Essays
Podcast: Writing, Wonder & Discovery
Last week, my friend Karen Weiss from Waterworks Ministries in State College, PA, came over to interview me for her podcast. We had a great time sitting in the sunlit Little House on my property talking about writing as a way of paying attention to life and as a Spiritual Practice.
If you’ve ever wondered how I started writing, how I decide what to write about or where I find God in the process, pop over to her website and have a listen. I also give a shortish-long description of what my forthcoming book, Chicken Scratch is really all about.
The proofs of Chicken Scratch (final rough drafts) arrived yesterday and my older two children carted two of them off to school to show their friends and teachers – I think they’re more excited than I am. This next week I’ll be working hard on editing and re-submitting my files and by November 7th we should be ready to go! Last, but not least, here’s a little bonus meme that gives you a sneak-peak at the heart of Chicken Scratch. Feel free to download and share the image online.
Doing It Scared (#SmallWonder Link-up)
Thursday morning I printed off a how to manual for formatting the inside of a book and sat outside highlighting the parts I thought would apply to the job ahead of me that afternoon. It was a beautiful fall day, enough to warrant (in my mind) printing the 70 plus page manual. Looking up, I caught this picture of our rooster, Joker silhouetted by the sun. You can see the farm stand in the background.
I started formatting around noon and by three o’clock I really wanted to go into the house for a drink of water or cup of coffee, but I made myself stay put in
the Ikea chair in my office. If I pushed, I could finish formatting the inside layout of my forthcoming book before the
kids’ bus rolled over the hill to drop them off, and I really wanted to be
done.
Thirty more minutes and I had done it. All eighteen sections of my book were copied,
pasted and formatted into the layout template I purchased online. I felt like my eyes were going to fall out of
my head and I had spent the last four hours struggling to breathe for fear one
finger-stroke would blow the whole book out of the water.
//
This is how a lot of self-publishing has been. I was scared and overwhelmed by websites like
Createspace and Canva (Never heard of them?
I hadn’t either.) but I found them and set up accounts. I didn’t understand book formatting lingo and
the specifications necessary for designing a cover layout, but I googled
instructions, read them, and did it. Every
week brought a new skill to learn, a new figurative blank page that terrified
me to the core.
Making dinner in the kitchen while the kids watched TV in
the afternoons, I would sense my fear and anxiety. Why am
I so anxious? I wondered.
Because
I don’t know what I’m doing, came the reply.
It turns out, I don’t like not knowing what I’m doing.
But I also tried to find perspective, You didn’t know what you were doing a week ago when you designed
the cover, but you figured it out. You can do this too.
I thought of all the times I’ve walked blind into new challenges, and although I
don’t like it at all, I kept on groping my way along the path of self-publishing. I think this is what some people call, “doing
it scared.” The idea of doing something despite your fear and not allowing fear to be the boss. Maybe “doing it scared” is the secular version of “walking by faith, not by sight.”
//
This is one side of my self-publishing story – I’ve done it scared. (Although I think the term ‘terrified’ would be a more accurate descriptor.) There’s been value in the challenge of learning new skills and overcoming hurdles. But it’s also been exhausting.
Friday night, I finally submitted all of my files to
Create Space (Amazon’s self-publishing site). This was the one step I was most nervous about. After submitting, I felt a breath of relief. Then, I laid down on the couch and fell asleep
at 7:00 pm and slept straight through until the following morning.
I think it’s important for others to be aware that there’s a
real cost to doing it scared. And, because
of that, I’m not sure it’s a value I altogether promote. It’s ok to be scared and important to not let
fear be your master, but sometimes our fear and stress are telling us important
things too.
“Doing it scared” can only take us so far without things like,
“doing it together” and “doing it with grace and a heaping dose of help.” Although I’m proud of myself for the work I’ve
done these past two months, I’m not unaware of the cost.
Also, I’ve not, by any measure, done it
alone. I’m grateful for those who’ve
come alongside of me to offer advice, encouragement and support. I hope my experience will help me remember to
take notice when others around me are doing it scared. Those are the times when we need to lean in
and offer help and support.
What have you “done scared”? What was it like for you?
* * *
It’s official! My book, Chicken Scratch: Stories of Love, Risk & Poultry is coming on November 7th! Feel free to share this image on social media and stay tuned next week for more info one ways you can help get the word out.
One advance reader gave me a great compliment today. “It felt like sitting down with you over a cup of coffee and listening to you tell stories. I didn’t know how much I needed it.”
* * *
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 Awakening We Seek (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
#SmallWonder friends – I set the linkup to automatically post last weekend since we were out of town, but it didn’t work! I missed connecting with you all. Today I’m re-posting something from October, 2013, back when the twins were just two years old and we were living in a small rental apartment and waiting to find a home.
* * *
To see the world in a grain of sand,
and to see heaven in a wild flower,
hold infinity in the palm of your hands,
and eternity in an hour.
– William Blake
The whole world is dripping and gray; water runs through the streets and pools in the Quick Stop parking lot across the road. In this light, the apartment walls are dingy, ashen, crisscrossed with shadows. Every corner of the house is filled with piles; it feels like the stuff in our house is also pooling together mirroring the puddles outside. Here I sit, waiting for a miracle that will move us into a brighter space.
//
The twins threw noodles down through the cast iron vent in the floor the other day, noodles from a box they scrounged from the pantry and tore open like the little wild things they are. Laying on their bellies now, peering through the grate that leads to the basement below, they’re pleased and excited to recall where the noodles have gone.
“Hot-hot,” they exclaim, “Noodles!”
Everything, to them, is an exclamation point, everything extraordinary – the sun, the clouds, the rain, the discovery of their own shadow following their every move. In their eyes all the world is a miracle, the finite infused with the infinite. To us, they are the miracle, these little beings whose minds see no clear divide between the ordinary and extraordinary. I envy their capacity for wonder, their openness to the love of what is.
//
All our lives, I think, are spent seeking an awakening, a return to that same unity of vision.
* * *
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!
In Defense of Fun (#SmallWonder Link-up)
I had coffee with one of my former college professors a few
weeks ago. I walked down the road to the
little corner café and we sat for a while talking about life and
direction. We’re both in the midst of a murky time of transition – his post retirement, mine at the end of the season of parenting
preschool aged children. This friend, a retired professor Christian
Spirituality and Ministry who’s penned a biblical commentary for a well-known
series, likes to tease me about the fact that I went to a “better seminary”
than him.
When it came up that morning in the coffee shop I smiled and
shrugged. “Yeah,” I said, “and look where it got me – selling flowers
and eggs along the side of the road!”
He smiled and shrugged. “Well,” he said, “that’s important
too.”
He’s right. It
is. And I knew it even as I sat there making light of it.
//
John built the farm stand early this summer and I started
out trying to sell eggs and produce, but sales were slow, by which I mean
nearly non-existent. But then the two
seed packets of Zinnias we planted grew and started blooming in a wild array of
pinks and oranges. I soon added cut
flower arrangements to the stand first in old glass canning jars, then in
recycled soup cans. I called them “Tin
Can Bouquets” and sold them for $1 each.
In late August, a friend of mine discovered the bouquets and posted a picture of them online, sales picked up
dramatically. Some days it felt like I
could hardly keep the stand stocked with flowers. All in all, I’m confident we made more money
in flowers this summer than in produce and eggs combined.
//
I realized something amazing this summer when I sold my
first carton of eggs to a stranger who happened to stop by because of
the sign in our yard. When you sell
something to another person – in this case, eggs – you’re in some small way,
entering into their life. The woman who
stopped by took my eggs into her home, put them in her refrigerator and they
became part of her meal planning and dinner, lunch or breakfast. A product of mine became part of her life and
I don’t even know her name. The same
goes for writing a book, I guess, or selling flowers, each product offers a
chance to impact someone else’s life.
//
A few weeks ago I told a small group of friends about
my plan to self-publish Chicken Scratch this November 7th. After taking time to think about my goals for the book and how I would measure its success, I had found I was surprised by my own answer.
“What I most want,” I told them, “is for it to be fun.” I shrugged my shoulders at the word fun, like it was a small
thing. Then with my face scrunched up,
almost as if in apology, I added, “I think it’s really important.”
My friends agreed.
We
talked about how fun can seem frivolous, unimportant, when compared to the
serious work needing to be done. These
friends work in the non-profit sector, they know a thing or two about serious
work, and yet they agreed, we do need more beauty and joy, more fun in our
lives.
I used to think being a good person meant doing all of the
serious work first. Then maybe, if I was
lucky, there would be a few spare moments at the end of the day or the end of a
productive life to do something “just for fun;”
to travel, to rest, to play. I
still find myself thinking that way when the list of good and important, even
necessary, things that must be done is long. (Is it ever not long?)
But I understand now that fun belongs on that list too. Fun is good.
Fun is important. Fun is necessary. So necessary that we may even need to practice at it until we learn to engage in fun, not as a form of escapism or entertainment, but as a way to refill our souls, giving us hope, energy and courage to continue on in the rest of the good and serious work needing to be done.
“It kinda blows my mind,” I told my friends that day. “Of all the things for sale at the farm
stand, all of the useful, practical food items, what people bought most was
beauty.”
I like to think of those tin can bouquets – the ones my
friend bought two and three at a time and took to meetings all over town, the others bought by people I never met or even
saw – those pink and purple happy Zinnia
faces are smiling all around Boiling Springs and Carlisle, on kitchen counters,
dining room tables and goodness only knows where else. What a joy it is to
spread a little fun into pockets of the world I would otherwise never
reach.
* * *
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!
Chicken Scratch (The Cat’s Out of the Bag!)
(Note the water fountain. Yes, we have an old school water fountain in our kitchen.)
I know the image is blurry, but this is our cat, Perfect, exploring one of our kitchen cupboards for the first time. We’ve had Perfect for about two years now and, for much of that time – ever since we got a dog – she’s lived in my bedroom. Well, when the dog first came, she lived beneath our upstairs floorboards for a few months, but after that, she took to living in my bedroom.
Perfect was terrified of the dog and willing to do anything to avoid her so we tried to make things less stressful by adding another litter box upstairs and moving the cat food and water. Life went on and Perfect stayed in her comfort zone, occasionally making daring excursions down the hall to my daughter’s room which was also quiet and dog-free. Then one day, discovering a broken window screen, Perfect expanded her territory exponentially by venturing out onto the roof of our wrap around porch. There, she napped on the sun-warmed shingles, watched birds and chased insects.
Months later she started sneaking downstairs at night with our male cat Blackie standing guard against the dog’s unwitting approach. Sometimes she followed Blackie’s lead, slipping silently out the back door, only to get terrified and end up hiding on top of the open garage door. On those days I grabbed a wooden folding ladder and pulled her down, then carried her into the house while she hissed and growled on full alert.
Perfect’s choice to live in confinement fascinates me. I like to think of her as a feline Emily Dickinson – self-confined, but longing to communicate in some way with the outside world.
Now that all four kids are in school the house is much quieter and Perfect often follows me cautiously from room to room, which is awkward because Coco (the dog) also follows me and yet they prefer not to come in contact with each other. They orbit me, like planets orbiting the sun.
One day last week I propped the screen door open in the back room, hoping Perfect might venture outside while I worked inside. Walking past the back door, I was greeted by this sight – Perfect interacting (for the first time) with a chicken. She didn’t seem one bit alarmed by it.
(Note the crooked door handle – someday I will write a post about that.)
Grabbing my phone, I snapped a picture before the moment passed – evidence of Perfect’s bravery to show my daughter later that day. I love this picture because it reminds me – things change, time passes, and brave wears a new face every day.
Today I’m putting on my own brave face to share some BIG NEWS . . . I wrote a book! It started last spring with the purchase of our new flock of chickens. I set an intention to write about my experience with the birds as often as possible during the month of May. By the time school was out, I had over twenty very rough pieces to work with and I set a new goal of rewriting and then revising those by the end of summer vacation.
By the grace of God and with a lot of support from a dear friend who helped care for my children this summer – I did it.
Chicken Scratch: Stories of Love, Risk and Poultry is launching November 7th – a month from tomorrow. It’s filled with over twenty of the same style of fun, thoughtful, compassionate and laugh out loud stories that you’ve enjoyed here on the blog for the past four years.
Right now Chicken Scratch is in the process of being edited and while I wait to hear back on final revisions, I’m continuing to work on all of the behind-the-scenes aspects of self-publishing. Right now that includes growing my email list (Newsletter), creating a launch team, and working on cover design and media images for sharing.
I want to thank all of you who’ve walked with me on the journey of discovering my writing life – your presence keeps me going. And I want to invite you to consider helping to spread the word about Chicken Scratch in the circles you’re in. Here are some ways to do that:
1. I need committed readers and sharers to read the book and post a review online on the day of (or week of) the launch. Preferably on Amazon, but also other places where you share about books you love. If you’re interested in this opportunity, comment below or shoot me an email at kchripczuk at yahoo.com. I will probably need to “friend” you first on Facebook to add you to the launch team.
2. Closer to the launch date, I will post some graphics you can share online to help spread the word.
3. If you’re a blogger, consider posting a review of the book on your blog or contact me for an interview or other content.
4. Pray for me. About once a day I get a little panicky and think “I have no idea what I’m doing.” And, you know what? It’s true! I don’t! (insert maniacal laughter) But, that’s ok, right? My biggest hope for this book is to have fun – to share fun and joy with others and to enjoy as much of the process as possible. Writing a book is incredibly hard work. Self publishing is hard work. But it doesn’t mean it can’t also be fun.
This blog has been, for four years, my open window. During the days and weeks of raising young children, when leaving the house was a rare treat, this space offered me a little room to breathe and an opportunity to stay connected to the parts of me that often felt unused in the endless task of caring for young children. Now I’m stepping out again into a new adventure.
It will be fun.
It will be scary.
And even if I end up like Perfect, hiding on the roof of the open garage door from time-to-time, I know for sure, there are plenty of people who’ll set up an old wooden ladder and rescue me.
Thanks being with me on the journey.
A New Season (#SmallWonder Link-up)
(an example of a chicken with feathered legs and feet)
This past spring I caught a bad case of Chicken Fever. Not to be confused with bird flue, Chicken Fever causes its victim, usually already a chicken owner, to desperately desire more chickens. One friend, eager to aide me in my distress, told me that her
neighbor, an Amish farmer, would be happy to hatch some eggs for me for
free.
The price was right, but the
timing did nothing to satisfy my urgent need.
It would take about a month for the eggs to hatch, then it would be
another four months before the hens started laying. Deep in the throes of fever as I was,
I couldn’t possibly wait that long.
A few days later we found a flock of twelve laying hens for sale and within a week they were ours. My Chicken Fever broke as I faced the demands of the new flock, but in the early days of recovery I still sent a secret text to my friend who knows the Amish
farmer.
“I still want some chicks,” I typed.
“How many?” she asked.
“Four or five?” I suggested.
That was back in May.
Time passed. We lost the matriarch of our flock to a predator and our baby Polish hens grew up. Then one day last week, my friend pulled
into our driveway and popped open the trunk of her SUV. I ran out of the Little House like a child on
Christmas morning as she lifted a small cage to the ground.
I was happy to see three white birds. Then, as I walked closer, I got a better
look. “They’re the chickens with pants!”
I cried.
Inside the cage, three petite, fluffy white birds walked in
circles. Each had feathers running down
their legs, sticking out on either side, giving them the appearance of wearing cowboy chaps.
I carried the cage
down to our smaller coop and lifted the hens out one-by-one. Their feathers were soft as silk and they
rested gently in my hands. When the kids got home that day, I surprised them as they
came off the bus, holding a white chicken in my arms. “They’re the ones with pants!” I proclaimed
and we oohed and aahed over them.
I had no idea what kind of chickens we might get from the anonymous Amish farmer, but I never expected these fancy girls. Now we have a total of seventeen hens and one rooster roaming the yard.
New things around the farm are pretty common – new pets, new plants, new equipment and work to be done, but this week I also have some big writing news to share with you. First, I’m starting a monthly newsletter which will contain exclusive content (essays and poems not appearing here on the blog), links to great content around the web and information about upcoming resources and events.
And the second piece of news is even bigger and more exciting . . . but you’ll have to sign up for my newsletter to be one of the first to find out more. Thanks for being part of the #SmallWonder community!
Just enter your address here to sign up!
Fish Fudge and the Quality of Silence (#SmallWonder Link-up)
My husband loves seafood – shrimp, scallops, crabs – you name it, he loves it. But he absolutely adores Salmon. He calls it “Fish Fudge.”
I don’t love seafood. At best, I tolerate it. The idea of Fish Fudge, just the very idea, makes me want to vomit a little bit in my mouth. But he says it’s smooth and rich like fudge and since he likes fudge and fish, the image works for him.
I visited the Still Waters this week in anticipation of a writing retreat Shawn Smucker and I will be leading there on October 15. Still Waters is a privately owned retreat house located outside of Carlisle, PA along the Conodoguinet creek.
Although I’ve attended numerous day events there and overnighted once, it had been more than a year since I was last there. The moment I walked in, I thought, “Ah, it’s been too long.”
There’s a quality of silence at Still Waters that’s absolutely stunning. It’s as though the silence has meat to it, a fullness of body, something like Silence Fudge maybe. I’m very grateful to the owners, the late Sanford Alwine and his wife Lois, who left me a lovely note of greeting, for envisioning and sharing this space with the local community.
Monday afternoon I made a hot cup of tea, sat for awhile, prayed and worked on some editing. Mostly, though, I enjoyed the velvety silence of the air around me and gave thanks for the opportunity to be there. I took some pictures of the beautiful space to share with you too. Enjoy!
* * *
Author, Shawn Smucker and I are offering a one-day retreat this coming October 15 in Carlisle, PA. Titled, Writing As Witness, we will explore the ways writing can position us to witness the presence of God in our own lives and in the world. Visit link to learn more.
* * *
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!
To Know Your Own Heart #SmallWonder LinkUp
My church’s interim pastor, Jay McDermond, spoke on the life
of Peter last Sunday, spending much of his time focusing on Peter’s less
admirable qualities. (I believe the words “bone head” may have been
employed.) By human standards, Peter
probably wasn’t the best candidate for Jesus to build his church on, but Jesus called
him anyway.
After highlighting Peter’s commitment and betrayal, our
pastor focused on the conversation between Jesus and Peter found in John
21. Jesus asks Peter three times, “Do
you love me?” Peter responds each time,
“Yes, Lord, you know I love you.”
According to Pastor Jay, the nuance of the conversation is a bit clearer
in the Greek where two different words for ‘love’ are used.
Jesus: Peter, do you ‘agape
me?’
Peter: Yes Lord, ‘phileo
se.’
Jesus is talking about one kind of love, Peter is talking
about another. Jesus uses the Greek word
“agape” referring to divine love. “Peter,”
Jesus is asking, “do you love me like God loves you?”
Peter responds with ‘phileo se,’ “I love you like a brother,
Jesus.”
This exact exchange is then repeated with Jesus again asking
whether Peter loves him with divine love and Peter responding, “I love you like
a brother.” The third time, though,
Jesus changes his wording to match Peter’s ability.
“Peter,” he finally says in verse 17, “do you love me like a
brother?”
“Yes,” Peter says again, “I love you like a brother.”
Jesus responds to
Peter’s humanity by lowering the bar.
It’s as though Jesus sees Peter’s true condition and decides, “Yeah, I
can work with that.” This is good news – the same grace extended
to Peter extends to all of us.
It’s also important to note a change in Peter. By the time we get to this final conversation
near the end of the book of John, Peter, for once, doesn’t try to pretend he’s
capable of more than he knows to be true.
Maybe he learned that lesson during the long, dark night of his
betrayal. When Peter heard Jesus’
prediction of suffering and death, Peter promised to be faithful to the bitter
end. Jesus, never the fool, told him,
“Before the rooster crows three times, Peter, you will betray me.” In other words, Jesus says, “Peter, you don’t
even know your own heart.”
For Peter, the realization of his own capacity for betrayal
(ie. his capacity for sin) was devastating.
When the rooster crowed for the third time, Peter ran out and “wept
bitterly.” That night in the courtyard
and later through the still, silent night of fishing without success, Peter
came face to face with his own humanity.
It’s not that he lost his tendency to bluster and bluff, but that he
became painfully aware of it. By the
time he talks with Jesus again, Peter is certain of who he is – fully human, flawed,
and yet willing to love the best he can.
If I were Peter standing on the shoreline held in place by
Jesus’ direct line of questioning, I can’t help but think I would’ve been
tempted to claim I’m capable of more than I am.
This seems to be the sin I’m most prone to commit over and over again.
But Peter discovered a bedrock truth about himself, about
his limitations and abilities and that discovery gives him solid footing in the
face of Jesus’ questioning. The good
news is that Jesus doesn’t reject Peter for his limitations, in fact, I
wonder if it wasn’t Peter’s certainty about his own limits that helped Jesus
decide he was the right person for the job.
* * *
Author, Shawn Smucker and I are offering a one-day retreat this coming October 15 in Carlisle, PA. Titled, Writing As Witness, we will explore the ways writing can position us to witness the presence of God in our own lives and in the world. Visit link to learn more.
* * *
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!
They’re Off (to Kindergarten) #SmallWonder
Oh my word, these two used to stand in the windows at our old house eating apples and watching the cars drive by on Franklin St.
I hear, again, the patter of little feet upstairs. It’s 7:30 pm, a good half hour since the song
and a prayer and good nights. But there
he is in the half-dark hallway, a taunt wire of worried little boy. I reach out my arms and pick up his long,
strong body because that’s what Mamas do.
“Are you worried?” I ask.
He gives me a wide-eyed exasperated look. “Mom!
Do you think I wouldn’t be worried about my first day of school ever?”
he says.
It’s true, he has every right to be worried. “It’s ok,” I say, “Is there anything I can do
to help?”
He looks away and Daddy arrives at the top of the stairs to
take the hand-off and I return to helping the older two wash off the last
remains of summer. I joke that we may
not recognize them when the scrubbing’s all said and done.
Later, when the older two are sprawled on couches and I’m
reading aloud, I hear a thump of feet hitting the floor above my head and a pitter-patter in the hallway. Looking
up I see him squatting there at the railing.
“Remember that poem we were supposed to read the night
before school to help us sleep better?” he asks. “We forgot to read it.”
I remembered the poems after they were in bed and thought
we’d let it go until morning. But now
that he remembers, there’ll be no letting anything go. Up the stairs Daddy goes again, this time
with the yellow school folder and poem in hand.
They open the folded yellow paper revealing a little bag of “magic
confetti” inside. The confetti, the poem
explained, is to be sprinkled under one’s pillow to ensure a good night’s
sleep.
Levi scurries to his bed, shaking the little bag with vigor,
making sure to get every last piece of confetti, talking the entire time. It works and he sleeps through the night. In the morning, though, picking out a new
shirt to wear, he yawns and looks at me with baggy, red eyes. “I’m tired,” he says.
//
In the early morning chaos of fixing breakfast, packing
lunches and sorting new shoes and shirts, Isaiah walks up to me with wide eyes.
“I’m scared,” he says, “because when we
get there, you won’t be with us.” At the
word “you” he pokes me in the chest for emphasis.
“I know,” I say, squeezing him in a hug.
Then the whirl of morning preparations pulls us in separate directions until I pause, putting bread in the toaster. He approaches again, staring up at me with questions brimming in his brown eyes. “Will there be bullies?” he asks.
“No,” I say, “there won’t be any bullies, honey.”
//
Everyone’s ready a good half hour early and when it’s
finally time to go outside for the buses, Isaiah is unable to smile for a
picture. He doesn’t cry, but his face is
a grimace of worry.
Mercifully, the bus is on time and they’re up the stairs
before I can cling to them for one last hug and a kiss. The bus driver tells them to head to seat
four, but I call out from the foot of the tall, black stairs, “They don’t know
the number four.”
I will myself not to
climb those stairs and help them to their seats, not to call them back for one last hug and kiss. My husband, seeing their confusion, points to
the window by seat number four and in a blink, two happy faces peak out
smiling, waving, and then they’re off.
Labor Day (A Picture Post)
It’s Labor Day here in the United States. My husband is off from work, my father-in-law is visiting, and this is ALL FOUR kids’ last day of summer vacation. It’s been a hot, dry summer in our neck of the woods and somewhere half-way through we re-discovered the Yellow Breeches creek just a few minutes from our house. Even on the hottest of days the creek’s cool and shady, filled with wonders.
Yesterday I picked up a book my soon-to-be fifth grader recommended, Sophie Quire and the Last Storyguard, a lovely book about the power of story and the lengths we must go to to protect it. The book begins with this quote, which I’ll leave you with, as well as some pictures from our time at the creek. Tomorrow’s a new bend in the road for us and I’ll see you on the other side. #SmallWonder link-up will be back next week.
The most priceless posession of the human race is the wonder of the world. Yet, latterly, the utmost endeavours of mankind have been directed towards the dissipation of that wonder . . . Nobody, any longer, may hope to entertain an angel unawares, or to meet sir Lancelot in shining armour on a moonlit road. But what is the use of living in a world devoid of wonderment? – Kenneth Grahame
This summer’s Zinnias are almost spent and I’m looking forward to adding more variety to next year’s crop.
The Healing at the Pool of Bethesda
John 5:1-9
How long must you wait
by the water’s edge
for the angel to dip
her fickle toe and
stir the surface
of the world?
And what if
even after
days, months
of waiting,
watching,
you sense
the air’s movement,
see the water shimmer
with circle after concentric
circle and yet,
are unable
to enter in?
To be near
the miracle is not
enough. Second
place will earn you
no reward.
What then?
Nothing can move
you save for the one
question most difficult,
“What do you want?”
The answer
to that question
turns you away
from waiting
and the still,
smooth surface
of the water.
The answer
to that question
bids you,
“Pick up your mat
and walk.”
How to Find Hidden Treasure (#SmallWonder Link-up)
Our giant black chicken stood outside the open kitchen
window clucking with vigor yesterday afternoon.
Despite the high heat and humidity, she marched back and forth in the
green grass busily squawking with an air of self-importance, a clear sign she’d
just laid an egg.
I dropped what I was doing and rushed outside. “A-ha!” I thought. The day before I’d gathered a measly four
eggs. I knew the hens were holding out on me and I walked slow searching
circles around the yard in the afternoon and early the next morning hunting for
their secret nest.
Our sixteen hens have a total of seven nesting boxes spread
between two coops and one “alternative” nest tucked in a pile of hay on the
garage floor. They have plenty of good
places to lay their eggs. But once a
month or so first one, then three or four find a new place to
lay.
The first secret nest we found was
tucked under a piece of abandoned plywood lying at the base of our largest pine
tree. In the sheltering shade of the old
wood, resting in a shallow depression between two roots, lay a clutch of eighteen eggs. Since then we’ve found
clutches on wooden shelves in my husband’s wood shop, in dark corners of the
garage, and in the middle of a much-trampled flowerbed. The nests are cleverly hidden and nearly
impossible to find, although they have hens sitting in them and coming and
going for most of the day.
When I suspect the hens are hoarding eggs, I prowl the yard
looking around the base of shrubs and trees, I roam the garage looking for
secret corners and shadowed shelves. Most
importantly, I start listening to the chatter among the birds.
Every chicken we have, save perhaps for the shy Polish hen,
announces her freshly laid egg with a puffed chest and wide-spread wings,
her beak opening to pronounce pride with a voluminous round of
“bawk-bawk-bigawk.” This announcement
can go on for a good five or ten minutes as the hen boasts and elates over her
own great deed. If I’m paying attention,
then I notice this cackle of delight and quickly head toward the loud-mouth
hoping to catch her red-handed at the scene of the crime.
Yesterday when I heard “Thunder Storm” (as
my daughter calls her) or “Darth Vader” (as the boys call her) clucking up a
storm I ran outside and checked closely in the weedy
flowerbed beneath the window, pushing aside leggy Cone Flowers and Daisy stems that refuse to
yield more buds. I scanned the base of
the overgrown shrubs that need trimming but found nothing. Lately I’ve noticed the hens hanging out around the old well-house just
beside the kitchen window but I’ve checked the ancient trellis there with its
climbing vines and knew, just knew, there was nothing there.
Still, I paused and scanned low again while the black hen
with her feathers that shimmer iridescent blue and green chattered on. Then my eyes caught it, just a glimpse of
brown tucked in below the trellis, behind winding vines hidden in shadow. Kneeling, I tenderly pulled back vine to
reveal a sheepish brown hen who, startled by my abrupt arrival, decided she had sat
for long enough. Tottering off, she too began to boast about the egg just laid and I stared at the pile of eggs,
treasure revealed.
I called the kids outside to witness my discovery and we started counting the brown, white and
blue eggs I pulled out of their secret shade.
“Eleven eggs!” I shouted, delighted with my find. Then I ferried the eggs into the house in the upturned hem of my shirt.
In the kitchen, I eased the eggs gently onto the
counter and sent my husband a text, “I found the secret nest!” Then I washed the eggs, checked for freshness
and slid each into its own slot in a new carton.
//
I don’t know why the hens change their laying habits, why
they refuse to utilize the seven perfectly good nesting boxes. I
suppose it has something to do with hiding from predators and other ancient longings they could
not quite articulate even if given the gift of human language. I want those eggs, though, as much as any fox
or raccoon in the wild might, because they’re of value to me and since I feed
and shelter the birds (as much as they’re willing to comply) I feel entitled,
you might say, to certain benefits.
I find it tempting, then, to accuse my birds of hoarding
their gifts and from there it would be an easy leap to turn this into a
reflection on hiding one’s talents under a bushel basket and the likes. Some of us do hide the gifts we’ve been given
and hoard them to the detriment of ourselves and those around us. But the truth is, many of us have a hard time
finding and claiming our own nest of gifts.
Many of us spend weeks and months circling our lives waiting to discover
what it is we have to offer a needy world.
I could tell you not to hide your talents, but I bet most of
us know that’s a no-no already. Instead I want to offer this to those who are hunting and
seeking for the hidden nests among us, the places of fertility and
fruitfulness, the places of hidden treasure:
I never found a hidden nest by shaming a bird.
I’ve never sat a chicken down and had a stern
talk eye-to-eye and told them they really should be more compliant. (But I have a hunch the effort would be wasted.)
What I do, when hunting hidden treasure, like a nest or a talent or a sense of true vocation in this world, is listen for the song. Look for the place where joy and pleasure abound, splitting the air on even the hottest of days, the place where you sing loud enough that you can be found.
* * *
Author, Shawn Smucker and I are offering a one-day retreat this coming October 15 in Carlisle, PA. Titled, Writing As Witness, we will explore the ways writing can position us to witness the presence of God in our own lives and in the world. Visit link to learn more.
* * *
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!
Life Sends Us Out, Love Binds Us Together (#SmallWonder Link-up)
(My kids don’t start school for two more weeks, but many in our area start tomorrow. I’m praying for and thinking of all those kids and Mamas tonight and wanted to re-share this post from fall 2015.)
All four kids took turns rummaging, elbow deep, in the large metal pot that holds rusted nuts, bolts, washers and nails. First they made robots, tiny friends composed of wing bolts and screws. They each made three or four and named them based on appearance and abilities.
Then Solomon made a “weapon,” something like nunchucks, by tying nuts on either end of a piece of string. He practiced throwing it until he could get it to wrap around a tree. Then the other kids caught on and started in with their own string and nut creations.
This morning he tied a washer in the middle of the string and, pulling the two ends taunt, observed the washer spinning first in one direction, then another.
//
This fall my four kids will be spread among three different schools. Two will climb on separate buses within minutes of each other, heading in opposite directions. Then the other two will ride with me in yet a third direction for drop-off.
I have three separate Back to School nights listed on the calendar, all requiring babysitting, and two more Meet the Teacher events that include some, but not all, of the kids. A large sheaf of papers pinned to the bulletin board announces teachers’ names, room numbers and other pieces of essential information.
I feel something like that nut tied in the middle of the string, spinning in one direction and another as my kids fly out into the world. How lucky we’ve been, piled together for the summer, like those nuts and bolts in the pot. We’ve clattered around the house and yard together, merging and separating at will. With fall, we will be flung a bit wider, but I’m grateful, always, for the cords of love that bind us together.
* * *
Author, Shawn Smucker and I are offering a one-day retreat this coming October 15 in Carlisle, PA. Titled, Writing As Witness, we will explore the ways writing can position us to witness the presence of God in our own lives and in the world. Visit link to learn more.
* * *
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!
Un-Disciplines: Do Something Foolish (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
I loaded three cartons of eggs and three ice
blocks into our straight-out-of-the-eighties rolling cooler this morning. We inherited the cooler from a friend because she didn’t need it anymore and we didn’t want to spend $20 on a cooler
for eggs that might not sell. Once the
eggs were tucked in, I hauled the cooler out the front door
to the little farm stand in front of our house.
My husband built the stand, out of an old door and leftover lumber, at the end of June and we’ve kept it stocked with garden surplus ever since. The hope was to keep from wasting the abundance of our little corner of Eden and make some spare change in the process. We live on a fairly busy state road and I thought a farm stand would do well here.
This morning I was surprised to find a dollar sealed inside a
plastic bag at the stand. I had left the Ziploc bag
there with instructions for anyone who bought cherry tomatoes to “leave the
container,” implying (I thought) they could use the bag to corral the tomatoes. But someone bought
tomatoes and left the money – a crisp dollar bill – in the bag instead.
I’m happy to report that this new development doubled our year-to-date farm stand
income. That’s right, doubled it. As in, we’ve made two dollars over the course of a month. I quickly sent my
husband a text with the heady news and started dreaming of a spending spree . .
.
Not really.
But I did feel a small spark of hope, which is no small thing when most days I feel like abandoning the stand completely.
A few weeks back a woman stopped by the house
unannounced and asked whether the stand itself was for sale – she thought it
quite clever and said it would look amazing standing outside her store. I told her no, the stand isn’t for sale, but
took her number saying my husband could build her one of her own.
We’ve yet to call her back, but in the weeks since her visit
I’ve done the math – we could surely make more by selling the
stand itself than we hope to make keeping it stocked by the road all
summer long. I thought about that math this
morning as I loaded the eggs. Maybe we should just be done.
But then there was the dollar and when I came inside
carrying the overripe zucchini that didn’t sell, the tomatoes that aged beyond
use in the carton, I found myself sorting more tomatoes for the stand and wondering
what else I could set out. Even
now, I want to go cut fresh Zinnia bouquets to sell and gather some of our
just-picked violet potatoes into a carton too.
I feel foolish most days, tending the stand while cars speed
by. There is, for me, a naked
vulnerability in selling things along-side the road. And, minor income aside, that’s why I persist in
doing it.
When I become aware of feeling foolish and vulnerable my tendency is to want to draw back and hide. I’m not much of a risk taker by nature, not much of a let’s-see-what-happens kinda gal. But lately, when I feel foolish, some wisdom inside me awakens.
//
“Ah,” wisdom says, “what’s this?”
“I don’t want to cut flowers that won’t sell, don’t want to pack and haul eggs fifty feet to sit all day by the side of the road,” I snap.
“Why?” wisdom asks, curious and eager.
“It feels too much like waiting to be picked in gym class,” I say, “I don’t like the risk, the uncontrolled exposure. I feel foolish.”
“Oh, now that’s good,” wisdom says, fully awake now and delighted with my predicament, “that’s something we can work with.”
I don’t want to listen, but curious now, I do.
“This stand is giving you something invaluable,” wisdom continues after a moment of thought, “the opportunity to feel foolish.”
//
What wisdom knows is that things like hope and faithfulness often feel foolish. They aren’t, but they feel that way quite often. By practicing the ability to endure negative sensations, like foolishness or vulnerability, we forge a deep resilience that can translate to other areas of our lives as well, areas where the risk and reward are much greater.
Somehow I know that voice is right. I load the eggs, cut my lovely flowers, gather the red and orange tomatoes and offer them to the world. Not because I want to get rich, but because I want to be enriched.
* * *
Author, Shawn Smucker and I are offering a one-day retreat this coming October 15 in Carlisle, PA. Titled, Writing As Witness, we will explore the ways writing can position us to witness the presence of God in our own lives and in the world. Visit link to learn more.
* * *
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 All Shine Like the Sun (SmallWonder Link-Up)
I returned home from the God’s Whisper Writing Retreat in Virginia last Sunday, driving my husband’s rattly old pickup truck through four hours of heat and humidity. The truck lacks AC and I swear it was hotter inside the cab than out. By the time I hit our driveway I was spent. I was also greeted by the usual signs of my absence – an empty refrigerator and mountains of laundry. So I dove back in to home and put off reflecting on the weekend away until now.
It’s always a gift to be among other writers and more and more, three years into this writing life, I find myself thinking, “These are my kind of people.” Friday night 20+ writers gathered in the barn before dinner, mingling awkwardly like sixth graders at a dance. Dinner helped us shake off our nerves and then, after introductions, we took turns reading at the open Mic.
Writers, at their heart, long to connect, to be known. So, one-by-one we stood and read from finished and unfinished pieces, each person revealing a small square of their heart to a roomful of strangers who waited and welcomed with awe.
Saturday was long, lovely and exhausting in all the best ways, full of connection and reflection. I re-discovered my fear in Shawn Smucker’s workshop and others rediscovered their bodies in Andi’s. Some writers became unstuck, others learned how to write safely about vulnerability. In the evening we were all captivated by the only woman I know whose reading can compete with a flash-flood. Author, Sharon Morgan, drew us in with stories of life and love in Paris, she reminded us how good storytelling can bridge continents and help us connect like strangers gathered for a moment in time around a shared meal.
Sunday morning, as many as wanted, started the day with silent meditation. Then we welcomed a presentation by Jane Friedman on publishing. I sat in the back because I have “issues” with discussions of publishing – I’m just not there yet and not willing to get myself tangled in knots before I even have a manuscript to submit.
But, Sunday morning as 20+ writers in every stage of the game sat listening and calmly asking questions I realized the weekend had accomplished exactly what Shawn, Andi and I hoped it would. The writers in attendance asked good, solid questions in voices that revealed a healthy awareness of their own location in the greater scheme of things. I didn’t hear a whisper of panic, a breath of anxiety. I heard writers who, through the course of two days of balancing words and silence, were deeply in touch with the truth of their own situation.
Did most of us have a lot of work to do? Yes.
Did current publishing trends leave us with more options and less clarity than ever before? Mostly, yes.
But I sensed in myself and in those around me a deeper connection to their own abilities and desire – two tools that equip every writer to move forward even when the way is not quite clear.
We closed the retreat with a sharing circle and I was so grateful to hear how each participant would take some small piece from the weekend with them. Over the course of the weekend I marveled at the beauty of human beings and how we open so beautifully to each other when time and circumstances allow.
Sitting in that circle, I remembered Merton’s famous vision,
“In Louisville, at the corner of Fourth and Walnut, in the center of the shopping district, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all those people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers. It was like waking from a dream of separateness, of spurious self-isolation in a special world, the world of renunciation and supposed holiness… This sense of liberation from an illusory difference was such a relief and such a joy to me that I almost laughed out loud… I have the immense joy of being man, a member of a race in which God Himself became incarnate. As if the sorrows and stupidities of the human condition could overwhelm me, now I realize what we all are. And if only everybody could realize this! But it cannot be explained. There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun.”
For a few days last weekend in a barn in the mountains of Virginia, a handful of writers came together and found that we’re not so separate as we imagine and for a few moments we all shone like the sun.
* * *
Author, Shawn Smucker and I are offering a one-day retreat this coming October 15 in Carlisle, PA. Titled, Writing As Witness, we will explore the ways writing can position us to witness the presence of God in our own lives and in the world. Visit link to learn more.
* * *
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.
A Word May Come
If you’re lucky enough to be listening,
a word may come in the night while you
wrestle with tangled sheets and
the window unit AC throbs.
When you’re wide awake
past your bedtime,
you might remember
a line you used to know
by heart.
Whether it
rises or descends,
I cannot say, only you will know
its arrival by a quiet hum
of recognition that strikes
like heat lightening,
quiet and bright.
Then you must go
to sleep and in the morning
the word will still be there
running straight through
the heart of you,
like the needle
of a compass.
You
will know, again, the way.
All that remains is to walk in it.
In the Garden (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
I’m just home from the beautiful writer’s retreat at God’s Whisper Farm. As I settle in and look ahead to what the rest of summer entails, enjoy this post from last July.
//
Riding the old yellow Cub Cadet, I mow long rectangles around the back fields. Out in the garden, between me and the road, my husband works with the kids, tying short, thick tomato plants to their stakes with long strips of cotton.
From where I sit, rattling and humming along on the old mower, the boys are bright, little flowers that have sprouted legs, walking, tumbling, running through the garden in their shirts of bright teal and red. My husband is the tallest flower, an iris perhaps, overseeing the work and play.
The twins flop and hop climbing and falling on each other and by the time I move on to mowing the front, circling the overgrown bushes, they’ve pulled my husband down to the green grass. He is a horse now, crawling along with two cowboys astride until they all tumble again to the earth.
There is such beauty there, in that wide open space, under the bright sun and blue and I am so thankful, for those flowers that grew in my body, for the legs they run on and for their father who plays with them there in the garden.
* * *
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.
We Didn’t Keep Score (#SmallWonder Link-up)
The thought never would have occurred to me.
The teen behind the cash register at the
local Sport’s Emporium asked, “Are you going to keep score or not?” and I said, “Yes.” This
was after we picked our ball colors, before we chose our clubs.
“Western theme or Castle?” she asked.
“Castle,” I said, which is what we’d agreed on, although I
knew my eight-year-old son was awful curious about the Western course. She reached into a bin and handed me a piece
of card stock folded with a sharpened golf pencil tucked inside. Between the folds were tidy squares for
keeping score and the par expectations for each hole.
Leaving behind the video games, laser tag and AC, we set out
across a concrete wasteland toward the putt-putt courses. Alone with our older two kids for the night,
we were happy to be doing something that would’ve been impossible with two four
year olds in tow. Sophia and Solomon
loped along, their spindly legs flashing new sneakers, hers a neon sherbet and
his navy blue.
We were sweating already and yawning in the early evening
light, but strategically placed waterfalls and a breeze pulled us up the hill
toward hole #1. The cashier had planted a seed in my mind and so I asked my husband, “Do we want to keep
score?”
“Do you guys want to keep score?” John asked the kids.
“No,” they called back over their shoulders. So we didn’t.
The tidy little pencil and its accompanying card stayed buried in my
bag. It was a good thing, because right
off the bat at hole #1, Sophia’s sent her ball flying directly into the
water. We laughed and, noting how hot it
was and how far away replacement balls were located, fished the ball out of the
water.
“Can I try again?” she asked. Of course.
And so it went. Two
gawky kids in new sneakers and two almost forty parents spinning along through
18 holes of minor mishaps and triumphs.
We took turns, mostly, and refrained from “walking the ball” when a shot
proved too tough, mostly. Solomon
consistently sent other people’s balls flying with inadvertent taps from his
big, new shoes. He tripped over his own
club at least twice and, around hole #10, sent his own ball arcing though the
air into the water. We all gave-up at
one point or another and then, at the next hole, got back into the game again.
We had fun, which was the point.
Around hole #15 it dawned on me that perhaps, because we
weren’t keeping score, we weren’t really trying. Then I got a little tense and tried to focus
on the shot at hand. It didn’t seem to
make a difference.
I realized then that
I was trying, only my effort was turned in a different direction – away from
perfection and accomplishment, toward fun and enjoyment. As far as I know, there isn’t a score card
for that.
* * * *
Only 10 spaces left! I’m super excited to be joining with Andi Cumbo-Floyd and Shawn Smucker to organize a weekend writer’s retreat this summer at God’s Whisper Farm in the beautiful mountains of Virginia. Visit Andi’s website for more info!
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.
We Were Robbed and It Was Good (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
If I were to characterize Jesus’ ministry, it would be to refocus people away from a sin focus and onto a life focus. Where you give your focus, you give your energy. – Vern Hyndman
Wednesday my husband came home early to take our
daughter to the dentist and work on installing a long-awaited dishwasher in our
home. Working to frame a cabinet
around the hand-me-down appliance, he trotted out to the garage to cut a piece
of wood.
The counter in the wood shop was empty, no saw. He looked around in confusion, walked around
hunting. We’re not always very organized
with our tools and, after a while, he asked the kids and me whether we’d seen
or moved his equipment. The more he
looked around, the more things he found missing. Reality dawned slowly, someone broke into our
garage and stole several of my husband’s large wood working tools – a chop saw,
a drill press, an electric drill, among other smaller things.
Two police officers came to our house that afternoon and
spent a good bit of time looking around.
It was all terribly exciting for the kids who hunted the yard and garage
for footprints and other clues. John and
I continued to wrap our minds around the forethought and planning it would take
– two people at least and a vehicle – to empty his shop of equipment. We believe they came in the night, Monday
night to be precise, while we slept with our bedroom windows closed against the
heat and an ancient window unit AC throbbing out all outside noises.
In the middle of helping our kids not be scared and figuring
out what we need equipment-wise to move forward, John and I have worked through
the anger and discouragement that follows crime. We’ve talked about the buttons it pushes, how
disbelief is followed by anger and then a pervasive sense of futility (or what
my husband calls being glum). We’ve
wondered aloud and privately whether this event might change the way we live
and, more importantly, the way we think about life itself (which is always
behind the way we choose to live). In
the middle of it all, despite the very real loss of tools we cannot really
afford to replace, there’s a part of me that wants to call this event ‘good.’
When evil arrives, in any form, two of its ugliest fruits
are the lies, “you are alone” and “there is not enough.” With these two lies, evil sets itself up to
multiply, because evil flourishes in isolation and scarcity.
But when we shared about the robbery on facebook, friends
near and far expressed concern, outrage and sorrow. We
were reminded, as a friend said, “You are not alone in this!” Also, within minutes of posting, a friend
sent a private message, “We have a drill press you can have,” she wrote. This generous offer reminded us there’s
enough to go around.
These reminders were indeed good and we count ourselves as
lucky because too many people do experience crime in the midst of real and
crushing isolation and scarcity. But,
beyond these reminders, there was, I believe, a goodness in the robbery itself,
in it happening to us (or, maybe I should speak for myself here – to me).
It was good, not because theft is good or because I can
imagine scenario in which someone really did really need our resources more
than us, but because it is true and real.
Crime is a reality, or maybe I should put it another way – sin is a
reality.
Too often I’m prone to pretend it isn’t.
Before we go nodding our heads, though, and clucking our
tongues over the state of the world we live in, it might be helpful to remember
the words of the Teacher in Ecclesiastes.
“There is nothing new under the sun,” he says. Just nine verses in to a ten chapter book, and
he lays out his sobering conclusion. It’s
almost as though he concludes before beginning, “It is, what it is.”
It is what it is – robbery, racism, fear, hatred, isolation
– all of these things always have been and always will be. Sit with that for a while, if you will. Or, if you don’t want to take the Teacher’s
word for it, read elsewhere in the bible.
Take the book of Amos, for example, wherein an unlikely prophet calls
Israel to task for conflating politics with religion, for allowing robbery and
violence to flourish in their midst, for trampling the poor underfoot in a
continual rush toward material greed and personal pleasure (7:10-17, 3:10, 5:11,
6:4-6, 2:6-8) all while continuing to perform empty religious rituals
(5:21-24). All of this, among the people
of God, mind you.
Or, read history.
Chose a time, a place, any one, and you will find sin working in obvious and not-so-obvious ways. It is, what it
is.
Christians must accept the reality of sin. Small wrong-doings, like a local robbery or
the way you treat your kids when you’re tired or hungry or simply done at the
end of a long, hot, humid, summer day, can be good reminders. Local news, national news, international
news, these all serve as reminders too, but not when viewed as
extraordinary. The times we live in are
like no other and yet, they are like every other time before this. “There is nothing new under the sun,” the
Teacher says, not even evil itself is new or different than it has even
been.
It all seems rather grim, doesn’t it?
But this is where I see something glimmer, a small nugget of
good news tucked right in the middle of the darkness, which is, by the way
where we ought to most often expect to find the gospel.
The good news is this:
there is nothing new. Not when it
comes to evil. It is and it is the same,
without end. So if we’re going to get up
in arms about anything, let it be this – there is nothing new under the sun
save for the gospel which is continually and again inviting us and everyone who
does and doesn’t look like us and speak like us and pray or sing like us to
pitch in and be part of that which has already overcome.
We can spend our energy bemoaning evil, which never changes,
or we can turn our hearts and minds to the work of God, the way of God, in the world. We can open our very lives to the power of God in Christ Jesus that’s forever redeeming.
Sin is
not new and (good news!) neither is its cure. And even sin itself, our own or others’, can be an invitation, a reminder that we can choose where we place our focus and how we use our energy.
* * * *
Only 10 spaces left! I’m super excited to be joining with Andi Cumbo-Floyd and Shawn Smucker to organize a weekend writer’s retreat this summer at God’s Whisper Farm in the beautiful mountains of Virginia. Visit Andi’s website for more info!
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.
Privilege: They Didn’t Ask and I Didn’t Tell
*Photo Source: Unknown
Sunday morning our pastor read the names of last week’s shooting
victims, law enforcement and civilian, aloud during morning prayers. The brick-walled room was quiet, sunlight
streamed in through wide windows and I wondered what my oldest kids, seated at a table
with us, would think about those names.
Our older kids, just eight and ten, home for the entirety of summer vacation, are ensconced in a semi-rural white bubble.
John and I get most of our news online and, without the evening news
hour on TV, our kids are sheltered from much of the world’s news save for occasions
where we decide to intentionally break the bubble.
We did so with the church shooting in South Carolina last summer, explaining about the shooting and its racist motivations over dinner. Then we made a quilt square to send to a
group in the south who were piecing a quilt for those impacted by the
crime. Still, we haven’t talked with our kids about the events of last week. And they remained oblivious to our pastor’s prayer, wrapped up in seeing their Sunday morning friends, doodling and folding paper airplanes.
They didn’t ask and I didn’t tell.
Monday morning I thought about it again as I worked to add yet another layer of paint to the dark wood paneling in our laundry room. Would we tell the kids and when and how would we navigate the complexity of the
discussions? A new thought flickered in my mind like a light bulb – this is white privilege. I get to choose when and where and if I talk with my kids about the complexities of racism because I believe it doesn’t impact them and, more importantly, not telling them doesn’t put them at risk.
There are mothers across America who don’t have that
choice. To not talk about these deaths
with their sons and daughters is to expose them to risk. Information that feels optional for my kids
is essential for theirs. The idea that I don’t have to address these issues and they do is a privilege born of the color of my skin, a burden born of the color of theirs.
Later in the morning I read these posts by Lisha Epperson at Give Me Grace and Regina Stoltzfus at The Mennonite, both mothers to teenage boys wrestling with similar questions of when and where and how to talk about racism, but entering into the discussions with wisdom, bravery and fear because they cannot afford not to.
I am a white woman
raising three white sons along a stretch of road where pickup trucks of all
shapes and sizes drive by with confederate flags proudly flying from the bed of
the truck. These aren’t unobtrusive confederate
flag stickers pasted to a windshield, but a large 3×5 foot banners flying
on a pole, statement sized flags. I am a white woman who believes placing a #Blacklivesmatter sign in our yard would have real repercussions, so I don’t.
I want to preserve that bubble, to keep my kids safe. But I understand now that doing so only keeps us
all at risk. No bubble that includes some and excludes others by reason of the
color of their skin can ever be truly safe for anyone. What appeared optional – talking with my kids about the
realities of racism in our country – is, I now see, essential. I cannot afford to say nothing.
//
I wrote this post on Monday and have sat with it since largely because I am afraid to say something wrong. I now realize this hesitancy and the desire to “get it right” and not expose myself to possible ridicule or argument is another layer of privilege.
//
I turned on the evening news while driving home with the kids Tuesday night. They were wiped out from a day of swimming and sat quietly listening. We listened for five minutes before the questions began. I turned off the news and we cleared up confusion and I turned it back on again. Eventually, as we pulled in the driveway, my oldest son caught wind of the shootings in Dallas.
“What are they talking about?” he asked. “Was that another shooting?”
I asked him to wait while the twins went inside. Standing in the driveway, I told him quietly about the events of the past week and he filed it away like kids his age do.
//
The conversation begins, it continues and we have no choice but to enter in for the sake of all our children.
Please do take a moment to read the posts I’ve linked to above, both women share important perspectives. Thank you.
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.
