, if we’re lucky, we might
find a sturdy fence to lean on and a neighbor willing to listen for a few
minutes or more.
(Like this story? Want to read more? Pop over now to order a copy!)
* * *
Today, I’m giving away two Prize Packages. Two lucky winners will receive a signed copy of “Chicken Scratch” AND a “Chicken Poop” lip balm. (For the record, the lip balm contains NO poop and only natural ingredients like avocado oil, beeswax and jojoba oil.) Check out the Rafflecopter below to enter to win. Winners will be announced next Sunday.
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Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for 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. Thanks for being part of our community!
I Died 100 Deaths That Halloween (#SmallWonder link-up)
(This is one of my favorite old posts from year I started blogging. The twins were just over a year old, Solomon was four and Sophia was six. Enjoy! And my you find hope for your own moment by moment journey from death to resurrection.)
It was rainy and cold and we were keyed up and worn out from being trapped indoors for two days by Hurricane Sandy. I woke up late and squeezed in a shower while the twins, still in dirty diapers from the night before, wandered around the living room.
Their whining amplified to full pitch when my shower cued them in to the possibility that I’d be (gasp!) leaving for the morning. The preemptive separation anxiety continued through breakfast and packing everyone into the van to take Sophia to school.
After drop-off I carted the remaining three kids back into the house. We mulled around, waiting anxiously for the babysitter who was coming to stay with the twins while Solomon and I went to his preschool class’s Halloween party at a local nursing home.
The twins settled for a few minutes, their anxiety lulled by the fact that I had yet to leave them and Solomon’s anxiety about the party simultaneously rose in direct proportion to their calming. Following me through the house, he peppered me with nervous questions,
“Will there be people from the nursing home in the party?” he asked.
“Um, I’m not sure, honey,” I said.
“Will they see me in my costume?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Are you going to dress up?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“Then, I don’t want to wear a costume,” he declared.
I had been dreading this party from moment it was first mentioned, knowing that my son, so robust and cheerful at home, would be shy and clingy surrounded by strangers in a new place. Committed to accompanying him, I had hired a babysitter for the twins, despite my own teeth-clenching, foot-dragging antagonism toward it all.
“Solomon,” I said, “what if I wear a costume too?” Then I emerged from the back room wearing the fuzzy black antennae from my daughter’s ladybug costume.
“Ok,” he said, brightening, “you can be a black beetle.”
Then, I felt myself giving in, letting go a little more. “What if I’m a ladybug?” I asked. “I can steal Sophia’s costume.”
He approved of my decision and I had just enough time to gather the red and black-dotted wings and my camera before the babysitter arrived. Isaiah dissolved into a raging stream of tears, protesting my impending departure. I ran in circles grabbing the rest of the things we needed, carrying Levi in my arms and nearly made it out the door with him, but the sitter stopped me just in time, grabbing him from me with the words, “This one’s staying here.”
Then we were off, on our way to a party I don’t want to go to, but also don’t want my son to miss. We drove through the rain to the nursing home and found his classmates in a large room coloring at a table while elderly people in wheelchairs sat in a wide circle around them. The residents watched the children, their eyes hungrily absorbing the beauty and innocence, the luxury of so much youth in one small space.
Solomon was clingy, shy and tired, overwhelmed by the noise, the crafts, the games. But I did my best to get into the spirit of things. I helped with glue and tore bits of tissue paper for a craft. I assured a child that it didn’t matter where he put the eyes on his pumpkin. I laughed with the other Moms over the resident who rode in on a wheelchair, pretending to scare the kids with a mask, all the while giving a growing peep show as his robe slid further and further open. I posed for a smiling picture with my son, a little Iron Man snuggled up on a ladybug’s lap.
By the time we returned home, though, I was over-stimulated and frustrated at my inability to love Halloween, to love loud parties and candy. The twins were exhausted and hungry and when I walked in the door they flew to me like magnets, pressing their tiny bodies onto mine in desperation.
It was all I could do to untangle myself from them, causing more tears and desperation, as I headed to the kitchen to make lunch. Solomon started sorting and dumping the morning’s haul of candy, dancing and singing and blowing the whistle from his party bag while the twins screamed from their highchairs, desperate to convey how deeply my had absence wronged them.
Then I yelled, “Stop it!” and threw an apple-peel all the way across the kitchen. It hit one twin and bounced off and they both sat staring, shocked into silence and my son, that sweet four year old boy, offered to play his whistle to settle them down.
//
There are days when being a mother feels like dying a hundred tiny deaths. One hundred letting-go’s, a thousand surrenders to more noise, more movement, more demands than I feel capable of handling. I’m not complaining, I just want to be honest about the stretch of motherhood and how quickly, how fiercely, I shrink back from it.
I died a hundred little deaths that Halloween morning. But I know, thank God, that this dying, this surrender, makes me new again.
I may die a hundred times a day, but I’m just as often made new, reborn in the face of a chubby, gap-toothed grin, a gentle hand seeking mine for reassurance. That morning I was resurrected by Solomon’s voice calling cheerfully from the back of the van as we made our way home, “I can’t wait to be old so I can go to the nursing home to live.”
//
Later in the day I made chili to share with friends who’re coming trick-or-treating with us. While the twins again stood whining at the gate that divides them from me, my Dad called with the news that my maternal grandmother had died that morning in the nursing home where she lived for years in North Carolina.
Standing over the stove, stirring the chili, I found myself surprisingly grateful. Grateful that, although I couldn’t be there with her, I was visiting a nursing home here with my son, the very same morning. I thought of my Grandmother’s life and the many little and big deaths she endured. I thought of the ways I get so focused on what I’m giving up, that I nearly miss what I have right here, right now in front of me. It occurred to me that I live such a grace-filled life, full of opportunities for surrender, continually pressing me toward the edge.
//
I finished dinner and the older kids and my husband came home, and poor Isaiah, who just couldn’t seem to pull himself together, sat crying on the floor. I scooped him up and settled into the rocking chair and watched as he drifted into a heavy sleep. I loved that moment – the rocking, the sleeping child so sweet.
Then Isaiah lifted his head and looked around, disoriented, before throwing up all over both of us. Leaning forward, exhausted, he laid his head back on my chest with the pile of warm, smelly goo spread like a layer of glue between us. I died again in that moment and rose again to hug him tight until my husband came to help us both get cleaned up.
//
Every day of the dead, every Halloween, gives way to all saints day and I wonder if we too, dying in our little and big ways, aren’t also being moved, continually, from death to new life. This dying is a surrender, a stripping bare until all that remains is love.
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Hey-all! The kindle version of Chicken Scratch: Stories of Love, Risk & Poultry is now available for pre-order on Amazon! The launch date, November 7 is just a week away! And here’s a fun little chicken meme for you to share.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for 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. Thanks for being part of our community!
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.
