Essays
Small Enough to Lead and Be Led (#SmallWonder Link-up)
Christian leaders cannot simply be persons who have well-informed opinions about the burning issues of our time. Their leadership must be rooted in the permanent, intimate relationship with the incarnate Word, Jesus and they need to find there the source for their words, advice and guidance. Through the discipline of contemplative prayer, Christian leaders have to listen again and again to the voice of love and to find there the wisdom and courage to address whatever issue presents itself to them.
Dealing with burning issues without being rooted in a deep personal relationship with God easily leads to divisiveness because before we know it our sense of self is caught up in opinion on a given subject. But when we are securely rooted in personal intimacy with the source of life, it will be possible to remain flexible without being relativistic, convinced without being rigid, willing to confront without being offensive, gentle and forgiving without being soft, and true witnesses without being manipulative.
– Henri Nouwen
Tiny, less than three weeks old, she nestled in the crook of my arm. A satiny pink bow circled her downy head and dark blue eyes gazed up at me as I touched a bottle to her eager lips. She gulped hungrily and I feared she would drown in her own desire. Her tongue fluttered on the bottle’s nipple, sending a vibration up into my hand. She drank and paused, eyes rolling back into sleep, then woke and drank again. I burped her on my shoulder and in my lap, holding her chin with one hand and patting her soft, round back with the other. Finally, she drifted off the sleep.
All the time I held her, I was in love.
This is what happens when your own babies are ready to start kindergarten and your arms have been empty long enough for you to see the newest baby at church and be filled with desire. I snatched that baby up and held her all during service, staring into those steely blue eyes that focused on me with such intensity.
//
This week I read the story of Namaan from the book of 2 Kings. Namaan, the commander of the King of Aram’s army, is a “valiant soldier,” visibly broken by the scourge of leprosy. Namaan is a “great man” and “highly regarded” and when he gets wind of a possible healing in Israel, he snaps his fingers and the next thing we know he’s headed to Israel with a cartload of silver and gold and a letter addressed to the King. Namaan plays every power card he can, heading directly to the King of Israel, only to discover he has the wrong person – Namaan is in need of a prophet, not a king.
Elisha gets wind of the situation and tells the King to send Namaan on over to his house. When Namaan arrives, his wagon-train of loot and personal entourage in tow, Elisha doesn’t even bother to open in the door. Instead, he sends a servant out with a simple message, “Go and wash seven times in the Jordan River.”
Namaan – the valiant soldier who’s a great man and highly regarded – is both disappointed and deeply offended. “I thought he would come out and wave his hands in the air and call upon his God,” Namaan whines, “I could get a bath at home!” Unable to accept a simple cure, Namaan leaves in a rage, followed by his servants, his horses and chariots, and his great haul of silver and gold.
Namaan is a big man with a big problem and he wants a big cure. It takes a smaller person, a servant, to point out the obvious. “Uh, Namaan,” he asks, “if he’d asked you to do something great, wouldn’t you have done it? So why would you not do this small, simple thing?”
The unspoken answer, of course, is that Namaan is a great man and used to doing great things. For Namaan, to do a small thing is to be made small.
But he does it anyway. Namaan stoops into the river seven times and the story ends with his healing – his “flesh was restored like the flesh of a young boy.”
//
I’ve been thinking this week, like so many others, about the enormity of the problems facing our country and the desire to find big people who have big answers. I’ve been thinking about my unwillingness, at times, to suffer the indignity of doing small things.
In times like this I often return to the above quote from Henri Nouwen’s book on Christian leadership, In Jesus’ Name. That quote gets to the heart of what ails us time and time again – a lack of intimacy with God, a refusal to simply let ourselves be loved which is the heart of contemplative prayer. We want to do something big, but without a rooted intimacy with God, we become like giant trees without anchor, liable to topple and cause grave damage in even the smallest of storms.
We, like Namaan, are often disappointed, even offended, at the idea that this small thing – resting in the love of God – might be the one thing needed to heal what ails us, to make us small and vulnerable enough to be led and to lead.
//
That’s what I was thinking about this morning when that Mama let me borrow her dear, sweet baby. That baby stared at me with such focus, such intensity, and I loved her. I think that’s how it’s meant to be between God and us – us being small enough to just be before God, to be fed and loved, and God just getting the biggest kick out of being with us. That’s what Nouwen means by “contemplative prayer,” that’s what he means by “rooted in personal intimacy.”
The fruit of intimacy with the source of life is long-lasting and world changing. Read that last sentence again, listen as Nouwen paints a picture of the kind of people Christian leaders could be,
When we are securely rooted in personal intimacy with the source of life, it will be possible to flexible without being relativistic, convinced without being rigid, willing to confront without being offensive, gentle and forgiving without being soft, and true witnesses without being manipulative.
If you do anything this week, maybe begin with this: Let your God love you.
* * * *
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.
Spontaneity – The Discipline of Un-Discipline (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
“I’m working on being more spontaneous,” she said with a
straight face and all the seriousness of someone for whom spontaneity is struggle. She was one of my first
mentors and the comment was made in passing, but it’s stuck with me for sixteen years.
It’s a pleasingly ironic intention, to try hard at not trying, to make it a goal to deviate from set goals. I smiled at the idea from the moment I heard
it. These days I’m thinking again of spontaneity as a spiritual discipline and recognizing the trust involved in embracing the gift of each moment.
//
By the time all of the kids are in bed, around 8:45 pm on
these long light-filled summer days, I’m done, so very done. When at
last I lay down my mothering hat after fourteen hours on duty, I have two
options left – read a book or watch TV. Occasionally, a third option presents itself – go to bed.
If, however, I sneak away by 6:45 or 7:00 when John herds
the twins upstairs, I sometimes have enough life left in me to
write. This is what I was thinking the
other night when I sat on the couch at 6:45 with the laptop open. But then Solomon called for me. I sat the
laptop, still open, on the couch, intending to return, and followed his voice into
the kitchen.
While I tended to his need Sophia wandered in, shoulders slumped. “I’m bored,” she lamented.
“Why don’t you do something with your art supplies?” I
suggested knowing how rarely maternal suggestions are heeded. But lo and behold, five minutes later she waltzed into the kitchen with her easel and
paints, waving a paint board in the air.
“Who wants to paint?” she called.
I knew her invitation was directed at me. We had fun painting together the other week
and now she wanted to do it again. But I
didn’t want to paint, I wanted to
write. In that moment, though, with the laptop waiting open on the
couch, I heard behind her invitation to paint an invitation to togetherness. I didn’t
want to paint, but I appreciated her desire to be with me and, with a little searching, I found my own desire to be with
her.
She set her easel on the kitchen island and I tried to
refrain from chiding her over wasted paint as she squeezed what I viewed as needlessly large dollops onto her white plastic palette. I didn’t want to paint, but I did have some
new stamps and ink pads I wanted to try out. I went out to the Little House to fetch my
supplies and sat down diagonal from my daughter at the kitchen counter.
I put too little ink on the stamp and the medallion image
was incomplete. I put too much on and it
globbed together on the page. Slowly, hit and miss, I covered the page with cobalt blue doilies of ink. Next I opened a new set of alphabet stamps and broke them apart one-by-one.
“Let me guess,” Sophia said, watching, “you’ve had those for
a long time but haven’t ever used them.”
Oh that girl knows her mother well – the hoarding and saving, the waiting for just the right time to enjoy
something new – that girl with her great gobs
of excess paint. “No,” I said, pleased with myself, “they’re new, but I just got them.”
I tried covering the letter stamps with paint with varying
results, then I went back to the ink pads and started building words letter by
letter. Unsure where to begin, Sophia started with a bold red line stretched diagonally across the middle of her canvas. Slowly it grew to a rainbow that filled the whole page.
“It’s funny,” said Sophia observing her own work, “you don’t
know what you’re going to paint, but you just start with a color and build on
from there.”
“Yeah,” I said, “it’s like there was something waiting
to be painted but you didn’t know it before you started.”
On my paper I had stamped the word “love” with varying degrees
of legibility, then I added “very sweet” enjoying the way the words built one letter at a time. On the lower right
hand side of the page, in Harbor blue ink, I stamped the word “writer.”
Looking at my page as I finished, I realized I was writing
after all – words were seeping onto the
page despite the absence of my laptop and its keys.
//
Maybe this is the secret to spontaneity – the
trust that what is needed will come regardless, the belief that all the great gifts of our lives are truly gifts, not
gotten but given. I’ll continue to
work at setting good boundaries and safe spaces around my writing life –
goodness knows I need them. But like my old mentor, I’ll also work at being spontaneous. The discipline of un-discipline reminds me that even when I’m not looking grace will find its way and what has been given will not be taken away.
* * * *
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.
The Cupcake Mistake (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
After the early morning flurry of getting the older two out
the door and onto the bus, I reached into the refrigerator and gingerly slid
out the cool, glass baking dish covered with a layer of plastic wrap and
tinfoil. It was Sophia’s birthday and I
was dropping off cupcakes for her class.
The night before, I baked two rounds of cupcakes involving
multiple trips to the store. In the end
I had a hot kitchen, twenty-four mini cupcakes (for school) and six large (for
home) all topped with blue icing and white sparkling
sprinkles. I planned to drive them to school hoping to save her the possible embarrassment of
dropping them on the bus or on her way down the hall of the new school where
she was only just beginning to settle-in.
The twins were two years old. Picture that, if you will, two two-year-old boys swirling at my
feet. We had just moved into a new, old
farm house and were living in a sea of chaos.
It was a miracle I made it to the van with the twins and cupcakes
unscathed. After buckling everyone in, I
drove cautiously on a mission to deliver birthday happiness and cheer. I wanted my daughter to feel special, no matter how much effort it
took.
Parking in the bus circle, I left the twins buckled in the van and
approached the locked door, cupcakes in hand.
After being buzzed in, I chatted with the secretary and watched as she
tagged the glass dish with a post-it note and called down to my daughter’s
classroom. Mission complete. I sighed with relief and drove home.
In the afternoon I waited happily for the bus. My daughter got off and crossed the street
wearing a paper Happy Birthday crown.
“Did you get the cupcakes,” I asked, all smiles.
“Why did you only send six?” she asked squinting up at me quizzically.
“What?” I said.
“Why did you only send six cupcakes?” she repeated.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“There were only six,” she said.
Standing in the driveway, it dawned on me. I grabbed the wrong dish. There were two glass dishes in the
refrigerator, both covered with tinfoil, one held the twenty-four mini cupcakes
and the other held the six large. I
grabbed the smaller of the two dishes and in the flurry of morning and my considerable
effort to get her first birthday at a new school right, I messed up.
“Are you serious?” I asked.
“What did you do? When did you realize?”
She had gone to the office to pick up the dish and, walking
back to the classroom, realized my mistake.
Entering the room, she told the teacher, “There’s only six
cupcakes.” Her teacher took things in
stride and divided the six among 22 students, cutting each cake into
quarters.
“Are you serious?” I asked again. “I’m sorry, Sophia. Why didn’t they call me?”
I was mortified – my daughter, the new girl at school,
embarrassed by her wacky Mom.
But she was happy.
“There was an extra piece because of the way she
divided them,” she said, “so I got two pieces, more than anyone else.”
My daughter was fine, but it took me awhile to get over my
mistake. We joked about it
immediately – how ridiculous to send in
six cupcakes for a class of twenty-two students. I sent an email to the teacher apologizing
and making it clear I wasn’t the kind of mom who thought six cupcakes would
cover the situation.
Those cupcakes, baked and eaten some two years ago, come up
again from time to time. In our family,
they’re the epitome of an accidental, public gaffe. In such situations, there’s nothing you can
do but grin and bear it and hope maybe someone, somewhere, ends up happy
despite your error.
I thought of the cupcakes again this morning as I drove a
van full of kids to a friend’s house.
Sophia sat in the front seat beside me and I held her hand, rubbed her
back and worried I’d fail her in any number of public or private ways. I so want to get it right where my kids are
concerned, sometimes I try so hard a mistake is inevitable.
But, the cupcake mistake helps me remember mistakes can
be gifts. Every time the kids and I relive
my foolishness, we create a common language for the kind of things that happen
in life no matter how hard you try and we practice the kind of humor and
humility necessary to keep going. In
other words, we make space for our humanity together. Oh, and also, we laugh a lot.
* * * *
Only 15 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.
Yesterday, On West 1st Street (#SmallWonder Link-up)
Saturday morning our kids were all away at sleep-overs. John got up early and brought two cups of coffee back to bed. When I stirred
from my nest of sheets and sun, he asked, “Are you ready to hear about what I
saw this morning?”
I guess I must have been ready because he told me how he let
the dog out the back door, then went to the living room and looked out the big
front window. Across the street, the
field has gone from green to gold and on the porch, two cats – one black, the other calico – sat facing the field.
“Really?” I asked, interrupting.
We have one cat, Blackie, who wanders outside,
the other, Perfect, is skittish and rarely ventures from her self-imposed seclusion in the
second story of our house. When she does manage to make it outside, she ends up hiding in the garage,
pressed out flat on the shelf formed by the open garage door. Most of her adventures end with me on a
ladder, coaxing her down, then carrying her back inside.
“Yes,” he said, “I think it was Perfect.”
Seeing the cats, he went to the porch door and opened
it. Then he saw one cat, trotting off
calmly down the road and Blackie sat alone on the porch. We puzzled for awhile over the cats. He was certain it was Perfect he saw on the
porch and the cat trotting away looked an awful lot like her too, but “trotting
off calmly down the road” isn’t in
her repertoire.
The more questions I
asked, the more his story started to fall apart. Blackie spent the night outside, that much we
knew for sure, but I thought I saw Perfect in the morning. How did she get outside with the doors and
windows locked tight all night? Maybe a
third cat was involved?
“This story is starting to sound less and less believable,”
I said.
“It’s true,” he said, laughing.
“Next you’re going to say, ‘Then, along came a tiger,
wearing pants, riding a unicycle.’” I said.
“And then I saw an elephant playing a banjo,’” I mimicked. “This is starting to sound like a Dr. Suess
book.”
I worried about Perfect all morning. I scanned the rooms
upstairs and quietly circled the garage calling her name and listening for an
answering mew. John cut out a cabinet in
the kitchen and I worried the deafening sound of the circular saw would terrify
her. I trimmed shrubs around the house,
hoping to find her cowering in their cool shade. When we went out to lunch, we left the
screen-less window open and the mud room door, hoping she would ease her way
back home. After lunch I found her back inside on the upstairs
landing, jumpy and out of sorts. She’d
clearly had an adventure.
Later we decided to wash the dog. After trying to coax her upstairs and tugging
her on a leash, John gave in and carried her to the upstairs bathroom. Coco loves to go upstairs, but refuses to
because the black cat guards it with growls and hisses and razor sharp
claws – the upstairs is Perfect’s Oasis
and Blackie likes to keep it that way.
John set Coco her down in the bathroom and I shut the door, then
we trimmed her fur with the electric clippers, focusing largely on her tail and
hindquarters. I hugged her body, holding
her still while John trimmed her heavy wool coat. She didn’t like it and skirted away when she
could, but we cooed and praised her and she was torn between her dislike of the
clippers and enjoyment of the attention.
Satisfied with her haircut, we turned on the hand-held
shower and John lifted her into the tub.
She shrank as the water soaked her coat.
She raised a tentative paw and looked longingly over the side of the
tub, but stayed put under a steady stream of warm water and praise. “Good girl, good girl, Coco,” we
chirped. I drizzled shampoo down her
back and John scrubbed, clucking and singing over her like a mama bird over her
chick. Then the rinsing began and we
exulted in the streams of dirt pouring down the long white tub toward the
drain.
Crouched there beside my husband on the bathroom floor I
remembered the first baths with our babies, the blue plastic tubs set on the
dining room table and filled just so with warm but not hot water. John is the bath man at our house, taking the
honors of those first tentative sponge baths then graduating to cups of water scooped and poured over
waving legs and arms. He cooed and
clucked over our babies singing love in half-flat tones and they, much like
Coco, endured the alarm of water on skin, pulled along by the attention that poured down from their father’s eyes, his words and hands.
When the dirt was more or less done running down, we turned
the water off and I threw a towel over Coco’s head. John wrapped her and lifted her to the floor
where she shimmied and shook with that silly all-over-wet feeling dogs get and
we were happy and pleased.
These are a few of the things that happened yesterday on
West 1st Street. The cat got
lost and found, the dog got washed and trimmed.
At the end of the day I shut the chickens in the coop and walked slowly
back into the house, looking out over all the green glory of this place of
goodness we’ve been given. Then I
stepped my bare foot in chicken poop in the mud room and the cool, wet shock of surprise on my foot, the down-to-earth reality of that moment, summed up the day quite well.
* * * *
Only 16 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.
Painting, Playing #SmallWonder Link-Up
Sophia asked for art supplies for her tenth birthday and a friend
dropped off a huge bag filled to overflowing a few days later.
“I should’ve asked for art supplies for my birthday!” I said,
admittedly jealous. She opened them that
night and sprawled them all around the living room floor. But in the days and weeks after, they sat in
her room untouched.
“When are you going to paint?” I asked the one night after
dinner.
“When I think of something really good to paint,” she said.
“Then you’re never going to do it,” I said. She huffed and shot me a deflated look.
“I don’t mean you can’t make something great,” I said, “It’s
just, if you wait until you have something great to make, you’ll never do
it.”
She shrugged.
The next time we went to the library I stumbled across a
book, Painting Lab for Kids. Each project focused on a specific skill set. The ideas were bright, fun, and encouraged
experimentation. I grabbed it for me
among the usual stack of Geronimo Stilton
and Super Heroes for the boys as well
as Sophia’s stack of Nature Encyclopedias.
I looked through my painting book quickly one night before bed and saw
Sophia paging through it later the next day.
Then one random night in the middle of the week I pulled out
the book, some hand-me-down canvases, and dug in. The project I chose involved layering thick
swaths of paint in different colors, swirling, then scraping them to make
designs. I tried it once, it was
interesting. I tried again.
Dipping and scraping, I used an old driver’s license to smear
paint, while the kids swirled in and out of the kitchen.
“What
are you making?” they asked.
“I’m just
playing,” I said. And I was.
I took a toothpick and carved elaborate flowers in the wet
colors. Then I painted over it, hoping
it would somehow show through. It didn’t
and I moved on. I found a glass jar and
began stamping circles, twisting the jar upside-down in two shades of
blue. I liked it, so I kept going.
“What are you doing?” my daughter said.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I’m just playing. Why don’t you
pick one of the pages and try it too?”
Miracle of miracles, she did.
The technique she chose didn’t work terribly well and she grew frustrated, but I kept minding my own business. “You can always paint over it if you don’t
like it,” I said, over and over again.
Finally, she loosened up.
In the end she found a color scheme she liked, swirling greens, yellows
and oranges on the canvas. She grew pleased with her painting when she stopped forcing it and started
playing. No longer so focused on the outcome, she began to enjoy the process.
We were just playing.
It’s been a week or two since then and I’m feeling the urge to
paint again. I’m eyeing those canvases, wondering if I have the chutzpa to start all over again, painting over the
old with something new.
* * * *
Only 16 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.
Resilience (#SmallWonder Link-up)
Resilience
Across the
street winter rye,
tall and
green, shimmers and ripples
in the
breeze. Heavy rains bend
random
patches, large swaths flattened
like giant
deer beds. A thunder storm
with wind and rain beats down long
rows across
the street. Paths,
not of
destruction, but of bending to
a stronger
force. When the sun returns
the bent rye
rises and stands again.
Friends, #SmallWonder will be taking the week off as summer begins and my family and I head to VA to farm sit at God’s Whisper Farm. We’ll gather again on Monday, June 13th.
* * * *
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.
Establishing Summer Norms (We Don’t Lick Each Other!) #SmallWonder Link-up
This is Isaiah,offering me some of his ice cream cone.
He must have been about 2 years old. Check out those sweet curls!
(I’m re-sharing this post from 2014 as we gear up for summer here again. The twins graduate from preschool this Wednesday and the older kids are out June 1st. It’s such an incredible time of change and transition for work-at-home Moms like me involving fun and memories as well as a dramatically increased workload. Lord have mercy!)
There are times, as a parent, when you need to establish norms.
Simple things like the appropriate surfaces for disposing of boogers, whether one may or may not fart on other people, and whether spontaneously licking another human being is ever appropriate.
So when, for instance, I see Levi lick his brother’s check, I make a firm and direct proclamation, “We don’t lick each other!”
Or when someone picks their nose while I’m reading to them at bed time and proceeds to wipe it on the wall, I say, “We don’t wipe our boogers on the wall!”
As I said, sometimes you need to establish norms. While other families may do as they please (Licking? Why, yes, please. Booger’s on the wall? Of course, that’s fine art to me!) we here are choosing to dance to a different drum.
//
“Only 19 and ½ more days of school!” my daughter said.
She may as well have been Paul Revere screaming his midnight warning, so great was my alarm.
Good God, I thought, where have I been? What’s happened? The hour draweth nigh!
The British, indeed, are coming.
The British are coming and they are demanding to be entertained, to be vacation-bible-schooled and swim-lessoned, to be play-dated and day-tripped and, good Lord, I am unprepared.
Nineteen and a half more days and me without a plan.
//
So I decided to establish some norms.
We are doing SLOW this summer. We are eating ice cream on the porch and watching storms move through. We are catching fireflies (if we let them stay up late enough) and getting bored enough to use our imaginations. We are camping in the back yard because it is FREE and state-parking because it also is FREE.
We are doing KINDNESS, which is a spacious sort of thing that pairs well with SLOW and the NON-LICKING of other people. It will take practice and there will be sure-misses, but KINDNESS is also free and I plan to help us all be prodigal in its dispensation by the time fall rolls around.
We are practicing GENTLENESS which, good Lord, is a long enough word to be out of fashion these days, but necessary also for when our KINDNESS slips and SLOW starts to feel like stagnation. We will not hit when we are farted on, though we may hit (it’s reflexive) if we are bitten.
We are doing HOME this summer, because we’ve waited so long to find one and because having a home means making one which isn’t something that can be done without a little presence. We will be HOME and unhappy and scraping the boogers off the wall. Then we will still be HOME and laughing as we tell about the ones who ate their boogers and the ones who used them to decorate. We will be HOME when the first hail storm tears through and when the first peas are ripe for picking. We will be HOME for skinned knees and sibling frustrations, HOME for sharing and collaboration.
We will ALL work hard, because I’m not a martyr in the making and we will knock-off before the work is done because, let’s face it, it will never really be done.
We will do vacation bible school and swim lessons and vacation, but they are not our norms, not the hub that holds the spokes of our summer together.
The British are coming, but don’t worry, it’s ok. There’ll be almost no licking, I promise.
* * * *
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.
The Worst Mommy (#SmallWonder Link-up)
(That’s my girl. She turned 10 this Friday!)
I’m up to my eyeballs in laundry when my almost ten-year-old
pops into the room. She’s been outside
jumping, running, and playing with her brothers while I whirl between cooking dinner
and the endless sorting and folding of clothes.
“I’m going to try to start calling you ‘Mom,’” she says,
“instead of ‘Mommy.’”
My heart lurches as though she’s announced a plan to move to
Australia in the morning, to join the circus, to fly far, far, away from
me.
“Oh,” I say, casual as we mothers must be when feelings are
on the line, “why?”
I don’t remember her reasoning exactly, but in essence, it’s
time to put ‘Mommy’ aside. Then she hops onto the toilet, continuing our conversation with the door wide
open.
“Remember when I told you to stop calling me ‘Mommy’?” I
ask.
“Yes!” she exclaims, “Why did you do that?!”
It was when we still lived on Franklin Street and she was
five, maybe six at most. I was
overwhelmed with All. The. Kids. we had so suddenly, so unexpected. In a fit of frustration one day I told her to
stop calling me Mommy and call me Mom instead.
She burst into tears at the thought and I immediately recognized I was a Truly Awful
Mother. Beginning to relent, I asked,
“Why is it so important to you?” Leaning in for a hug, with tears in her eyes,
she told me, “It just feels more comfortable.”
Even a Truly Awful Mother couldn’t argue with that.
Standing outside the bathroom I’m relieved she remembers the
incident, relieved for a chance to explain myself. “Oh Sophia,” I exclaim, “I
don’t know. I think I was just tired of
everyone needing me so much all the time.
I just wanted someone to need less of me.” “You have the Worst Mommy,” I add, grateful for a chance to take the blame.
She laughs and I do too.
* * * *
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.
Cooped Up (#SmallWonder Link-up)
(Painting, “Cooped Up” by Lawrence J. Davis)
They were closed in for almost a week. The new flock, used to living free-range with
their former owner, needed time to recognize their new home. We didn’t want to risk them wandering
off.
“Keep them cooped for two weeks, at
least,” a friend said. “Three, even,”
another added.
So we shut them into the 10×20 room with the nesting boxes
and roosting bars, with straw scattered on the concrete floor and food and
water readily accessible. I visited
three, four times a day, checking for eggs, changing water, adding food and
offering treats like orange slices, stale cereal and popcorn.
“Peep, peep,” I said, opening the door, teaching them our “call”
and to associate coming to me with reward.
They seemed happy, secure and settling over the first
several days. Then the rain set in and
hopes of letting them out to wander the yard under a protective eye, vanished.
The daily egg count dropped.
They broke out once, then again, when we didn’t latch the door
securely.
By day six, they looked pretty desperate. The mood in the coop was tense and agitated. When I approached the door one bird, always
the same one, flew at the window. I
imagine she was hoping to escape, but it felt like she was flying at my
face. I was irrationally scared entering the coop, like they were a teaming mob ready to turn on me with a
moment’s notice.
They were “cooped up.”
I thought of how often I’ve said that phrase with no real
experience of its meaning. I thought of
the endless stream of snow days, the rainy days and weeks of summer when the
kids and I are trapped together at home.
It often seems good and even refreshing at first. Then, slowly, the atmosphere changes. We grow tense, desperate.
Tending the chickens, I hear old words and phrases
anew.
I’ve seen a broody hen, how she looks thin and worn,
refusing to leave the nest even if the eggs she sits on are unfertilized. Now I know the word brooding – the way we
sometimes worry ourselves sick over things that may never bear fruit – in a new way.
I watch them hunt and peck for grain and bugs in the grass and I see it
is exactly the same pause, lunge, repeat method that new typists employ on an
unfamiliar keyboard. I see the marks
left by their feet in the dirt and realize the accuracy of describing my oldest boy’s terrible handwriting as “chicken scratch.”
Every one of these awakenings brings a ping of delight, “Ah-ha! That’s what we mean.”
This is what I love about doing new things – this recognition of the way the material world
connects, is wedded to, the immaterial and how language spans that gap between
the two. Words strung like beads on a nearly
invisible thread connect experiences into a cluster of meaning. Finding that thread, fingering the beads that line it, is, for me, a source of endless joy and
delight.
P.S. Saturday we built a good sized outdoor “run” over green grass and the girls are no longer “cooped” except at night. Since our run isn’t terribly secure, I get a good bit of exercise chasing escaped birds morning, noon and night!
* * * *
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.
The Birthday Flock (#SmallWonder Link-up)
We stuffed them into boxes marked “Smirnoff Ice” and
“Captain Morgan’s,” small boxes, free from the local liquor store. John cut air holes on the ride across town, slicing
with his utility knife in the passenger seat while I drove.
When we arrived at the farm, the chickens, still cooped from
the night before and anxious to range, were furious at being boxed one-by-one. Four of us worked together – grab a chicken,
tuck it in a box. Press down and close the lid, folding the flaps one under
the other. Repeat.
We emailed over a dozen times with the owner who was selling
a flock of sixteen at the beginning of the week. She asked for pictures of our yard, our coop,
she delayed making a decision. Frustrated,
we joked she was going to ask for tax returns and references next. “They’re pets,” she said in the craigslist ad
and on email, “These girls are loved.”
One by one, though, her free-range flock was being eaten by
predators. It dwindled to twelve by the
time we got there. One night they
watched a fox take one out in the field and her son, twelve, ran to get his
pellet gun, but it was too late.
The birds thrashed and squawked and the boxes, weakened by
the overly large air holes, gave under the pressure. One then another bird toppled their way to
escape, so we cornered and dove and the birds’ owner grabbed two by the tail feathers
and we figured maybe we didn’t need to be quite as gentle as we’d thought. Finally we had five birds in boxes and five
in a borrowed dog pen. Two baby polish
hens traveled in their own cage. The
adult birds settled as soon as we started driving, but the babies cried a
steady stream of peeps.
With the back seats out, we had a van packed to the gills
with chickens and it smelled like it too.
Back home, we stuffed a quick lunch in our faces and went to ready the
coop. Coco sniffed wildly and whined at
the van, her tail wagging, eyes pleading.
Then we unpacked the girls, unloading all of the boxes and crates into
the coop, and opening them one by one.
They settled in quickly, happy to find their old nesting boxes and piled
in two and three at a time to lay eggs for the day. Because the new coop is big enough to stand
in I heard, for the first time, the low purring noise, almost like a growl, they
make just before laying an egg.
The Polish Girls, still in their cage, we tucked into our
old chicken coop so they could explore the place. They’re gray and black speckled with an outlandish
white bouffant of feathers on their head.
Later, three of our kids came home and met their newest pets. That night when Solomon returned from a
playdate, he squatted in the dark and rain to look at the Polish hens. “That one’s mine,” he exclaimed, “I love it
with all my heart!”
Today I’ve had second thoughts and I’m not sure how long
this egg production business will last.
There’s a lot of poop involved – that’s the main thing. But John and I talked about our pets on the
way home yesterday, the cats and dog and hens.
“I really enjoy animals,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said, “I noticed.”
I told him about watching our tomcat Blackie and the dog,
Coco, this spring. When the weather turned
warm for a few unexpected days in March, I felt a sudden pressure to be Out and
Active. But I didn’t know how to be in
the yard, what to do, and the twins too seemed at a loss. Perplexed and discomforted, I watched the
cat, though, and the dog, how they sauntered out sniffing the air and pausing
every couple of steps. They laid in the
sun, rolled in the grass. They stretched
their way slowly into spring, leisurely shedding winter and opening, as the
whole world does in spring, toward a new season. Watching them, I found freedom to do the
same.
This morning I got to church just in time to hear the tail
end of the sermon. I can’t vouch for the
rest of it, but the final slide, the one I saw, was about birds and joy and the
songs they sing, the songs we sing. Chickens
don’t sing, per say, but I now know they growl and purr over their nests. That’s what I thought about when
we sang Joy to the World for our closing song, when we repeated the line about “wonders
of his love” over and over again in the fourth and final verse.
* * * *
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.
Seeing Better (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
“I could die tomorrow,” I told her. “Without ever having pink glasses.”
The sales associate looked at me with her head cocked,
eyebrows raised and conceded the point.
I’ve had the same small, brown glasses frames since 2011. I
chose them not long before the twins were born in that end-of-pregnancy flurry
of getting everything done before life changes irrevocably. Dentist? Check. Glasses? Check.
In the exam room the optometrist looked up, surprised, from
his chart. “This says I haven’t seen you
since 2013?” he asks.
“Yep.” I reply.
“And you bought contacts then? How often do you change them? Do you have any left?” He voice conveys incredulity.
“Well, yeah. I don’t
wear my contacts much.” I fumble through
my memory bank, drawing a blank. “I
don’t know,” I finally reply, “I had twins, so the last couple of years are a
little blurry.”
The answer seems to satisfy.
In the sales room, a young woman follows me around among the
frames. I ask her what’s “in” these days
and she tells me bigger plastic frames.
“What are you looking for?” she asks, calm and detached
behind her half-framed lenses of dark blue metal. Her dark hair is long and perfectly
straight.
“I want something fun,” I said, “some color.”
What I really wanted, before I even walked in the door, was
pink glasses. I wanted happy glasses,
but I wasn’t sure I dared get them.
What if I made a mistake?
I feel like a failure when the optometrist pulls up letters
I can’t read. Blinking, I watch letters
flip and wiggle like so many small black ants waving their legs. I make random guesses, occasionally upping my
odds by offering two answers at once.
“Um, I think it’s an E . . . or a P?”
One line I cannot read at all. The
exam room is so strangely intimate, dimly lit, with the optometrist scooting
around on his rolling stool, peering into my eyes with a little light that he
moves in circles like a magic wand.
My left eye, weak as ever, has worsened again, but, good
news, I’m not yet in need of bifocals.
Back in the sale’s room, the associate hands me purple
glasses and offers red. But I don’t want
purple glasses, purple glasses don’t make me happy and red glasses bring to
mind Sally Jesse Raphael (please tell me I’m not the only one who remembers
THAT). Then she motions toward an almost
translucent light pink pair, but before she can pick them up, I say, “I think I
had those glasses in fourth grade and I don’t really want to go back to that.”
In the end, I whittle it down to two pairs, identical in
shape, one navy blue and the other a cheery magenta. Both frames have funky squiggly patterns in
complementary colors along the temples.
Both pairs are cute, but the blue look better on me.
Still, I hem and haw.
A second associate is called over.
She put the glasses on her own face for me. “See,” she says, “these blue ones kinda blend
in but with the pink ones, the frames are all you see.” I see what sees and know she’s right. Then she adds a third pair into the
mix, shaped like the others, but in a deeper shade of purple. “These make a nice compromise,” she says. But her well-intended suggestion only further confuses things for me.
I circle the room, I sit again and slip frames off and
on.
“I’m turning forty in a year,” I tell the original
associate, “maybe these will be my mid-life crisis glasses.” I’m only half-joking. Do I like the pink glasses or do I only like the ‘idea’ of pink
glasses?
“You’ll want to think about the clothes you wear too, not
just what you have one today,” the second woman adds.
“But pink goes with everything, right?” I ask, “Except for
red?”
The younger woman agrees. “Pink goes with everything in my
book,” she says. I find her patience endearing.
I apologize for taking so long. Then, finally, “I want the pink ones,” I say, scrunching my
face up as if to offer an apology.
“I knew you did,” she says.
(I knew I did too.)
(Friends – it’s my birthday this week! Hop over to my facebook page to see a picture of me in my new glasses and, if you haven’t done so already, LIKE MY PAGE. I’ve been hovering near 600 page likes for a long time now and there’s nothing I’d like more for my birthday than to finally cross that 600 mark. Thanks!)
* * * *
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.
How All Our Salvation Begins (#SmallWonder Link-up)
(For the past several months, I’ve participated in a group organized by Oasis Ministries that meets for monthly silent retreat days. We meet one Saturday a month at an old farm turned retreat center near Elizabethown, PA.)
I arrive in the nick of time, lugging a bag of books, my purse
and a packed lunch. Inside the old farm
door I exchange greetings with a few and make my way to the bathroom. Then I throw back a quick cup of coffee – I’m
not fully awake yet – and head in to join the circle of silence.
After a period of silent prayer and some brief reflection,
the nine of us split off in different directions. I make a beeline for more coffee and then head
upstairs to a bedroom alone. I journal
briefly before doing what I know cannot be put off any longer. Tipping to my side, I curl up with an ugly
blanket on an even uglier couch and, in seconds, I drift off to sleep.
I wake to lunch time.
In the cold dining room, I eat around a long table with women who are mostly twenty to thirty years older than me.
I crunch red peppers and carrot sticks and crack my hard boiled egg too
loudly on the table before realizing I can crush it gently with my
fingers. I drink hot tea at lunch, a
follow-up to my hot coffee, because I’m cold and can’t seem to get warm.
After lunch I find a sunny spot by a window and pile out my
books and journals. I thumb through a Birds and Blooms magazine cutting
pictures and words that strike my eye with scissors I stole from my
three-year-old’s office. Then we gather
again at the circle, for more silence and sharing around our reading for the
month.
During afternoon retreat time I head outside with more
coffee and sit briefly on a bench watching bees buzz happy among the
clover. Then, still cold, I remember the
black bed-liner in my husband’s old, red, pickup truck. The black bed draws the sun like a magnet and
climbing in I’m greeted by warmth and the smell of gasoline. I unpack again, books and journal, in the bed
of the truck, my back tucked into the corner.
I run inside one more time briefly for my sunglasses and trade my cup of
coffee for a plastic cup of water.
In the truck, I read a bit and try to write poems that wilt,
listless on the page. I eat the perfect
orange, slowly, beneath the blue sky of spring.
In all of this I wonder, what am I doing here? I’m deliberately unproductive on these days,
deliberately leaving behind the laptop, setting no firm expectation for the day. There’s prayer, yes, but most of the day
feels decidedly unremarkable, strikingly unholy.
There are no angel choirs, no visions from heaven. I do spy a pileated woodpecker outside the
whirled glass window at lunch, but if he’s meant to deliver a message from God,
I fail on the receiving end. It isn’t
until the closing of the day that I remember again a bit of reading, a quote
from Thomas Merton, “. . . all our salvation begins on the level of common and
natural and ordinary things.”
The word “all” is what gets me, sticks like taffy in my soul’s
teeth.
I marvel at how unholy, how unremarkable these days apart
seem most months and, on the whole, they’re filled with “common and natural and
ordinary things.” This much I cannot
deny – food and rest, silence and small chatter, an ugly blanket, the warm black
bed of a pickup truck.
But Merton, sly fox, tips things up-side-down in one short
sentence. These things, he whispers,
these.
Carrots and coffee and sliced red pepper, quiet moments
flipping pages soaked in sun, that orange, the smell of gasoline, the happy
bees drinking life one blossom at a time.
These things, he whispers, these.
It’s then, at the end of the day, that I accept again the
invitation to surrender to God’s backward ways of transformation. God’s proclivity for infusing the material
with divine.
The door is
everywhere. All our salvation begins.
* * * *
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.
Hooked and Unhooked (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
God lies in wait for us with nothing so much as love, and love is like a fisherman’s hook . . .” Meister Eckhart
Recently, a friend I respect deeply talked with me about a
job opening. He told me he knew I could
do the job and that he would support me 100%, but that it would be costly in
terms of energy, hard on me and my family.
Then he added, “Unless you feel like God’s calling you to it.”
“He’s not,” I said, smiling and shaking my head. “I feel like I’m doing exactly what I’m
supposed to be doing right now.”
He smiled. “Well,
that makes me happy,” he said, “I know that’s not always been the case.”
“I know!” I replied. “I
used to think I wanted that job, but I finally realized I felt like I should want that job. There’s a big difference between the two and
I’m so thankful for that clarity.”
//
Later I told a friend about the exchange. “I’ve been hooked by that job in so many ways
over the past few years,” I said. “I can’t
hardly explain how good it feels to know I could have it now and I don’t want
it. It’s like . . . ,” I closed my eyes,
my hands paused mid-sentence and waited for the image to come. “It’s like being a fish that’s been hooked on
a line for years and suddenly you find yourself free, you can swim wherever you
want! It doesn’t feel like something of
my own doing, it feels like more of a surprise, like someone reached down and
cut the line.”
//
I was thinking of all this today, about the hook and the line and the marvelous freedom. Freedom from one thing only ever really comes when we shift our devotion to something or someone else. And I know, in this season, that devotion to writing and caring for my children is helping me find freedom from the things I once thought I should be doing, but I also know I’ve been hooked by something deeper.
Pulling the roaster chicken, crisp and golden from the oven this afternoon and putting rice on to boil, I remembered a passage from The River Why, by David James Duncan. It’s a quirky and profound book about a man obsessed with fly fishing who has an encounter with God while walking home after a long night of fishing.
And then I felt it – a sharp pain in the heart, like a hook being set. I whirled around: sunlight struck me full in the face. My eyes closed.
And then I saw it – the vertical bar – a line so subtle it must be made of nothing nameable. And it ran from my heart of earth and blood, through my head, to the sky; ran like a beam of watery light; ran from the changing, flowing forms of the world to a realm that light alone could enter. I sank to my knees on the white road and I felt the hand, resting like sunlight on my head. And I knew that the line of light led not to a realm, but to a Being, and that the light and the hook were his, and that they were made of love alone. My heart was pierced, I began to weep. I felt the Ancient One drawing me toward him, coaxing me . . . beckoning me on toward undying joy.
//
When I think about Duncan’s story, I see how I’ve been hooked and unhooked all at once, how being captivated by Love can and does set us free. Not an easy freedom, but one hard won that, after all of our fear, fighting and struggle, comes as a surprise, like a hand reaching down to cut the line when we’d almost forgotten what freedom felt like.
* * *
We finally have a #SmallWonder button! If you want to use it, simply copy the image, then add it to your post or sidebar with a link to www.afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com.
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.
What I Wanted and What Love Offered (Grace and the Salt and Vinegar Hang-Over) #SmallWonder
Wednesday morning I wanted to get 3000 words on the page, or at least
1500. I wanted to practice yoga for
twenty minutes, to enjoy the sunshine and silence of the Little House after a
week of kids being home for spring break.
But the night before I popped open a tall can of Diet Coke
when I should have been winding down for bed.
In full disclosure, there was a bag of chips involved too, a late dinner
of sorts and when John went to bed at 10, I didn’t. Instead I searched the house, three, four
times until I found the novel I put down earlier in the day. I prowled the house hunting for it repeating
the words, “This is so annoying,” over and over in my head like a chant. Finding it, finally, where someone else had
put it, I crawled into bed and turned on the reading lamp.
At 10:20, I thought, “Just ten more minutes.”
Then, at 10:30, “A few more pages.”
It wasn’t even a good book.
At any moment last night, had I paused to listen closely to
my soul, I would have realized (in fact I did realize) I was tired and sad and
looking for comfort. What I really
needed was rest and compassion.
Snuggling with my husband would have been a good option. Instead when he asked how my appointment was,
I mumbled “fine.” I opened the can and
pressed a handful of The Worst Salt and Vinegar chips I’ve ever had into my
mouth.
When I next looked at the clock, it was 11:30.
I finished the book.
I finished the can of soda.
(I
did not, I repeat, Did Not, finish the bag of chips.)
I slid down into bed, head jangling with
caffeine, regret whirling and slid the alarm clock on for 6:00 am.
In the morning I crawled out of bed with the weight of a
reading-diet-coke-hangover dragging behind me.
My eyes felt like hacky sacks.
The kids got out the door on auto-pilot, the twins made it to school,
but driving home after drop-off exhaustion, frustration and regret followed me like a
shadow.
Doggedly, I headed to the little house, breakfast, water and
the computer in hand. I sat in my usual
chair and warmed up with a few emails, then I opened a word document to let the writing begin.
My mind, my fingers, moved like molasses, heavy slow syrup slogging over the keys as I searched for words and thoughts
that refused to come. The dog, Coco,
watched, her eyes half closed, from her chair across the room.
I wanted 3000 words. I wanted to practice yoga for twenty
minutes.
I desperately needed a nap.
I had ruined that which I was looking forward to, my morning
of writing and stretching, the feeling of forward momentum and accomplishment
as I checked off my list of goals. But
it was what it was and I worked hard to not attach to the thoughts of judgment
and condemnation that flew around my brain like a flock of scattered
birds.
Instead, I asked myself what Love would do, what I would
tell my kids if, when, they find themselves in the same predicament.
Love offered a nap.
Love said, “It is what it is.”
“But this is my time to write!” I told Love, “I didn’t write
yesterday and I have a meeting this afternoon, parent conferences
tonight.” I pointed out to Love that there were no other options, I
had, in essence, Ruined Everything.
Love said, pointedly, “What about grace? Maybe there’s enough grace in this world to make up for this one mistake. But, for now, all you know is what you
know. You need a nap.”
I also heard the words of a counselor I met with four years
ago, a counselor whose constant advice and need to fix things pushed me
away. “Love what is,” she had offered
one day. How I hated those words – they
weren’t the right words for me at the time, but now, four years later, they’re
the only words that make sense some days.
What other option do we ever really have? We can change “what is,” of course, but change, if it’s to be lasting and fruitful, must be rooted in love, not fear or hatred of self or others or even “what is.”
Love your tired, sleepy self. Do what is needed in this moment and the
next.
Is that not what I failed to do the night before? Diet Coke, Salt and Vinegar and a novel are
okay. But they don’t really address what
is. (Unless “what is” is the sincere desire
to stay up late, to enjoy the feeling of fire on your tongue, to savor and
enjoy words put together on a page, then they’re Exactly what’s needed.)
I set the computer aside and laid down on the floor of the
little house, my head on a pillow, blanket tucked up tight. I slept. Love said that was fine.
* * *
We finally have a #SmallWonder button! If you want to use it, simply copy the image, then add it to your post or sidebar with a link to www.afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com.
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.
The Day After (#SmallWonder Link-up)
The rain this morning sounds like sleet. It’s the Monday after Resurrection day. Plundered Easter baskets spew plastic grass
on these old wood floors and the hollow chocolate bunnies have lost their ears
and faces.
The oldest boy is sick, again, even though he’s already on
antibiotics. This winter he barely
clears one hurdle before hitting the next.
Today I’ll call the Dr. and leave a message explaining the latest
symptoms and we’ll probably head into the office again for more tests which will
likely confirm a virus.
Maybe this is how it always is, the day after resurrection and the day after that – the chaos, the mess, the uncertain way forward, this working out of our salvation. This is not to say nothing has changes, but what has changed is still only the seed of what will be and we are, again, gardeners tending its slow and steady progress.
* * *
We finally have a #SmallWonder button! If you want to use it, simply copy the image, then add it to your post or sidebar with a link to www.afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com.
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.
Palm Sunday: The First Day of Spring (#SmallWonder Link-up)
This post is loosely based on Luke 19:28-40, the gospel story of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem. In preparing to preach on the passage this Sunday, I decided to spend some time inside the passage, imagining what it might have been like. This story is told from the perspective of Simon the Zealot who I imagine being, along with Philip, asked to walk into town to fetch the colt for Jesus. I can’t overestimate how very helpful this practice was for me. I hope you might also find some time this week to wander around inside of the gospel stories.
* * *
It felt like the first day of spring. Like everything we waited for was so close we could almost taste it.
We were close to Jerusalem. The closer we got, the edgier we were. Jesus was quiet. When we reached the Mount of Olives, Jesus turned to me and Philip. He chose us, and told us to go and look for a colt in the next village, it would be tied to a post and we were supposed to just walk up and take it.
How did he know this?
We didn’t ask. He chose us, that was all that ever mattered. Jesus and the rest stayed resting under the shade of the olive trees. Philip and I walked alone.
When you were with him, walking beside him, it was like feeling the sun on your back – faith rose and blossomed. But with every step we took away from him, faith dimmed. Clouds of doubt rolled in. Our confidence wilted as we walked toward the village.
We hardly dared to think, much less talk about what might happen when we reached Jerusalem. Instead, his stories ran through my head. Everywhere we went he spun stories, painting pictures with words. I tried to make sense of them, but I couldn’t. Maybe I didn’t want to.
Bethany was small and dirty, like every other village, nothing special. The smells and sounds nearly knocked me out after the quiet walk through the countryside. It was hot, the sun was unbearable. I envied the disciples left behind, resting under the trees. The village seemed to go on forever. Women stared as we passed. Children ran up to touch our robes, then scrambled away laughing. We weren’t used to this feeling of travel, of being strange and out of place.
The further we walked, the more foolish we felt. Reason raised its head – why this village? Why a colt? And where? Where was it?
At the far edge of town, we heard it. A donkey brayed. I stopped mid-thought, put my hand out to stop Philip in his tracks. Again, we heard it, the screeching sound like metal grinding against metal. It came from somewhere to the right. We followed a small path through a thicket. Our steps slowed, nervously. Then we came to the edge of a clearing. An ancient stone house stood silent, a fire smoldered in a pit. Chickens pecked the ground. Off to one side stood a young donkey tied, just as he had said.
My heart leapt. Philip grabbed my arm and squeezed tight. Our eyes met wide with surprise and glee. It was all we could do to keep from laughing. Never before has the sight of a donkey been cause for such joy.
Giddiness propelled me. I rushed toward the colt. It skidded sideways, stretching the rope taunt. The colt erupted in a string of screeches, its lips pulled back, teeth exposed. I lunged for the rope, ready for a fight, when Philip again grabbed my arm.
“Simon,” he said.
I followed his eyes toward the house. A small man slowly emerged from the shadows. I pulled my hand back from the colt immediately. Behind him a woman and a small child peaked out of the doorway. Chickens squawked and scattered as he crossed the open yard.
I have never seen such a short man, he would’ve made Zaccheaus look like a giant. He had a grave and wrinkled face. He seemed coated with a lifetime of hard work and dirt. My heart sank. He would never let us have this animal. I thought of the sword at my side, it wouldn’t take much. But the woman and child, watched from the doorway.
Philip bowed in greeting and I followed. The little man bowed.
Braced for anger, his simple question disarmed me. “Why are you untying the colt?”
Why.
Why not, I thought. Why should we not take whatever we needed to overthrow the Romans? Why try to explain the unexplainable to this dirty man in his dark hut?
Philip’s hand was still on my arm. I stared at the little man, so solidly rooted to the ground and remembered Jesus’ words, “if they ask why, tell them ‘the Lord needs it.’”
Everything was always so unbelievably simple with Jesus, the simplicity itself was confusing.
“The Lord needs it,” I said.
The little man caught my eyes with his own and held them. I watched him measure the truthfulness of my words. I knew he likely guessed my thoughts about my sword, my urgency, and frustration.
Something in my eyes satisfied and he turned to the colt. He reached out and patted the animal, murmuring into its long ears. “Take it,” he said simply, then turned and walked away.
Our excitement grew with every step back through the village. We marched into the olive grove like victors returning from battle. The donkey brayed and bucked at the rope. Everyone gathered around shouting questions, slapping us on the back, startling the colt. “How? Where?” they asked.
“It was just like he said, just like it,” I repeated, grinning and proud forgetting the doubt I’d carried across town.
Then Jesus pushed in to the circle. He smiled at our surprise and delight. His tired eyes crinkled in the corners. His robe was wrinkled and dusty from resting on the ground.
“You did well, Simon,” he said, clamping his hand on my shoulder and fixing his eyes on mine. “You too, Philip,” he added. Like I said, he was like the sun, you know? And when he shone on you, it was something you never forgot.
Jesus took the rope and leaned in quietly toward the donkey. He patted it, whispered in its twitchy ears like the little man had. I think in that moment, the colt felt just as loved as we did, just as happy and full of hope and excitement. It stamped a foot and brayed flicking Jesus’ face with its ears and we all burst out laughing.
Peter pulled off his cloak and laid it on the donkey’s back. Nathan too, and Andrew, until the poor animal was draped with a rainbow of dirty robes.
It was time for Jerusalem.
I knelt right there in the dust and made a step with my hands. Jesus stepped and leaned while Andrew tried to steady the donkey. But the animal sidestepped and I teetered, pitching Jesus forward. His stomach landed with a thud on the donkey’s back, knocking the wind out of his lungs. I was so embarrassed, but Jesus pulled himself up laughing again and swung his leg over the side.
When he laughed, it unleashed something inside of us. We were like boys again, free and happy. Here we were, in the biggest adventure of our lives, with Jesus at our side and the wonder of it carried us all along.
Jesus led the colt toward Jerusalem, leaning to whisper again in its ear, scratching the coarse hair where the rope hung around its neck. Moving forward, a nervousness settled over the crowd of us again. Then we followed and with each step our excitement grew.
Thomas started the singing. His deep voice rose and the others joined in following the words of the psalm we all knew. The psalm of victory. I heard the words entirely new as we sang them there in the dusty streets out under the open sky.
I wanted, waited, all of my life for a King.
Here he was and here we were together, marching into Jerusalem. But not marching, nearly dancing. As much as I wanted it to be different, as much as I remembered the sword at my side and my dreams of a mighty king on horseback leading me into battle, I was happy. Happy with this fool of a man plodding along on a donkey’s back, this man who loved me.
I felt my love for him surge in my chest as we repeated again and again the chorus of the Psalm, “Give thanks to the Lord for he is good, his steadfast love endures forever.”
I wasn’t the only one off pitch. Philip had no rhythm, not an ounce of tune, and we were an ugly bunch weaving our way into town, drunk on good news and friendship and the love we all needed. They heard us first (probably smelled us second) and women and children wandered out to watch us.
Such a strange parade. We sang at the top of our lungs, jostling each other, slapping shoulders and backs. Peter reached out and grabbed a boy in the crowd, swung him on his shoulders and Andrew jumped to reach a palm branch. Breaking it, he placed it in the boy’s hand and the boy cheered and waved like mad.
There’s something about a people, so beaten down with sorrow and fear, there’s little left to lose. Maybe this is what made them join us, welcome us, break branches of their own and join the singing, the dancing and shouting. Some stripped off their robes and laid them in the street and Jesus was there in the middle of it all, steady and solid as the sky.
Things got a little out of hand.
But that never seemed to bother Jesus. He got tired sometimes, needed rest and space, but he didn’t try to control us. He let us be however we were, welcomed us and that day we were happy and he didn’t bother to contradict.
But the Pharisees did.
It was one of the things they hated the most about him, the way he refused to control us. He didn’t seem to need to control anyone and therefore refused himself to be controlled. It bothered me too, if I’m honest. I couldn’t figure out how he might overthrow the Romans without taking for himself some measure of the power and control they exerted over us. But it bothered me less when I was with him, then it felt like I could believe anything and, if I’m honest, I thought he would change when we got to Jerusalem.
To the Pharisees, it was blasphemy, all of it. The way we sang and danced in the street, the image of Jesus on the donkey like some kind of street urchin playing king, it was all offensive. But mostly it smacked of disorder and freedom, two things they feared and fought tooth and nail.
“Rabbi, tell them to stop, make them stop!” they shouted.
Jesus turned from watching the dancing children, the singing men. I watched him meet the Pharisees’ eyes. My hand involuntarily drifted to the hilt of my sword. Jesus held the donkey still while all around him the crowd rose and swelled. There was amusement in his eyes and he smiled a sad smile.
“If I tell them to stop,” he said, “the stones you walk on will rise up singing and dancing. You cannot stop joy, my friends, cannot stop praise that flows like a river. Heaven and earth are being un-damned. We will sing and dance while we can.”
If we ever needed permission, we had it. We cheered and sang all the louder, “Give thanks to the lord for he is good, his steadfast love endures forever!”
It felt like the first day of spring, I tell you. Like everything we waited for was so close we could almost taste it. It was glorious.
//
It’s harder now, to talk about the rest. When we reached the inner edge of the Jerusalem, Jesus burst into tears and the words he spoke terrified and confused us. Confusion and fear followed us everywhere that week; it hunted us, hounded us.
For a long time, when I remembered Palm Sunday, I felt regret, embarrassment, how little we really understood.
But Jesus, he loved it. Now I know he carried our praise with him through the darkness that lay ahead. He focused on the memory of our singing when the crowds cried out for his death.
Jesus’ first desire wasn’t to change us. It was to be with us.
And his being with us, changed us, slowly into something closer to who he was, what he was.
I like to think of it like that – he carried us with him, our joy, our love, to the cross and we carry him with us, his joy, his love through every week ahead, singing and dancing or weeping in sorrow, we carry him, he carries us.
* * *
We finally have a #SmallWonder button! If you want to use it, simply copy the image, then add it to your post or sidebar with a link to www.afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com.
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.
God Painted
The Power of Story (#SmallWonder Link-up)
This past weekend author and editor Andi Cumbo Floyd came and gave a reading of her new novel, Steele Secrets at our house. You can learn more about Andi and her work here.
Nine kids tromped up and down the stairs at random
intervals, leaving a trail of fallen pretzels in their wake. Adults sat in a circle of furniture listening
politely and with interest to the author’s introduction.
Someone fell on the stairs, someone else fed a handful of
pretzels to the dog, and the kids continued to swirl as kids do, moving in
clumps throughout the house. Then the
reading began. The story slipped like
spider silk from the author’s lips, spinning a web over the room as words
danced from corner to corner.
The children paused and grew still. Drawn like magnets, their bottoms settled
along the stairs, faces peeking through the railing. As the story grew, my two oldest kids burst
into the circle of adults. First Solomon
came and backed himself into my lap. My
arms settled around his middle like a seat belt.
How long has it been since he sat with me that way? He stayed there through the whole chapter,
tucked into me, even though his best friends from church and school were there
too. By the time we got to the part about the ghost, Sophia flew into the circle and belly flopped on the carpet.
//
Story applies a centripetal force
on its hearers, drawing us closer and closer to the source. Even the most wily among us – children and adults – are not immune to its powers. This is what I’m thinking of this week as we head into one of the Christian church’s most storied times of the year – the power of story to draw us to the teller, to still our souls and bodies, to open doors we didn’t know were closed.
//
When the chapter ended, the reading ended, the spell broke and
the kids scattered like dandelion fluff, consuming more pretzels, begging for another brownie and clamoring up and down the stairs again. Almost as though they’d never stopped.
* * *
We finally have a #SmallWonder button! If you want to use it, simply copy the image, then add it to your post or sidebar with a link to www.afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com.
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.
In Which I Put Myself in Time Out (#SmallWonder Link-up)
I was sick and tired, literally.
And it was Friday afternoon.
I was a few minutes away from the end of my last lecture for
the week, just digging in to the part where I talk about my personal connection
with the text.
A few minutes earlier, during a brief break between
lectures, I talked with my husband about my oldest son’s fourth strep diagnosis
since November. Thoughts of specialists,
surgery and possible hospitalization swirled in my head.
Did I mention I was sick?
And losing my voice? Sipping
scalding hot tea between sentences I relished the burning liquid that rendered
my throat numb for a few precious seconds of relief.
Looking up from my outline I saw them. Back row, middle seats, directly in my line
of vision. She leaned over his desk,
they giggled and passed a paper between.
Continuing to speak I watched as she started writing on the shared
paper. I had a quick memory of the
notebook passed between a friend and I during a year’s worth of Spanish classes, page
after page of words scrawled in large loopy letters.
Thoughts about the application of the Hebrew bible’s
prophetic texts stopped mid-sentence and I blurted, “Really?! Passing notes?! This is college, people!”
This is what it must be like to be an extrovert – words
flying out unfiltered, unmeasured.
They both looked up, startled. The rest of the class halted, confused.
Then he did the worst thing possible, well, two of the worst
things possible.
First he shrugged his shoulders his hands thrown out to the
sides. Not a word was spoken, but his
body said it all, What’s your problem, lady?
His gesture added fuel to my fury and I prodded, “What? That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? I can see you.”
Then he blamed the girl, threw her under the bus in his own
defense.
Oh, for shame.
They were Adam and Eve, caught, in the garden and I was an
angry God.
I stared in disbelief, astounded at his defense, not the
nature of it, but that he had the nerve at all to stand up before me, that he
didn’t hang his head in shame.
I was done. I looked
at the clock.
“Ok,” I said, “We’re taking a break. We’ll come back together at 3:15.”
I abruptly left the room, tea cup in hand. Students sat stunned.
I sank into a chair in the dark teacher’s lounge.
This wasn’t the first time I snapped at students in the
classroom – sleeping students, texting students, silent students who refused to
throw their teacher a line. But it was
the first time I had sense enough to call a time out, to send myself to a quiet
corner to reflect on my behavior.
I sat in silence and a few tears, the ones I’d felt lurking
all day long, sprang to the corners of my eyes.
Rather than blaming the students who were, by the way, just acting their
age, I looked into my own soul. I saw someone
who was trying awfully hard to meet nobody’s expectations but her own.
The truth is, I’m the kind of person who snaps, like a
little dog, when cornered. And I felt
cornered that day – by fatigue, by sickness and the demands of parenting and my
own high teaching expectations. My
self-imposed time out allowed me to see my snapping as an invitation to grace
and compassion.
I decided to throw myself a line.
After my time out I went back to the class and finished the
lecture. We moved on, together, until
our time was up. Then I went home and
recommitted myself to all the ways I know work best to keep myself from feeling
cornered. Mainly, I lowered my standards
and got some rest. I served myself up a
healthy dose of compassion, so the next time someone near me needed grace,
there’d be more than enough to go around.
* * *
We finally have a #SmallWonder button! If you want to use it, simply copy the image, then add it to your post or sidebar with a link to www.afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com.
Are you or do you have writer friends local to the PA, Maryland, New Jersey area? If so, would you consider attending or sharing the information about the upcoming writing retreat to be held here at the farm house? You can find more details under the Writing Retreat tab.
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Do Not Despair (Holes, Laundry, and Dead Mums)
Six boys scanned
the yard from late afternoon until dusk.
They walked with their heads down, six pairs of eyes scoured the
not-yet-green grass. Each step bore
silent anticipation, nervous chatter bubbled up around their listening.
When the
metal detector beeped, they cheered and rallied around, shovel in hand. Not-yet-green turned muddy brown as they dug
holes haphazardly throughout the yard.
Holes, all
through the yard; potholes, ankle-twisting pits, mower-wheel-swallowing
craters.
That night,
after getting groceries and returning a movie while listening to a radio talk
show dissect presidential politics, my husband arrived home
agitated. He was in a state as he filled
me in on the groceries, the politics, the hole situation. The way he
talked, our yard was a war zone, the site of asteroid and comet landings, a
grand canyon of potential grass laid to waste by six boys and one shovel.
It was dark
out, I had no way to confirm or deny, so I accepted his wild eyed assessment at
face value. Holes, everywhere. And politics on the radio on top of it
all.
We
complained about our ruined lawn and ruined country, feeling old beyond our
years and went to bed early. But in the
dark, our minds raced and nerves jangled.
//
I opened the
door to the bathroom closet today and found laundry piled knee deep.
I shut the
door tight and left the room.
All day that
pile grew in my mind’s eye – waist deep, chest deep, until I was drowning in
it. Add to it the pile a mile wide in the
twins’ room, the remains of the stomach bug laundry waiting to be folded and
there’s nearly enough laundry, I’m sure, to fill in a good many of the holes in
our yard.
//
Something
about those holes and the laundry remind me of the dead mums I wrote about on
Monday. Last fall they were a riot of
burnt orange and red, waving their hands in the air all along the side of the
little house. But then cold weather came
and they died back. Flowers rotted, leaves
shriveled, curled, brown until all that remained were the ugly husks. Those bare, brown bones rattled at me all
winter long, untidy, a reminder of unfinished business and I stared back at
them from the kitchen window. There was
no door to shut on them.
At the first
whiff of warm air and sunshine, I marched out to attack the brittle branches
like they were my mortal enemy. I cut my
hands on them, eager for the pleasure of their demise. Take
that, mums! I snapped and twisted,
conquering one small corner of disorder as if its tidying might hold the key to
life.
Mid-twist,
though, I noticed what hid at the base of each frail and failing branch –
small, ruffled, green leaves, the beginnings of next year’s joyful riot. Here I was, like those boys, finding treasure
in the dirt (minus a hole, of course). I
continued to twist and break, more respectfully now, looking no longer to rid
us of the dead, but looking for signs of life.
//
The morning
after hole-mageddon, I looked at it from a different angle and with new eyes I
saw more than holes. I saw my son excited
to impress boys his own age, thrilled to have an awesome toy for once, to be
the envy, the star with a shovel in hand.
I saw the treasure in his delight and it made the holes less
glaring. Walking outside later in the day
I was surprised to find most of the yard still intact. It would take six boys more than one evening
to dig up two acres of land.
//
There’s so
much to fear, so much to overwhelm in this life. The bones of things unfinished rattle at us,
hard work is easily undone and more hard work awaits. This is so very true. Fear looms large at night, in winter, in the
mud-before-spring season of despair.
Do not
despair, little ones.
God is
always doing something new, do you not perceive it?
Go dig a hole. Tend your garden.
Do not believe fear’s whisper in the night.
The good work
of our hands, the feel of the earth between our fingers, the labors of love
for a household, these all remind us – treasure is buried everywhere. Even, maybe, at
the bottom of the laundry pile.
Open the
door, dig deep, look again, always.
Treasure is buried everywhere. Do
not despair.
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.
